Chapter Six
Four years ago
Three and a half years until Hattie’s engagement party
The noise and chaos of Princes Street in Edinburgh on New Year’s Eve—or Hogmanay—was something Finn didn’t think he’d ever experienced before.
The excitement in the air was a tangible thing as the crowd moved from stage to stage, jostling past one another as they traded one kind of music for another, picking up pints of beer in plastic cups or choosing from just about every type of street food you could imagine.
The sound of drums was close by as he and Mark wove through the thousands of people lining the street, giant screens playing sets from the main stage, two street performers in neon costumes parting the crowd on stilts as they did a complicated waltz in a way that looked both impressive and lethal.
They’d gone in search of sustenance, leaving Hattie by the Celtic salsa stage with some new friends of hers after she’d refused point-blank to come with them.
Having scoffed down a haggis with tatties in a warm white roll—after Mark insisted they had to at least try haggis while they were in Scotland—they were now heading to the hot cider queue, while Finn kept an eye out for food he thought he might convince Drunk Hattie to eat.
“So are you over her yet?” Mark asked, rubbing his hands together and breathing on them for warmth before shoving them deep in his coat pockets.
Finn glanced at his brother. “Who?”
Mark snorted. “Well, I suppose that answers it. I told Kristen you didn’t need cheering up.”
“You mean Abi? That’s why Kristen let you come out to play?”
“Let me is a bit of a stretch. Made me is more like it.”
“We were dating for, like, four months.” And he wasn’t even sure you could call it “dating.” Hooking up was more accurate—when she’d suggested that they talked about being exclusive, he’d figured that was the time to end it, before anyone got hurt.
“I know. I told Kristen this.” Mark slapped him on the back. “Just like Dad, that’s what I told her.”
Finn grimaced. It’s not like he wasn’t used to it, the comparisons to their dad, but he still didn’t love it.
Before divorcing his mum, his dad had moved from one affair to the next like he was trying to break some kind of record.
His mum had known about it—they all had.
But they’d never explicitly talked about it, other than one night, when Finn had asked her why she put up with it.
He remembered coming downstairs in the middle of the night in search of a glass of water.
He’d have been about fourteen and had been playing on the computer long after he should have been asleep.
His mum had been there, in the kitchen, a cup of tea and an open packet of biscuits in front of her.
She’d looked up, and although she’d tried to hide it he could see immediately—she’d been crying.
“You okay, love?” she’d asked, getting to her feet.
He’d known it should have been him asking that, though he wasn’t sure how to.
He knew, too, what was causing her to cry, downstairs, alone, in the middle of a weekday night.
Knew it had something to do with his dad being out.
But it had become habit, not to acknowledge it—and, in hindsight, he thought that was probably because she was trying not to turn her children against their father.
“Just wanted some water,” he said, feeling awkward, barefoot in his slightly too small pajamas.
She nodded, filled a glass for him, and brushed a hand over his hair as she handed it to him. He didn’t know what made him ask, that night. Perhaps something to do with it being just the two of them, or that it was a time when he wasn’t supposed to be up, meaning he felt more adult, somehow.
“Why do you stay with him, Mum?”
She’d visibly winced, and he saw too many things pass over her face before she’d swallowed. To her credit, she hadn’t tried to shut him down, hadn’t tried to pretend everything was fine. He hated it when they did that. “Your dad and I…We have an arrangement.”
An arrangement. He’d didn’t like the word, without really understanding what she meant by it.
“I’m okay, Finn,” she’d said softly. “It’s just been a long day—that’s all.”
He’d been about to leave, head back upstairs, when he’d stopped in the kitchen doorway. “Mum?” She’d looked over at him again. “Do you fancy a game of Scrabble?” He was terrible at it, but he knew she liked to play—and most of the time they all refused to entertain her.
She’d given him a wobbly smile and he’d thought she would insist he go back to bed, get some rest. Instead, she’d nodded. “Do you know what? That would be lovely.”
Someone in the queue in front of them stepped backward into Finn, jostling him from the memory.
“Ah, I’m sorry, mate,” Mark was saying, reading Finn’s silence correctly.
“I’ve had one too many—that’s all.” And it was true—“mate” was something that only slipped out when Mark was a few pints deep, and he’d complained for most of this evening that his tolerance was nowhere near what it used to be, since having Freya.
