Chapter 12
Ava
The lock of the front door clicks behind us, and my back goes straight as a blade.
Nevin’s hand is still wrapped around my elbow from the walk up the stairs. His hold tightens for one second, then releases. I step further into the flat and map the room to keep myself from blacking out. Lamp by the sofa. Kitchen door ajar. Hallway to the bedroom. Bathroom at the end.
‘Enjoy yourself tonight?’ His voice is conversational. The tone he uses for strangers and sponsors and people he wants something from.
The aftertaste of the evening’s whisky hangs between us.
I slip my coat off and drape it over the back of a chair. ‘It was good to see everyone.’
‘Yeah.’ He crosses to the kitchen and pours himself another whisky. As if he hadn’t had enough already. The amber liquid catches the lamp light.
‘Always sweet to put one over the English. Massive shift from the boys. Next year, I’ll be in that squad.’
I start edging for the bedroom because distance is safety and walls are barriers and maybe if I can get changed and brush my teeth and slide under the covers before—
‘Ava.’
I stop.
‘Come here.’
My feet carry me back to the living room. Compliance coded into my body from months of learning what could happen when I don’t.
Nevin leans against the worktop and stares me down. His mouth is a flat, hard line.
‘You had a good time tonight.’ It’s not a question. ‘Things seemed cosy at the bar.’
‘I was getting water.’
‘Sure.’
‘I was thirsty.’
His laugh is short and mirthless. ‘Thirsty. Right.’ He sets the glass down with a loud clink. ‘And Scottie Kerr happened to be there both times.’
I keep my face blank. ‘It’s a pub, Nevin. People stand at bars. It’s what they’re for.’
‘Don’t.’ He pushes off and moves toward me. ‘Don’t fucking patronise me. I saw the way he looked at you.’
‘He wasn’t—’
‘I saw.’ Another step. His finger jabs the air between us. ‘The whole room saw. My teammates. The MacKenzie execs. Coach. Everyone watching that lumbering prick stare at my girlfriend. And you let him.’
‘I didn’t let anyone do anything. We were talking. About nothing. The weather. The match. Normal things.’
‘Normal.’ He spits the word. ‘There’s nothing normal about the way he eyes you up. You think I’m blind? You think I don’t notice him perving? You’ve been sneaking around with him for months.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it?’ Nevin is close enough that the sharp tang of whisky matches the bite in his voice. ‘Then why did he ask you to leave me?’
I turn to ice.
Fuck. Oh no.
Scottie’s question at the bar. The noise should have muffled it. I thought…
Nevin’s expression twists. Triumph and fury braided together. ‘Yeah. I got that part. Didn’t catch your answer, though. Care to share?’
‘It wasn’t… He didn’t mean—’
‘He asked you to leave me.’ Each word pins me by the throat. ‘And you didn’t tell him to fuck off. You didn’t walk away. No, you stood there, staring at him with those pathetic doe eyes, as if he’s offering you something I can’t.’
‘Nevin, stop.’ I hate the sound of my voice right now. The desperation. The fear. ‘You’re drunk. You’re imagining things.’
‘Oh, I’m imagining things. That’s rich.’ He laughs. ‘I’m imagining that my slut of a girlfriend would rather spread her legs for some third-class rugby cunt than stay loyal to the man who puts a roof over her head.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘What, a horny little slut?’ He tilts his head. ‘If the shoe fits, babe. Sadly, you haven’t touched my cock in months.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ He crowds me. His hand finds my chin and gently tilts my face up. ‘But you’re thinking about it. I can tell. You’ve been thinking about it since that fucking club. Since you danced for him.’
A blazing spike of panic sears through me. The Drum Vault four weeks ago. My hips rolling to the bass line while Scottie watched from the shadows.
Nevin drags a finger along my chin. ‘You looked like a whore that night. Half the club saw you grinding for attention. It was actually painful to witness. I was embarrassed for you.’
‘I was just dancing.’
‘You were advertising. Made me look like a fucking idiot. I didn’t say anything because I wanted to see how long you could lie to me. How stupid you think I am. And now he thinks he can…steal you? Like you’re up for grabs?’
‘I’m not a possession anyone can steal.’ I push the words out. A conscious decision to stop choking down the poison. ‘I’m a person, you know? A human being. You should remember that occasionally.’
His eyes narrow. ‘Excuse me?’
The retort builds behind my teeth. I should trap it there. That’s the bargain. Keep quiet, keep safe.
But Scottie’s question is ringing in my ears.
Why don’t you leave him?
And the answer – the real one, the one I couldn’t say at the bar – rips through my skin, clawing its way into the light.
Because I’m afraid of what might happen if I try.
And I’m so done with that.
‘I said,’ my spine straightens, one vertebra at a time, ‘I’m a person. Not a possession or an accessory. Not something you get to parade around and put away.’
My hands have stopped shaking. The old Ava – the one who didn’t buckle, who believed her own voice had value – is still here. Buried, maybe. But not gone.
Nevin’s expression goes slack.
I keep going, months of silence rushing out in a torrent I can’t control.
‘You treat me like an object. You speak for me. Over me. You introduce me as “your ballerina” and then mock my career to strangers.’ I close in, reckless with adrenaline.
‘”Coat rack.” That’s what you called me.
At the Burns Supper. In front of people who shook my hand ten minutes earlier. ’
‘Ava, I—’
‘No. You don’t get to interrupt this time. You’ve interrupted every conversation I’ve tried to have for months. You’ve told me what to wear. Who to talk to. How to smile.’ My voice cracks, then steadies. ‘You’ve been sanding me into sawdust, piece by piece.’
