Chapter 16
Ava
Man versus machine is a classic tragicomedy. Right now, out in the driveway, man is losing. Big time.
The Kerr family’s wheelchair accessible van lists to the left because the front passenger tyre is flat. Scottie is crouched beside it, his grey joggers stretched to their limit across his quads. Sculpted muscle shifting with every movement, power wrapped in cotton.
It is half nine, and the Scottish sky is doing its best impression of a damp mop. But I’m warm, fed, and highly entertained. Watching him try to solve a mechanical issue with blunt force is watching a bear attempt to open a jar of pickles.
He is swearing. It’s a low, continuous stream of profanity.
I like this side of him. Slightly…unhinged.
Scottie is trying to loosen the wheel nuts. He has got the wheel brace, but his right hand – currently painted in angry shades of purple – is failing him. Every time he applies pressure, he winces.
‘Get tae actual fuck, ya stubborn cunt of a thing!’
He drops the tool, and it clangs against the drive. Nevin would have kicked the car. He would have thrown the wheel brace across the street and then blamed me for the tyre. Scottie sits there and absorbs the failure as if it’s his personal fault that rubber punctures.
I’ve waited long enough. He had his chance.
‘Mind if I try?’
Scottie’s head snaps up. He scans me, then looks down at his hand, then back to the tyre. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘You haven’t got it. Your hand is mince. Move.’
‘Ava, don’t be daft. It’s dirty. You’re…’
‘I’m what? Made of porcelain? You wish.’ With a smirk, I saunter past him and pick up the brace. ‘My dad is an engineer. Taught me how to change a tyre before I even knew how to drive.’
‘Ava—’
‘Sit. Down.’ I speak in the tone that our choreographer Nicole uses when someone dares to sickle a foot.
Scottie pulls his chin back, stunned by my tone, and sinks back onto the paving stones. I inspect the wheel. He has managed to loosen two nuts, but the bottom two are seized tight. I fit the wheel brace onto the nut and stand on the end, using my full body weight to bear down.
I bounce once. Twice.
Creak.
The first nut gives.
‘Leverage,’ I say, stepping down. ‘It’s knowing where to apply the right amount of pressure.’
Scottie watches me as I work with the tool. My fingers are coated in black, oily muck.
Good. Let him see the dirt. Let him see that I don’t shatter because things get messy.
‘It’s Friday.’ I move to the last nut. ‘Don’t you have grown men to grind into the mud or lift a lorry for fun this weekend?’
‘Naw. As I said, Six Nations opening weekend.’ He picks at a piece of moss between the pavers. ‘Wallace said to go home and recharge.’
‘So you’re staying here?’
‘Aye.’
I spin the nut loose. ‘Good.’
Then I get the jack positioned under the chassis point and wind it up with the mechanical click-click-click. The van rises.
‘Ava… How long has this fucked-up shit been going on?’ His voice is restrained, rough with the effort of keeping a lid on an anger that isn’t directed at me. I know what he’s asking about – and it’s not the tyre.
I pull the wheel off. It’s heavy, but I brace it against my thighs and use my core. I roll it aside and pick up the spare.
‘Shortly after I moved in, I guess. Mostly, it was grabbing and shouting. Then breaking things near me.’ I keep my eyes on the wheel hub, line up the holes, and slide the spare onto the bolts. It clunks into place. ‘Telling me what to wear and how to behave.’
‘I swear to God.’ Scottie’s tone is bone-chillingly calm. ‘I will fucking smother him. I will find him in his bed, and I will squeeze the life out of him.’
My movements seize, and I glimpse at him. He is sitting on the cold ground, knees drawn up, staring at the paving stones with a look of such desolate, violent certainty that my stomach folds in on itself. I can’t even think of how rugby training is going to be after what happened last night.
‘It’s a mess.’ He rubs his face. ‘I’ve made a mess of it.’
‘No. You didn’t make the mess.’ I start tightening the nuts, putting my back into it. ‘Nevin did. You just drove the getaway car.’
He gives a short, humourless laugh. ‘Aye, you could say that.’
I finish the last nut and lower the jack. The van settles onto the new tyre, and I check the pressure with my thumb. Solid.
‘Done.’
Scottie stands up. He towers over me again, blocking the weak sun, reaches out, takes my dirty, grease-stained fingers, and inspects them. ‘You’ve got oil everywhere. Here. On your face.’
‘Proof of a job well done.’
‘Very impressive, Marzipan.’ He uses his middle finger to gently wipe my cheek. ‘Thank you.’
The drag of his skin against mine bleeds heat all the way down across my collarbone. It’s a slow, tender arc that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up in anticipation.
Oh, I’m savouring his touch far too much.
Scottie eases back and breaks the heat, while I’m trying to act like my brain hasn’t gone to mush. He rocks back on his heels, the intensity in his face flattening out as he hunts for a safer topic.
