Chapter 22 #2
Some part of me unclenches at the simple fact of being heard, but then I catch myself and reach for my wine. “Thanks, but actually, let’s not talk about this. Not tonight. This weekend is about you and me having a bit of time to ourselves. Something I think we both deserve.”
Douglas reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. “Aye, we do.”
I turn my hand over beneath his and lace our fingers together.
We move on. We talk about music and the Celtic Kicks. We talk about the places we’d like to visit someday. And we talk about books. Douglas doesn’t read much, he admits, but he’ll listen to an audiobook occasionally when tidying up around the house.
Despite my attempt to keep things light, the conversation somehow drifts back towards heavier topics, and before I know it, I’m talking about my dad.
Just fragments. How he used to whistle the same tune—“Donald, Where’s Your Troosers?
”—every morning while making breakfast. How he could fix anything: a leaking tap, a broken fence, a bad day.
How when he died five years ago, I stepped into the space he left in Mum’s life without anyone asking me to.
In turn, Douglas talks about the early days with the twins, after Leah left and he found himself solely responsible for two small humans who needed feeding, changing, comforting, entertaining, and putting to bed every single day.
“There was this one night when they both had a temperature and wouldn’t stop crying.
I remember standing in the kitchen at half one in the morning, holding one of them in each arm, both of them screaming, and I just thought, I can’t do this.
But then Logan stopped crying, just like that.
He put his head on my shoulder and went quiet, and about thirty seconds later Rosie did the same.
And I stood there holding these two bairns, and I realised, Oh. Maybe I can.”
My throat is tight. I look at this man—this tired, stubborn man who kept going because his two children needed him to—and I understand why I feel the way I do about him.
It’s not just the broad shoulders or the handsome face or the way he always smells of the sea.
It’s this. The man who stood in a kitchen at half one, exhausted and overwhelmed, and decided he could do it.
But I can’t help thinking about the woman who walked away, and there’s something I need to know. “Can I ask you something?” I say carefully. “Only . . . it’s a little awkward.”
“Ask away.”
“You and Leah . . . you don’t . . . I mean, when she comes back, do you—”
“No,” he says matter-of-factly. “We don’t share a bed and haven’t in years. When she visits, I sleep on the sofa.”
I nod. He hinted as much the day we went rock pooling, when he said he doesn’t kiss Leah when she comes back. Still, I wanted to be sure.
There’s a pause, then Douglas adds, “And just so you know, I got myself checked. Afterwards. I mean, after the last time Leah and I—” He stops.
Clears his throat. His ears have gone pink.
“Because there were rumours. About her. About what she got up to while she was away. So I went and got tested, and everything was . . . aye. Fine. All clear.”
I didn’t think it was possible for an STI disclosure to be sweet, but somehow the way Douglas stuttered through that was kind of adorable. I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “Thank you for telling me that.”
He exhales. “Well. Thought you should know.”
“I’m glad I do.”
A beat. Then Douglas picks up his pint and takes a long drink, looking very much like a man who would rather never have that conversation again.
Wanting to say something—anything—that isn’t about Leah or STI tests, I let my gaze drop to his shirt. Red and blue checks, sleeves rolled up, the top button undone. It suits him absurdly well.
“That’s a nice shirt,” I say.
Douglas glances down at himself. “Aye?”
“Very nice.”
“Cheers. I actually bought a couple of new things for this weekend. My wardrobe was a bit lacking.”
“Och, you’d look good in anything. Or nothing.” The words leave my mouth, and I immediately want to die. No idea why I just said that.
Douglas looks at me like he’s not at all sure he heard right. “What?”
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything. You’ve almost finished your beer. Fancy another?”
A grin spreads across Douglas’s face. He leans forwards, the distance between us shrinking. “Well, since we’re being honest, all dinner I’ve been trying not to look at your—” His gaze drops to my boobs and lingers there before lifting again. “You look incredible tonight. I love the dress.”
My face is on fire. My entire body is on fire. “Er, thank you.” Then, because the wine has apparently made me reckless, I lean closer too. “Just wait till you see what’s underneath it.”
Douglas swallows. “Christ, Ellie.”
Oh God. Was that too much?
“Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“Absolutely not.” He’s watching me with an expression that’s somewhere between surprised and very interested, and the combination is doing something to my insides that I don’t have a polite word for.
“Right,” I say, reaching for my wine. “Moving on.”
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to move on from that.”
The current between us has gone from a hum to a roar, but just then Jamie comes back and asks if we’d like dessert.
“What do you think?” Douglas asks me.
What do I think? I think, No, I don’t want sticky toffee pudding. I want you.
But what I actually say is, “I think I’d like to go back to the hotel.”
Douglas’s eyes darken, then he sits up straighter and turns to Jamie. “Just the bill, mate.”
Outside, the night air is cool and still, and Bannock has gone very quiet. Pretty lampposts cast pools of light, and stars show through gaps in the cloud.
We walk back to the hotel without speaking. Halfway there, Douglas reaches for my hand. No hesitation, no glance to check if I mind. His fingers close around mine, his palm rough and warm.
The hotel draws closer with every step. My pulse leaps and skitters.