Still, didn’t you often say things you meant when you’d been drinking?
“Maybe we ought to skip the cider,” Mark mused, eyeing the long queue.
“Well, I’m having one. You can have one of the spiced apple juices if you like.”
Mark snorted as he got out his phone—no doubt to check for any messages from Kristen.
Finn rocked back on his heels, the sound of laughter and chatter swelling in the air around them.
Later, he’d wonder what it was that drew him to her.
He remembered seeing the sparkle—like, she quite literally sparkled in the nearby streetlamps.
She’d thought that was hilarious, when he’d told her—had claimed that it was the power of her jewelry that had brought them together.
It could have been that, he supposed—the glint of her long, very sparkly earrings as she turned her head.
The glitter on her face, showing beneath the red beanie she’d pulled down over her dark hair.
The truth was, though, he had no idea why, out of all the people there that night—literally thousands—he’d found her.
It had felt somehow inevitable, when they’d told the story to friends—though in reality he supposed it was just luck.
She was standing at the front of the queue, taking a steaming cup of cider from the vendor.
She’d turned, saying something to her friend, and he’d felt it, that little fizz of attraction.
Not quite wow —that had come later. But definitely something—interest, maybe.
Enough that he’d shifted as she’d walked back their way.
Shifted deliberately, so that she’d bumped into the edge of him, her shoulder against his.
She protected the cider first, holding it out to steady it, making sure that none of it sloshed over the edge.
She’d reacted too quickly—he’d been hoping she’d spill some, that he could offer to buy her another.
A stupid and, all right, immature trick, but it had worked back in his university days when he’d been tipsy enough to try it.
Her gaze had flickered up to his, her eyes impossibly blue. And that fizz in his stomach had intensified.
“Sorry,” he said, gesturing to her still very full cider.
“No problem.” It was a light, easy tone—like she was already getting ready to turn away from him, follow her friend who was a couple of steps ahead.
He said the first thing he could think of to stop her from leaving. “Nice earrings.”
She paused, cocking her head. Fireworks, he realized—her earrings were big, sparkly fireworks. “Why, thanks. I made them myself.”
“Seriously?”
Mark was now leaving Kristen a voice note, speaking loudly above the noise of the party. Something about Freya, and what they could do for next New Year.
Mel had laughed. Loud and unfiltered. God, he’d loved the sound of that laugh. “Yes, seriously.”
“That’s. Wow. That’s cool.” He pulled his hand through his hair, not really sure why he was being so slow. He was supposed to be good at this. He was good at this—had the numbers of plenty of girls on his phone to prove it.
“I’m Mel,” she said, and then, somehow conjuring her friend to her side, “this is Priya.” Priya gave him a slow look up and down out of dark brown eyes, like she was judging him. He wasn’t quite sure what verdict she’d reached when her eyes found his face again.
He nodded to both of them. “Finn.”
Mark chose that moment to come up next to him—drinkless. Somehow, Finn had been edged out of the queue, too, so that they were just loitering in the general vicinity of cider.
“I think we ought to go back and find Hattie,” Mark announced. “If we don’t go back for her now, she’ll be lost to the rhythm of salsa dancing and end up at a random’s party until four in the morning or something.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Finn agreed.
Only then did Mark seem to notice the two attractive women standing with Finn—maybe being married dulled your senses to that kind of thing. “Oh. Ah, hello.”
Mel smiled. “Hi there. I didn’t know there was salsa dancing here.”
“Celtic salsa,” Finn said. “It’s stage number three, I think.”
She pursed her lips. “What exactly is Celtic salsa?”
Finn shrugged. “The type of salsa the Celts used to do?”
She laughed again. He remembered thinking, even then, that he was pretty sure it was the best laugh he’d ever heard.
“So, ah, shall we?” Mark asked, jerking his head in the general direction of Stage Three.
“What about the ciders?” Finn asked, and Mark gave him a look that told him very clearly he knew exactly what Finn was playing at. He’d been wingman for Finn one too many times.
“Fine. Two minutes.” Mark slouched off to get back in the queue.
“Your mate’s a bit uptight, hey?” Priya asked, sipping her own cider.
“He’s my brother.” Finn gave an exaggerated long-suffering sigh.
Mel squinted at Finn, then at Mark’s back, then nodded slowly. “I suppose I can see it.”