Chapter 16 #2
‘Fucking hell, Erin,’ Scottie groans as he goes back to the kitchen. ‘Turn that shite down.’
‘Nae chance. Tunes are on.’ She snags my sleeve and drags me up. ‘Mon, Ava! Show us how the pros do it!’
I stumble to my feet. I’m tired, my life is a raging bin fire, and I’m wearing dirty leggings with a hole in the knee. But nobody here expects me to be perfect, and Erin has won me over in less than a day. She is fearless and exuberant and lovely. I wish I had a little sister like her.
We end up jumping around the cramped floor space, matching the nineties beat with zero coordination. Erin attempts a truly tragic version of the running man. It pulls a laugh right out of my belly. I pivot past the coffee table, catch David’s hand, and pull him into the makeshift dance floor.
‘What about a wee lift, ballet girl? Can you give me the Dirty Dancing moment I’ve been dreaming about?’
‘Not sure that’s such a good idea!’ I shout over the bass.
‘Pish. My legs may be atrophied, but I have the arms of the Hulk. You’re shitting your knickers, that’s all.’
‘Okay then, big man.’ I move in front of his chair and take a firm hold of his shoulders. He plants his hands on my waist.
‘You brace your core and lock your arms straight above your head.’ I show him what I mean. ‘On three. Ready?’
‘Born ready.’
I count, then hop. David pulls his arms up, counterbalancing me. For three seconds, he is holding me in the air. We are a circus act nobody asked for.
Then I overcorrect and lose my balance. My weight tips forward. David compensates, but the wheels give. We crash into the armchair behind us, a tangle of limbs and shrieking laughter.
David is on his back, laughing so hard no sound comes out. His face is crimson. ‘I’m gonna…’ He wheezes. ‘I’m gonna piss myself—’
Scottie is across the room in three strides. ‘Jesus Christ!’
The colour has drained from his face. He is glaring at David and the overturned chair with a look of unadulterated terror. ‘Which one of you numpties is responsible for this?’
‘Me,’ David and I say in unison.
‘You think you’re Patrick Swayze or what?’ A muscle ticks in Scottie’s cheek.
‘I’m fine, you bampot.’ David swats at him, still laughing. ‘It was brilliant. My arse is sturdier than your ego, Scottie. Calm yer tits.’
Scottie exhales through his nose. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine,’ David echoes, grinning. ‘Now help me up, you grumpy bastard.’
This noise. The terrible music, the insults, the laughter. Even toppling over playing dirty dancing. This house is glorious, warm chaos.
It’s terrible to suddenly experience what you’ve been starving for and then remember it’s not yours.
It’s past midnight, and the dishwasher hums. The others have gone to bed. It’s only us now. I’m leaning beside the sink, drying a wine glass that missed the load. Scottie is wiping down the table.
‘Your family is a bit mental,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He walks over to the sink and rinses the cloth under the tap. ‘Erin has no taste, and Dave has no boundaries.’
‘I like it.’ I put the glass down. ‘I like all of it.’
He turns to me. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the lights under the units. They catch the relief of his face: the strong nose, the scar on his brow, the weary set of his mouth.
‘You looked happy today,’ he says.
‘I was. I am.’ I set down the glass and trace the grout line with my toe.
Without warning, my brain slingshots back to yesterday. The bathroom. Nevin’s fist punishing the door. The fear that if the lock gave way, I might not survive it.
I’m here. In Oban with the Kerr family. Safe. And yet guilt curdles in my gut. Guilt for laughing today, for feeling warm, for forgetting that safety is an illusion.
‘Scottie.’
‘Aye?’
‘Can I sleep next to you again tonight?’
He stiffens, the shutters are coming down. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why? It was fine last night.’
‘Last night was…necessary. You were in shock. Tonight’s different.’ He turns away and twists the cloth between his fists. ‘You need to learn to sleep alone, Ava. You need to know you’re safe without a guard dog.’
The rejection stings because he is right, and I hate it.
‘I know how to sleep alone,’ I say, clipping the syllables short. ‘I don’t need you to manage me, Scottie. I don’t need a man telling me what I need and don’t need.’
‘I’m trying to do the right thing!’ He spins back around. ‘I’m trying not to take advantage of the fact that your life has imploded and you’re confused and terrified!’
‘I’m not a limping deer you picked up at the roadside. I’m a grown woman.’ I move to brush past him. I need to leave the room before I say something stupid, or cry, or throw the abducted coffee maker at him.
‘Ava, wait—’ He moves to stop me, or maybe to get out of my way.
It’s a fumble. A clumsy collision of trajectories. I step left. He steps right. We crash.
My hipbone collides with his thigh, and I might as well have walked into a boulder.
A mass of unyielding muscle that stops me dead and sends a very confused, very warm signal straight to my ovaries.
I stumble, and his arm shoots out, an instinctive reflex, catching me around the waist to stop me falling.
The air leaves the room.
He is solid. So incredibly solid. His heat soaks through my thin T-shirt. I feel his thundering heart against my shoulder. It’s galloping. Too fast for a man who considers himself a friend. And why is my own pulse racing to match his?
My gaze lifts.
Scottie is staring right back down at me. His mossy eyes are dark and wide. He doesn’t let go. His thumb presses into my hip bone. The ground tilts beneath my feet, a stage trapdoor swinging open, and I snatch a fistful of his shirt because my knees are giving in.
Don’t do it, my brain screams. It’s too soon. It’s complicated. There’s no going back. You might lose him.
Do it, my body whispers. He is right there.
I push up onto my toes in a perfect relevé, reaching up, threading my fingers through the soft hair at the back of his neck, and I pull him down.
He resists for a breath – a visible second of war behind his eyes – and then he breaks.
Scottie’s mouth captures mine. I brace for the rugby player, for the impact, but his lips are devastatingly gentle. He kisses me with reverence, holding me as if I were made of air. My pulse thrashes in my stomach, at the base of my neck, on the root of my tongue.
I answer with my whole self and lean in. A low sound breaks from his throat, a dark rumble against my lips, and he yanks me against him, crushing the space between us until I feel nothing but the wild slam of his heart against mine.
My feet don’t touch the ground anymore.
His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss until I’m dizzy with the addictive taste of him. His stubble grazes my chin, the friction stinging and real. For the first time in forever, I’m fire and blood.
Alive.
Then, just as suddenly, he rips himself away and breaks the seal, staggering back until he bumps into the dishwasher, fighting for air.
‘No. No. I can’t… Fuck.’ He won’t meet my eyes.
‘Scottie…’ My lips are burning.
‘I can’t do that to you.’ He sounds genuinely horrified. ‘I can’t be that man. You’re vulnerable, Ava. You’re bleeding inside. And I can’t be… I’m not going to be the bandage that happens to stick to the wound. This isn’t fair to either of us.’
My skin is on fire, prickling with a heat that has nowhere to go. ‘I’m not a patient. And I’m not asking for a bandage.’ And that’s the thing. I don’t want a protector. I want him to stop being a hero and just be a man.
‘Go to bed. Please, Ava…go to bed.’ He turns and walks out of the kitchen. Not to his room. To the back door. I hear it open, then close.
I’m left standing in the quiet of the kitchen, and my heart is hammering so hard it hurts. I clutch at my own shoulders to make up for the loss of his warmth, but the chill is seeping back in.
It’s only Friday night. How are we going to survive until Monday?