Chapter 9 #3
Scott’s feelings entirely.
‘Yeah, well. I guess they’re adults now,’ he says. Although he’s not sure he believes the sentiment in its entirety. Adults have a better understanding of consequences.
There’s a pause of several minutes as they navigate their way across the Sailing Club slipway that allows boats access to the water. Heather comes to a stop beside the children’s play park close to the water’s edge.
‘I saw you swimming,’ she says drunkenly, veering towards one of the swings. ‘On drop-off day. I’d love to do that. But I’m not brave enough.’
‘Sure, you are,’ he replies, hoiking her floppy body more upright and attempting another few steps forward, away from all possible hazards. ‘All you need to do is take your clothes off, walk into the water, and swim.’
‘That easy? Really?’ Heather stops abruptly, throwing them both off balance. The iron chains of the swing squeal eerily in the night air.
Scott fights to regain his footing. ‘Really,’ he says, once he knows they’re both safely upright.
Heather wobbles slightly, points out to sea and begins tugging at the zipper of her winter coat.
‘Let’s do it. Let’s do it now! We can get in here.’ She points to the slipway leading into the water. Her voice is an octave higher than previously.
‘I’m not sure drunk and at dusk is quite the right time,’ he says, diplomatically.
Heather slaps her palm across his chest.
‘Wise. Wise. Let’s not take undue risks. Got to assess the probability of harm.’
She stumbles over the consonants in “probability”.
Scott tries to get them moving forwards once more, but something on his torso seems to have piqued Heather’s attention.
‘How comes there’s—’
She shifts her scarf to the side and pulls Scott’s white vest top upwards until his chest is exposed.
‘Ooh. Look! There’s a little crevice.’ Scott has long taken pride in his defined pectoral muscles, but never have they evoked such an intense reaction.
Her fingers skim from his left nipple, across his chest, until they slip into the dip at his sternum.
Scott feels the muscles in his abdomen tense.
The contact is exquisite. Heather touches the dip in the skin, transfixed.
She places the heel of her hand against his sternum, and it slides into the shallow hollow.
‘Look. It's a perfect fit,’ she gasps.
A bolt of tenderness – and something else – electricity? shoots through Scott’s body. It’s not as if he’s been celibate since Lucy, but nobody has touched him with such tenderness in years, maybe forever. A waft of longing fills his head and causes his throat to seize.
‘Come on now,’ he says gruffly, ‘we need to keep moving, otherwise you’ll never get your bus!’
‘Do you know what, Scott-Bloody-Reynolds?’ she asks as they begin the slow stagger across town. ‘You’re much nicer in real life than you let on.’
‘Am I?’ he says, ‘How much nicer?’
‘Two hundred and thirty percent,’ Heather says knowledgeably, and even though it’s all drunken talk, not to mention mathematically spurious, Scott feels his heart expanding. Somehow, the dark fug he’s been trying so hard to navigate over the past seven years lightens a little.
‘And you’re not as neurotic as you first seem, either,’ he replies.
She stops abruptly and pulls him towards her. Her lips come tantalisingly close to his. He can smell the flavoured vodka on her breath. What was that last bottle again? Cherry?
It must have been cherry, because her lips appear cherry red, luscious, dark and moist from the weak light cast by the distant streetlamp.
‘Scott-Bloody-Reynolds,’ she says as she leans in towards him. And man alive, he leans in too because, despite his resolve to push this woman away, his overriding instinct is to let her in, skim her lips with his, gently bite down on her lower lip, just enough to make her …..
‘Oooops,’
Heather topples, loses her footing and falls onto her backside, the moment gone.
‘Come on you, let’s get you home,’ he says, bending down to offer her his hand.
Always the gentleman.
Always the gentleman.
HEATHER
MESSENGER: to
Thanks so much for those awesome photographs. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate you looking out for my boy. We’re both thrilled he’s going to yours in Edinburgh for Thanksgiving!
Heather, lying on her bed, completely clothed, reads the message and groans. So much of last night is a blur.
Including how she got home.
She vaguely remembers groping Scott Reynolds on the way to the bus station and an overwhelming sense of pride at not throwing up on the bus journey home.
Quite how she got from the bus station to her house in Morningside is unclear. It must have involved a taxi. The walk is too far.
She can’t remember sending any photographs to Bethany.
And most definitely has no recollection of inviting Trey to hers for Thanksgiving. When even is Thanksgiving?
She rolls over onto her side.
She’ll reply later.
Once she can feel her feet.
....
....
....
....
Suddenly, she’s bolt upright in bed.
Wide awake.
Panicked.
Oh My God.
Did she kiss him?????