Chapter 8
Gavin
FLANNEL CHRISTMAS PAJAMAS
It’s been thirty minutes and still no text from Scottie.
Did she think I wasn’t being serious? Or maybe she was so worn out from everything she fell asleep.
Either way, my thumb keeps hovering over the screen like an idiot, checking for a message that isn’t there.
I should let it go. She said she was going to stay with her parents. She’s probably fine. But fine doesn’t quiet the part of me that needs to know.
And I’m still not sure why I need to know, only that there’s a restlessness in me that won’t settle until I’m sure she’s okay.
The house is quiet—too quiet. Lily is staying with my parents tonight; by the time I made it back, it was past her bedtime, and I didn’t want to wake her. The place always feels emptier without her. Even when she’s asleep across the hall, I can still feel her—like she’s an extension of me.
But when she’s not under my roof, everything feels off balance.
And tonight, that unease is only feeding the tension twisting in my chest as I wait for a text that probably isn’t coming.
I set my phone on the counter, telling myself I won’t look again.
Then I look again anyway.
It’s lit up with a notification.
Scottie
Made it to my parents’. Can confirm, the pull-out couch is a lumpy bitch.
It’s concerning how relieved I suddenly am. I’ve managed to keep Scottie at arm’s length for close to a decade and now it’s like I can’t stay away from her.
The corners of my mouth lift into a smile that would probably look ridiculous if anyone were around to see it. Lucky for me, I can make a fool of myself in the privacy of my own home.
Glad you made it. Were your parents as excited as you thought they would be?
Forcing myself, I set the phone down and get ready for bed. It’s that or I’ll stare at the dots like an eager teenage boy.
I go through my brief nighttime routine before stripping down to my briefs. I loosen my hair from its bun, let it fall around my shoulders, and take off my glasses, setting them on the nightstand. The bed is cool against my skin when I grab my phone and sink beneath the covers.
Scottie
They practically threw me a welcome party. It was short though, they’re already in bed.
I’m not sure what to say back, all I know is I don’t want the conversation the end.
Before I can formulate a response, dots pop up, indicating she’s typing out another text. They disappear and reappear a few times before another message comes through.
Scottie
So, I have a super invasive question to ask you…
Well, that gets my attention. What could she want to ask me? Since it’s Scottie I’m talking to, it could literally be anything.
Ask away
Minutes pass before her next text comes through, and I swipe it open immediately, desperate to know what she could possibly want to ask me.
Scottie
How long have you had the thigh tattoo and why have I never seen it before?
A laugh rumbles out of me. I suppose I knew she was curious about it, seeing as she blatantly stared at it. I’ve had it for so long, I barely think about it. It’s not as if it’s a secret, I’m just not usually flaunting my fully bare thigh to the world.
About ten years
Scottie
What?! Ten years?! I’m going to need more details than that.
She probably thinks there’s some profound meaning behind it, but the truth is a lot less meaningful—and more of a happy drunk accident.
You’re going to be disappointed. Basically, I got drunk with some buddies while I was traveling through Ireland. Somehow we ended up in a tattoo studio, and I pointed to a drawing I thought looked cool right before I passed out. The next day, I woke up and there it was.
Scottie
Why would I be disappointed? That’s an epic story. You passed out drunk and woke up with a cool-ass tattoo and not some drawing of a dick. Sounds like a win to me.
Is that why you hide it? Are you embarrassed?
I don’t hide it, you just don’t pay attention. Go look on my social media, anytime I’m wearing shorts, you can see the base of the tree and the roots.
Scottie
I guess you’re right. In the future, I’ll be sure to pay closer attention to you
My cheeks strain against my smile. I can’t tell if she’s flirting with me or just being her usual self, which is very flirtatious. Either way, I’m enjoying being on the receiving end of it.
What about you? Any hidden tattoos I should know about?
I’ve never spotted even the hint of a tattoo on her and she doesn’t strike me as someone who would get one, but I ask anyway, imaging she might have one where no one can see.
Scottie
Absolutely none. Nothing against them, it’s just one less thing to worry about covering up when I’m onstage.
That makes sense.
Now that you’ve asked your super invasive question, can I ask one?
Ever since I overheard her conversation in my bedroom, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. She sounded angry and hurt, and for someone who usually comes across so positive, I know it has to be something serious to get her that worked up.
