Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELLIE
I barely slept last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, my mind dragged me straight back to soft play. Douglas with my camera in his hands. The look on his face when his eyes met mine. Not anger, or amusement. Just . . . confusion.
He knows.
I spent half the night trying to convince myself otherwise.
Maybe he didn’t actually scroll back as far as I’m worried he did.
But by the time the first birds started up outside my window, I’d stopped trying to delude myself.
His expression said everything. He’s seen all my photos of him and his boat, which felt harmless enough when I took them, but now seem less like an innocent hobby and more like the work of a crazed stalker.
Oh God.
I go through my morning in a daze. Make breakfast I barely touch, tidy things that don’t need tidied. At some point I head out to the garden to tend to the plants, because that’s something I usually enjoy, but today it doesn’t bring me any peace.
I consider texting Blair for emotional support, but what would I say? I’ve been secretly taking photos of Douglas for months. He saw them. I’m going to have to move to another country.
No, I can’t tell Blair yet. I’ll just . . . live in denial a little longer. If I don’t speak about it, and Douglas doesn’t tell anyone, maybe it’ll just go away. Fingers crossed, Douglas might even forget all about it in a day or two.
Aye, that’s not going to happen.
I jab a trowel into the soil and turn it over, then repeat the process with more vigour.
The thing is, yesterday morning was so good.
Douglas, the twins, and I on our walk, inspecting the rock pools, having our wee picnic.
It was the kind of thing I’d daydreamed about but never thought would actually happen.
And then I went to soft play because apparently I don’t know when to quit, and now everything is ruined. How am I ever going to meet his eye again?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A reminder alarm—it’s time to take Mum to church. I head back inside, wash the soil from my hands, and grab my keys.
These days, church is usually Mum’s only outing all week. It’s the one constant nothing gets in the way of—not the weather, or the fatigue. I don’t attend the service myself—she has her beliefs, I have mine—but I always take her there and collect her after.
Her body may not be what it once was, but she’s as perceptive as ever. After I help her into the car, she spends the short drive telling me that I’m quieter than usual, that I look peaky, and that I need to make sure I’m eating and sleeping properly.
Some weeks I’ll go for a walk while she’s at church, but today I just head home again.
I try to get into a book I’m reading about Victorian Scottish lighthouse keepers—I’ll read anything, fiction or nonfiction, doesn’t matter—but I just can’t focus.
Even my violin, which normally lets me lose myself for a while, provides no comfort today.
I keep circling back to the same thought: I’m going to have to face Douglas at some point. At the library, at the harbour, in the street, in the corner shop. Ardmara is too small to avoid anyone for long. I need a plan.
Okay, I’ll be breezy. Completely unbothered. If he brings it up, I’ll laugh it off. Oh, the photos? Just my hobby. I photograph everything. Don’t flatter yourself.
I practise the line in my head, but it sounds unconvincing even there, because there is no breezy way to explain the fact that I’ve taken a ridiculous number of photos of Douglas.
A knock at the door.
My stomach drops. Without even checking, I’m sure it’s Douglas. I don’t know why I’m so sure, but I am.
With trembling fingers, I slide my fiddle back into its case, take a few deep breaths, then head for the door and pull it open.
It is Douglas. He stands on my doorstep, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. It’s just him—no twins today—and he looks like he slept about as well as I did, which is to say not at all. In just a single day, his usual scruff has taken on a slightly wilder look.
“Hi.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I was hoping we could talk. If that’s all right?”
“Of course.” My voice comes out surprisingly steady, even if my stomach is doing cartwheels. I move aside, and Douglas steps past me into the hall. I catch a whiff of him—the outdoors, fresh air, something woody, and underneath it, as always, a trace of the sea.
I lead him through to the kitchen, where I gesture for him to sit at the table, then pop the kettle on and take down a couple of mugs. “Tea? Coffee?” It’s something to do with my hands, and it might let me delay whatever is coming by a minute or two.
“Er, a tea would be grand, thanks.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
I know he doesn’t take sugar. I was behind him in the queue at the Lighthouse Café one time, and it’s a little detail about him I observed and tucked away. But I ask anyway because it fills the silence.
“Just milk, please.”
I get some biscuits out and arrange them on a plate. Douglas must know I’m stalling, but he doesn’t call it out.
Finally I set the mugs down and join him at the table. It’s a small table—normally it’s just me—and Douglas’s legs are long, so I take care not to initiate an accidental game of footsie.
“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around my mug and looking at it more than Douglas. “What did you want to talk about?” I don’t really want to ask, but I don’t think I can put this off any longer.
“I, er, saw the photos on your camera.” He clears his throat. “At the Pit. Not just the ones from yesterday morning. The older ones.”
I take a breath then meet his gaze, forcing a smile. “Oh, them? It’s just . . . I mean, the harbour, the light, your boat. It’s a good subject. I photograph everything. I . . .”
I trail off, because he’s not buying it, I can see that. I open my mouth to try again, but Douglas beats me to it.
“I’ve been thinking about yesterday. About the walk. About . . . well, you.”
That’s not what I was expecting him to say. I don’t know where he’s going with this or how to respond, so I simply say, “Oh?”
“Aye. It was . . . nice. I’ve been trying to figure out why it was so nice, and it’s not just because the twins had a good time.”
I should probably say something here, but once again all I manage is, “Oh?” I spend all day surrounded by books, but apparently I’ve forgotten every word in the English language.
“What I’m trying to say is I had a good time,” Douglas continues. “With you.”
My face goes warm. “Oh. Right. I had a good time too.”
“But,” Douglas says, and that one word is enough to kill the hope that had only just flickered to life inside me. “The thing is . . . Leah. Everything with her is such a mess, and I . . .” He swallows.
“I understand.” I force another smile. “Really, I do. I knew nothing could happen between us. I’m sorry about the photos.”
A groove appears between his eyebrows, and his expression is pained.
“You don’t have to apologise, Ellie. I just don’t want to lead you on.
You deserve better than someone who can’t even sort his own life out.
” He pushes his chair back and gets to his feet.
He hasn’t even touched his tea. “I just wanted to clear things up. I didn’t want things to be awkward between us. ”
I nod, even as my heart sags inside my chest. “Thank you.”
Douglas turns to go. He gets as far as the doorway before he stops, turns back, and crosses the kitchen in three strides.
My pulse jumps. I barely have time to set down my mug before his hand cups my chin, tilts my face up towards his, and then his mouth is on mine.
His lips are warm and firm. His hand moves up to the side of my face, his fingers rough against my cheek, and I feel the scratch of his scruff and the smell of the sea on him.
Douglas Fraser is kissing me.
It only lasts a few seconds, then he pulls back, his lips parted, like he can’t quite believe what he’s done. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might bruise.
“I’m sorry,” he says, stepping back. “I shouldn’t have . . . I need to get back. The twins—my parents are . . .” There’s something raw in his expression. I see guilt, want, confusion, all tangled up together.
Then he turns and leaves. The front door opens before I’ve even left my chair. Closes before I can reach the hall. He’s gone.
I brace one hand against the wall to support myself. The fingers of my other hand come up to my lips.
Douglas Fraser just kissed me.