‘How’s the foot doing?’
‘Healed.’ I lift a shoulder. ‘I’ll have to get ready for the solo.’
‘Why do you want it so much?’ he asks. ‘The solo part.’
‘Because it’s hard. It requires perfection. Discipline, devotion, skill. Everything I’ve been working for.’
A short, dry puff of air leaves his nose. ‘That’s it?’
It’s unnerving how easily he peels back the layers.
‘No. I mean, that’s part of it.’ I pick at a flake of rust on the wheel rim, avoiding the interrogation in his eyes.
‘When I’m on stage… When I execute a phrase that makes my lungs burn…
It’s the one thing in my life that belongs to me.
It’s what I was put here to do. Principal dancer… It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
His gaze narrows. I think of him at training, grinding through drills, holding positions nobody thanks him for. How different are we, really?
Scottie nods slowly. He gets it.
I pick up the punctured tyre. ‘Come on. Let’s get this in the boot before your mum sees us slacking.’
By evening, the lounge in the Kerr household is a din. The telly drones in the corner. Music drifts from a battered docking station on the sideboard – some atrocious nineties Eurodance track. Gillian left an hour ago for her pal Pamela’s. ‘Away wi’ the girls’, she announced.
Erin is cross-legged in the chair, scrolling on her phone. I’m sitting on the sofa at the coffee table, staring at a Scrabble board that has become a battlefield.
David is opposite me, drumming his fingers on the armrest. He may look like a sweet choirboy, but he plays like a vulture.
‘Your go, twinkle toes.’ He grins.
‘Oh, you’re going down, you wee goblin.’
‘I admire your optimism. It’s heart-warming.’ David studies his tiles. ‘Scottie tells me you’re staying the weekend. Maybe longer.’
‘If you’ll have me.’
‘Oh, we’ll have you. You raise the collective IQ of this house by at least thirty points.
And you’re prettier than him.’ He jerks his chin toward the kitchen, where Scottie is making tea.
Then he surveys the board, grins, and slaps down five tiles with the satisfaction of a man laying down a winning hand.
‘A-T-L-A-S.’ He leans back. ‘Call me butter, cause I’m on a roll. But speaking of Atlas… He’s got it bad, you know. The Atlas Complex.’
I pause. ‘Expand and explain.’
‘He thinks he has to carry the world.’ David studies me longer than is comfortable.
As if he is running the numbers on whether I can handle what he is about to put on the table.
‘Right. I don’t normally dump this on civilians.
But you’ve got a look about you that says you don’t spook easily. And my brother seems to like you. So…’
His face sobers. ‘Not sure if he’s told you, but our dad was a violent alcoholic.
I was too young to remember it, but Scottie kept the score.
Then Dad had the stroke, and Mum was forced to care for him until the second one took him out.
’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘And then I had the audacity to fall off McCaig’s Tower.
Scottie blames himself for it. No matter how many times I tell him it was my decision to follow him up there. It’s annoying as fuck.’
I reach across the table and put my hand over his. I don’t squeeze, and I don’t offer a sad smile. ‘You’re allowed to be fed up with him.’
He shoots me a look that is entirely too old for his face. ‘I wish he’d treat me like a normal wee arsehole brother. But he can’t let his guilt go.‘ David speaks lightly, but there’s an edge to his voice.
‘I guess some people can’t stop seeing a certain version of you.’ I’m meeting that old-soul look of his.
‘Could be. Am I thrilled to be using a wheelchair? Not really. It was a struggle, aye. I’m just living my life. It’s not how I thought it would go, but I worked hard and now I’m thriving, and I’m fucking tired of proving it to him.’
His mobile stutters against the table. David peers at the screen, and his face softens in a way I haven’t seen before.
‘Oooh… Who’s that?’
‘Och, naebody, ballet girl.’ But he can’t keep the teeth-flashing grin off his face.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Something like that.’ He texts back, pockets the phone, and studies his Scrabble tiles. ‘Enough of feelings. Back to war.’
‘Iliac,’ I say and put my letters down. ‘Pertaining to the ilium. The bone you’re currently resting your smugness on. Triple word score.’
David drags the heel of his hand down his face, pulling his lower lip with it. ‘You’re a menace.’
‘I’m a dancer. We’re vicious when it comes to anatomy.’
I look up and catch Scottie leaning against the doorframe. There’s an unguarded look on his face that hooks into a tender spot I wasn’t aware of until now. I want to cross the room and hug him. I want to know how his mouth feels.
And not because he is safe, although he is, but because he is Scottie.
‘Game over!’ Erin shouts, vaulting over the back of the sofa. ‘Dance floor is open. Off yer arses, troops!’ She cranks the volume. Pump Up The Jam.