A vein ticks in his temple. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘I know exactly what I’m saying.’ My tone is calm. The same control I use at the barre. ‘I see you, Nevin. Not the charmer or the guy who buys flowers and books spa days. The one underneath.’
‘That’s not—’
‘Your parents are awful to you.’ I say it with no sting. ‘Your mother is a cold snob, your father is a bully, and you’ve spent your whole life trying to prove you’re good enough for people who will never give you that. And I’m sorry. I really am. That’s unjust and cruel, and you don’t deserve it.’
Recognition flickers in his face. He smothers it quickly.
‘But it doesn’t give you the right to become them.’ I hold his gaze. ‘It doesn’t give you the right to make me feel small so you can feel big. That’s not love. That’s toxic and abusive, and I’m sick of it.’
His features cycle through shock, confusion, pain, and a flash of guilt he buries before it fully surfaces.
Then his expression hardens. ‘You think you’re so clever.’ His voice comes out venomous. ‘Standing there, psychoanalysing me. Throwing my family in my face. You think you’ve got it all figured out?’
‘I think I’ve waited too long to say any of this.’
‘No.’ He plants himself right in front of my face. ‘What you’ve done is let another man get inside your head. Scottie fucking Kerr, of all people. The saddest bastard on the team. And now you’re parroting his bullshit, pretending it’s insight.’
‘This isn’t about Scottie.’
‘It is.’ He jabs a finger at my chest. ‘The question is whether you’ve fucked him yet, or if you’re just working up to it.’
I don’t flinch at the accusation. I’m past flinching. The instinct to survive him vanishes. Now I want to find his deepest fracture and dig into it.
‘You’re not pissed off because Scottie looked at me.’ I speak quietly. ‘You’re mad because someone finally did. You’re a weak, sad human being, and you can’t stand anyone outshining you. And everybody knows it. I’m embarrassed for you.’
Silence rushes in to fill the vacuum. For three seconds, Nevin doesn’t breathe. The colour drains from his face.
‘What did you just say?’
I don’t look away. ‘You’ve spent months making me small enough to fit in your pocket. And now someone’s noticed me anyway, and it’s killing you. Not because you want me. You stopped wanting me the moment I stopped fighting back. This – us – is over.’
His breath comes fast. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
‘I’m leaving you because I’m done.’ The sentence is a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward. ‘I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ll figure it out. I should have left months ago.’
‘Ava, come on. You know I love you.’ His voice goes tight, pitching high with a terrifying sweetness. ‘You can’t walk out on us. I need you, babe. You’re not going anywhere.’
‘Yes, I am.’ I slowly move toward the bedroom, toward my duffel bag, toward whatever scattered version of a plan I can construct in the next thirty seconds.
‘You stupid fucking cunt!’
The crash comes before I reach the hallway.
I spin.
Nevin’s fist is buried in the wall. Plaster dust rains down. His knuckles drip red. The plasterboard yawns open.
‘You don’t get to leave me. How dare you? I love you, Ava! You don’t get to walk out of here and make me look like—’
‘What the hell is wrong with you, Nevin?’
The life drops out of his eyes and his stare goes blank. ‘You’re not thinking straight. Tomorrow you’ll see straight again, and we’ll talk about this properly, and you’ll realise—’
‘No. I’m leaving. Right now.’ I try to turn, but he clamps down hard around my wrist. Pressure points flare, small bones grinding together. ‘Ow! Let go of me, arsehole!’
‘Make me.’ He is inches from me. ‘Go on. Scream. See who comes running to save a slut.’
My eyes flick to his other hand. The cocked elbow. The whitening knuckles.
Oh God. This is it.
I wrench free and move fast. Dancer’s reflexes. Years of spinning through space, of trusting my body to find the movement. I’m through the bathroom door in three seconds.
The lock clicks.
His fist hits the wood. ‘Ava!’ His shout is a harsh, guttural bark. ‘Open the fucking door or I’ll break it down!’
I slide down the wall. Cold tiles beneath me. Knees drawn up into my chest. The room tilts. Every muscle in my body is locked, braced for impact, but I can’t feel my limbs.
The wood shudders. Again. Again.
‘I swear, Ava! You can’t hide in there forever! This is my flat! You think you can—’ His voice is nothing but primal fury.
My whole skeleton is rattling, and I can’t command it to stop. I squeeze my eyes shut.
One. Two. Three. Four.
The door is laminate with a flimsy sliding lock. One hard kick. One heavy shoulder.
Thud.
The impact travels through the thin panel and rattles my spine.
I’m one text message away from safety. One text away from humiliation.
If I call for help, I make it real. I become that woman.
The one who needs someone else to save her because she wasn’t smart enough to leave in time.
I don’t want to be the dainty princess who needs rescuing.
But I also don’t want to end up on the news as yet another statistic.
Rugby player’s girlfriend found dead in King’s Park flat.
‘Ava! I want to talk to you. Open the bloody door, or I swear—’
Thud. Thud.
Hot and acrid shame burns in my gut. I hate myself for this. For needing a prop. It feels like defeat. As if I’m trading my dignity for my life. But the alternative looks more like a body bag by the second.
My mobile is in my pocket. I pull it out. The screen is bright in the dark. Contacts. Bear.
Help
Two ticks. Delivered.
On the other side of the panel, the sudden silence is worse than the shouting.
Then Nevin’s voice again. ‘You’re making a huge fucking mistake, bitch.’