Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STRUAN
The phone rings out. Again.
I stare at the screen like it’s personally betrayed me, then hit redial.
Pick up. Come on, Ainsley. Just pick up.
Nothing.
I’m pacing the length of my living room, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the hollow drone of the ringtone. Four rings. Five. Then her voicemail kicks in. “You’ve reached Ainsley Reid. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Ainsley, it’s me. Struan.” I drag a hand through my hair—my newly short hair—and try to sound calm. Reassuring. “Please come back. Or at least let me know you’re okay, aye? I just . . . I want to know you’re all right.”
I hang up and collapse onto the sofa.
Immediately my leg starts bouncing. Nope. Sitting still isn’t happening. Not right now.
I stand again. Need to keep busy. Need to do something. Anything.
The kitchen. Right. There’s still hair all over the floor.
I head through, grab the dustpan, and sweep up the clippings. It doesn’t take long—a minute, maybe two—and then I’m back to having absolutely nothing to do to occupy myself.
Hmm . . . the kettle. Tea. Don’t really fancy one, but it’ll keep my hands busy for a few moments.
I fill the kettle and click it on, then lean against the worktop and stare at my phone, willing it to light up.
It does.
My heart lurches—for a second. But it’s not Ainsley’s name on the screen.
Mum
Just bumped into Moira at the seafront. Didn’t tell her ANYTHING
I stare at the message. At that bloody winking emoji. At the way she’s written “ANYTHING” in capitals like she deserves a medal for basic discretion.
Shit.
The way she says it—so pleased with herself—tells me everything I need to know. She’s dying to tell someone.
Ainsley was right. Our mums aren’t going to be able to keep this to themselves.
No wonder Ainsley panicked. After what she went through with her ex, of course she’s more sensitive to tongues wagging. I should have realised that. Idiot.
The kettle clicks off. I pour water over a teabag and watch the colour bleed into the mug.
Of all the days our mothers could have picked to pop round for an impromptu kitchen viewing. Seriously, just my fucking luck.
I ditch the teabag, add milk, stir, then leave the mug on the worktop and go back to pacing again. Not in the mood for it.
It’s long gone cold when my phone pings again.
Ainsley
I’m okay. Just need a bit of space please
I read it twice. Three times.
Space.
I want to call her. Want to text back something that’ll fix this, make it right. But that’s the opposite of what she’s asking for.
I set the phone down carefully.
It’s fine, I tell myself. She just needs time. It’s fine.
Except it isn’t fine.
When I walk into the Grays’ living room, Da glances up from checking a spirit level.
“Hair looks much better,” he says. “More practical having it short anyway. Less likely to end up in a drill.”
“Aye.”
“Did you manage to get to the dentist? And do your other errands?”
“What?” I blink at him. “Oh. Aye, yes.”
I’m about to get stuck back in when Da hums then says, “You know I’m not one to gossip, lad, but your mum’s already told me about finding you and Ainsley together.”
I go very still.
She promised not to tell anyone. It’s been less than an hour. Less. Than. An. Hour.
“Did she now?”
“Mm-hmm.” Da’s tone is casual as you like. “Seemed quite pleased about it.”
Shaking my head, I step out into the hall, pull out my phone, and call Mum.
She answers on the second ring, voice bright and cheerful. “Hello, love! How’s your afternoon going? Pauline and I were just saying—”
“Mum.” I cut her off. “Ainsley’s gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean, she drove off. Because she was upset. About you walking in on us.”
“Oh.” The cheer drains from her voice. “Oh dear. I didn’t realise she’d—I mean, we left right away, gave you both your privacy—”
“Mum, you promised not to tell anyone.”
“What? I didn’t—”
“You told Da.”
A pause. Then: “Well, I had to tell your father, Struan. He’s your father!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mum—”
“I haven’t breathed a word to another soul. I promise.”
I sigh. “Okay. Well, please don’t. Ainsley’s private. She doesn’t want the whole town knowing her business.”
“Of course, love. My lips are sealed.”
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up.
I stay late at the Grays’ to make up for the hours I missed earlier, so it’s dark by the time I get home.
Ainsley’s back. Her car is in her drive, and lights glow warm behind her curtains.
I sit in the van for a wee while, keys in hand, staring at those lit windows. Part of me wants to march over there, knock on her door, and . . . what? Apologise? Explain? Kiss her until she forgets why she was upset in the first place?
Space, I remind myself. She asked for space.
So instead I head inside. The house greets me with silence.
I make myself pasta with pesto—easy, mindless, something I can do on autopilot while my brain churns through everything else.
Memories from earlier keep replaying in my head. Not the sex—though, Christ, that was incredible—but everything after. The way Ainsley looked at me when we were tangled together in my sheets, soft and open in a way I hadn’t seen before. Like she was finally letting me in.
Then our mums appeared, and all of that vanished. Shutters slamming down. Walls going back up.
Fuck.