Scottie
It’s only fair. BUT just because you ask, doesn’t mean I’ll answer.
I knew she wouldn’t go easy on me.
What were you talking about on the phone that one day? It sounded pretty intense.
Dots disappear and reappear a few times before they stop altogether.
I’m such an idiot. We were having a nice, pleasant conversation and I had to go and fuck it up.
Five excruciating minutes later she finally responds.
Scottie
It’s kind of a long, complicated story. Basically someone I trusted propositioned me, and when I rejected him, he retaliated by firing me and trashing my reputation.
Now I really regret asking her, because the anger coursing through my veins makes me want to kill the man who laid a hand on her — a hand on her without her consent.
As the father of a daughter, it’s one of my biggest fears.
There are good men—I know good men—and I like to think I’m one of them.
Still, there are enough bad ones to make me wish I could shield Lily from every horror women face.
And you don’t have to be a father or a brother to understand how big the problem really is.
I want to reply but I’m so fucking livid, my hands are shaking.
Scottie
Please keep it between us. I haven’t told anyone yet and I’d rather not. At least not yet.
Her admission has some of my anger dissipating. Out of anyone she could’ve confided in—Elyse, her mom, her close friends, she chose me and I can’t fully explain how honored I feel to be entrusted with something so heavy. Something she shouldn’t be dealing with in the first place.
There’s a lot I want to say, but I’m too angry to say it all through text.
What I will say is one I want to kill the guy.
Dead serious, I want to kill him. And this is coming from someone vehemently against murder.
And two, I think you’re incredibly brave and strong and amazing.
And three I hope you’re planning to press charges against this piece of shit or report him to your union. Something. Anything. He needs to pay.
Moments after I hit send, I’m already regretting saying all of that. It was probably too much. She’s probably freaking—
She’s calling me.
Fuck! She’s calling me.
I answer on the second ring.
“Hello?” My tone is apprehensive, convincing myself it’s likely a butt dial or an accident.
“Hi,” she says quietly. “I have to whisper because my parents are ten feet away.”
“Is everything okay? I’m sorry if I said anything that upset you,” I whisper, despite not needing to.
“What? No. I’m calling to make sure you’re not already halfway to O’Hare to commit a crime.” She giggles softly, and the warmth behind it makes my heart jump.
“Still in bed.” I sigh through a laugh. “But I’m very, very tempted.”
She goes quiet, her breath the only sound left between us.
“I’m going to tell Elyse,” she says finally. “She’s just got her own shit, and I don’t want to tack on my issues.”
“You matter too. I hope you know that.” Her breath catches but she stays silent. “I won’t say anything, I promise.”
“Thank you.”
We’re quiet for a moment, simply existing, breathing.
“So,” she drags, humor in her voice, “what are you wearing?”
I snort and then choke on a laugh. “Jesus Christ. I literally never know what’s going to fly out of your mouth.”
She tsks softly. “Still didn’t answer the question, Ledger.”
I can’t believe our conversation has led to this. “Boxer briefs, if you must know.”
“Ooh la la,” she purrs dramatically, almost like she’s putting on a French accent.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her, grinning like an idiot.
“Wanna know what I’m wearing?”
I huff out an exhale like I’m annoyed but I think we both know I’m not. “Tell me, Scottie. What are you wearing?”
Her swallow is thick and audible, the silence between us shifting—wanting and charged, leaving me wondering why this is a bad idea when it feels so good.
“You’re going to laugh.” She sounds shy, and it has my smile widening.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Flannel Christmas pajamas.” She laughs. “They’re my mom’s. I was too lazy to go through my things.”
Scottie has no idea how attractive she is. This woman could wear a paper bag and still outshine everyone else.
“I’ve always been a big fan of flannel Christmas pajamas. Bonus points if they have reindeer on them.”
“Are you spying on me?” she whisper-squeals. “That’s exactly what these are.”
“Lucky guess.”
I can’t remember the last time I stayed up talking on the phone with someone—or had this much fun doing it.
“I should go to sleep.” The sound of her blankets rustling flows through the phone, and I imagine her curled up beneath them.
I wish she had taken me up on my offer, but the more I picture her staying here, the more the image morphs—from the bed in the pool house to my bed—and it’s a bad idea to go there.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Me too.”
“Goodnight,” she says softly, like she’s already drifting to sleep.
“Goodnight, Scottie.”