Chapter 6 #2
‘Sorry. Oban. Family thing.’ He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask.
On screen, flannel-man indeed builds a fire. I wish she would light it. Why can’t she be the one to strike the match? Women can make fire too.
‘Knew it.’ Scottie sounds pleased with himself. ‘T minus nine until the chaste kiss. Camera won’t show his raging hard-on, of course. But we all know it’s there.’
I snort. Unladylike and graceless. His mouth twitches.
‘Wheesht! Fuck’s sake.’ The sound comes from a few rows down. A disgruntled hiss from the only other person in our section.
We grin at each other.
Ten minutes later, the music mounts into its final crescendo, and the emptiness in my chest has filled with warmth. He drove from Oban straight here for the last bit. That must mean something. I don’t know what, but it means something.
The lights flicker on, turning the shabby red seats the colour of rust.
Scottie stretches, and the denim of his jeans strains against gladiator thighs that have no business being that thick. It’s a distraction. A massive, beautiful distraction. He has chunky quads that could squat a small car. Or me. Repeatedly.
We stand slowly. My ankle is stiff from sitting and protests as I step into the aisle. My right foot lands wrong, the weak tendon folds beneath me, and my weight tips sideways.
Then his hand closes around my elbow, bracing me before I’ve even fully registered the tilt.
His fingers span my upper arm, and at this range, there’s no missing the individual glittery threads of copper in his beard. I feel his heat through the fabric. It travels inward, pooling behind my breastbone, downward, and my body leans into the contact instead of pulling away.
I haven’t been touched with this much care in so long that my brain has deleted the memory of how it feels. And now here’s this man, holding me upright in a cinema aisle with giant hands gentler than I expected from someone who voluntarily slams into people. Now I can’t unfeel it.
And…I don’t want to.
‘Awright there?’ His voice is low. ‘Was that saucy film kiss a bit much for your sensibilities?’
‘Shut up. I’m fine.’ The words come out thin. ‘It’s my foot.’
He doesn’t let go immediately. His thumb presses against the inside of my arm, light enough to feel accidental, firm enough to tether me. For a beat, we stand there, his bulk between me and the departing audience.
Then he releases me. ‘Careful on the stairs, Marzipan.’
I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.
We drift through the foyer, past the empty kiosk. The double doors open onto wet pavement and cold air, streetlights reflecting in shallow puddles.
Scottie falls into step beside me. He’s near enough that I hear his breathing. Far enough that we aren’t touching.
He walks me all the way to my car without asking.
I stop at the driver’s door and catch my reflection in the window.
My posture gives me away even in the dark.
You can take the girl out of the tutu, but you can’t make her stand relaxed like a normal human being.
I’m wearing leggings and a coat, but my body still expects the costume.
I turn to him. ‘So, you look like someone scraped you off a rugby pitch.’
‘It’s been a bit of a week.’ He cracks his knuckles. ‘Family stuff.’
‘The Oban thing?’
‘Aye.’ A pause. ‘My brother’s wheelchair packed in. Had to sort it.’
The words land without drama. But I hear what’s underneath. How he says ‘sort’ like it’s a reflex.
‘Sounds slightly challenging.’
He shrugs. ‘The usual. Then I drove like a maniac to get back in time.’
‘Scottie.’ I wait until he looks at me. ‘You’re allowed to be tired.’
Something flickers in his expression. There and gone. ‘Ditto.’
‘Yeah, well.’ I tug my coat tighter. ‘At least your family needs you. Nevin only needs me to be…less. Smaller.’ I don’t know why I said that. The words sit between us, too honest, too close to the bone. ‘Never mind, I’m just exhausted.’
Part of me waits for him to ask what I mean. He doesn’t. He ducks his chin once, and the silence absorbs what I can’t take back.
I unlock the car, but I don’t get in yet. ‘Same time next week?’ My cheeks heat. ‘Only if you can. I mean, you obviously have a life. This isn’t… I’m not expecting… What I meant was…’
‘Ava.’ My name in his voice stops the ramble. It’s a deep, resonant vibration that makes the air still.
A quiet heat spreads behind my sternum.
Next week he might be stuck somewhere I can’t picture, and I’ll be sitting in that back row staring at an empty seat. The thought stings more than it should. But it stings.
‘Give me your phone,’ I say.
His eyebrows rise a fraction. ‘What now?’
‘Your phone.’ I hold out my palm. ‘In case you’re stuck in Oban. Or the roads are shite. You can text me, so I’m not sitting there wondering if you’re dead in a ditch.’
His jaw works. Then he digs into his jacket pocket and drops the phone into my palm. Unlocked. The case is scuffed at the corners, and a crack spiders across the screen.
I type fast and save my number under a name that makes sense. Marzipan. Then I call myself. My own phone wakes in my coat pocket.
‘There.’ I give it back. Our fingers brush. His are calloused and thick. I wonder how it would feel…
Stop.
I gave my number to a man who isn’t my boyfriend. My heart flaps in my throat. This is…not great. If Nevin finds out, I’m done.
Wait a second. When did making a new friend become a crime?
That’s what this is. I made a friend. A tiny door cracked open in a room I’ve been locked inside for months. I don’t know where it leads. I don’t care. It’s mine.
‘Noted.’ He checks it. ‘Marzipan? Are you serious?’
‘Hey. It’s my undercover codename.’
One side of his lips curves into a grin. ‘Same time next week, Marzipan.’
In the pause between breaths, he refuses to let me look away, and the stillness between us pulls tight. A thread with weight. Then he backs away, and the thread slackens.
‘Okay. Bye.’ I duck my head and sink into the seat.
I pull the door shut, fumble the key into the ignition. The engine coughs twice before catching. I wrestle the stiff gear stick into Drive – Dad’s old automatic always fights back – and hiss through my teeth as the first press of the accelerator sends a spike of fire up my calf.
I pull out of the space. Scottie fills the rectangle of my mirror, a solid shape against the orange light, broad shoulders and copper hair. He’s waiting until I’m gone.
Safe. That’s what he feels like. Safe.
My phone lights up in the passenger seat. Three texts stacked on top of each other.
Where are you?
Why aren’t you home?
Ava fucking answer me!!!
I check the time. 19:39. My grip tightens on the wheel. Quickly, I open my recent calls and swipe left on Scottie’s call. Delete.
The evidence vanishes and leaves only the cryptic contact buried in my list.
Bear.