I swear I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her, and she’s just on the other side of the wall. But I can’t go to her.
The pasta tastes like cardboard. I eat it anyway.
Then, through the wall, muffled but unmistakable: Lily crying. No, not just crying, proper wailing. A full-throated tantrum.
I hesitate.
She asked for space, the sensible part of my brain reminds me.
But the crying continues—escalates, in fact—punctuated by thumps and snippets of Ainsley’s voice, strained and pleading.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out my front door and approaching hers. At it, though, I hesitate again. Is this a terrible idea?
I push aside my doubts and knock.
After a short wait Ainsley answers, looking like she’s been through a war. Hair dishevelled. Cheeks flushed. Eyes glassy with exhaustion. Lily’s sobs spill from the living room.
“Struan.” She blinks. “What are you—”
“I heard Lily.” I keep my voice gentle. “Thought maybe you could use a hand.”
Something crosses her face, too fast to read. “I’m fine. And I don’t need help with my own daughter.”
“I wasn’t saying you did, I just—”
“I told you I needed space, Struan. I couldn’t have been any clearer.” She takes a deep breath in, and then out. “Goodnight.”
She doesn’t slam the door. Just closes it on me, gently but firmly.
Back in my own house, the silence presses in from all sides.
I wash my pasta bowl. Wipe down the worktops. Tidy things that don’t need tidying. Anything to keep my hands busy while my head refuses to quiet down.
When my phone rings, it’s Sophie’s name that flashes on the screen.
“Hey, Soph.”
“Hi, Struan. So, I’m looking ahead to the October holidays—wanting to get Isla booked into a few activities to keep her busy.
There’s this company called Bannock Adventures that runs a Paddle ’n’ Play course.
A few of her friends are doing it, and I thought she’d love it.
What do you think? She’d get to try paddleboarding and—”
“Water sports?” I say. “Really, Soph? Don’t you think you’re stepping on my toes a bit?”
I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’m the surfer.
Silence on the other end. When Sophie speaks again, her tone is careful, measured.
“Oh. Well, honestly, Struan, I thought you’d be pleased at the idea of Isla getting out on the water.
I wasn’t meaning to start an argument. The course is run by these two guys called Ally and Aidan.
I think you’d get on well with them. They’re your kind of people. ”
“They sound like prats.”
The words are out before I can stop them, petty and ridiculous and based on absolutely nothing except two alliterative names.
A long pause. “Really, Struan? They sound like prats? What’s with you tonight?”
She’s right. I’m being a complete arse and I know it. But the frustration’s been building all day with nowhere to go, and Sophie’s getting the brunt of it.
I should stop. I really should. But I don’t.
“Last weekend I got a day less with my daughter because you wanted to organise a sleepover for her, and now you want two random men to teach her how to get on a board instead of me. Can’t you see how that might tick me off a bit?”
“The sleepover?” Sophie’s voice rises with disbelief. “This is about the sleepover? Struan, you were the one who didn’t want Isla missing out on things! That’s why we agreed she’d have her own sleepover at my place.”
I take a long breath. Let it out slowly.
“Shit, Soph. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m being a dick.”
And here’s the thing about Sophie—instead of agreeing, instead of telling me exactly where I can shove my bad attitude, she says, “What’s wrong, Struan?”
Christ. That’s almost worse.
“It’s . . . nothing.”
“It’s clearly not nothing.”
Aye, it’s the woman next door. But Sophie and I don’t discuss my relationships—mainly because they tend to be pretty casual—and besides, the whole reason Ainsley got upset was because our mums found out. I’m hardly going to go spreading the news further.
“You’re right, it’s not nothing, but I can’t talk about it. Not yet. It hasn’t got anything to do with the sleepover or the paddleboarding anyway. The paddleboarding sounds great. Sign Isla up, please. I’ll transfer you the money. And I’m sorry for being a dick.”
“You’re worrying me, Struan. This isn’t like you.”
Jesus. I snap at her, and her response is concern? I really don’t deserve this woman as my co-parent.
I force a laugh. “Please don’t worry. I’m fine. You just caught me at a bad time, that’s all. And again, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
“Hmm.” She isn’t convinced. “Do I need to phone your mum and da? Ask them to check in on you?”
“What? No, please don’t do that. That’d be too embarrassing. Honestly, I’m fine. Sorry again.”
We finish up the call—me feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself—then the house settles back into silence.
I grab my guitar and drop onto the sofa, positioning it across my lap. Usually, this helps. The familiar weight of it, the smooth curve of the body against me. I can lose myself for hours in chord progressions and half-written melodies.
I play a few notes—something slow, easy—but my heart’s not in it.
I try again. A different song. Something upbeat this time.
Nope.
The notes fall flat, lifeless. Just sounds with no feeling behind them.
After a few more attempts, I give up and set the guitar aside.
I sit in the quiet and stare at the wall that separates my house from hers.
Just a few inches of plaster and brick. But right now it feels like an ocean.