Chapter Fourteen
One Saturday morning in September, I wake to a strange, rhythmic thumping, and it takes me a minute of blinking in the gray morning light to realize it’s my flatmate Fiona and her boyfriend Oliver engaged in some vigorous early morning sex.
A weariness creeps over me, borne upon the back of a flood of memories.
For all his faults, Steven was pretty great in bed.
Maybe that explains why he was able to cheat on me so consistently over the years; it would have been a shame to keep that talent out of the dating pool, you know.
And I don’t miss him, I really don’t. I don’t even hate him—we’re long past me feeling any such strong emotion.
But I resent the effect he still has on my life, my mood, my sense of self, despite how hard I’ve been working to leave him fully behind me.
I resent that what should be a slightly annoying but mostly humorous experience of waking up to my flatmate going to town on her boyfriend has instead immediately ruined my day because of all the shit it’s dredged up.
Whenever I give Steven an inch in my mind, he takes a mile.
He wedges himself in there, dragging along a truckload of anxieties like an overworked UPS guy at Christmas: A general, gnawing sorrow at remembering that I was supposed to have a dress fitting today.
A tiny stress bomb as I remember the lengthy email correspondence with our florist about getting my money back.
And a terrifying, nauseating fear at the thought that maybe Steven was it, maybe he was my only shot and I’m doomed to a life of listening to other people have sex, celebrating other people having babies, watching from the sidelines as other people fall in love.
Then Oliver’s muffled climax comes through the thin plaster of our walls and I want to scream as well.
Instead, I reach for my phone. It’s too early to call Josh or my family.
Amina and Faizan are visiting his parents in Birmingham.
Sadie and Phil aren’t “weekend friends” yet.
But this is silly: There’s really only one person I want to talk to right now.
I wonder if texting Lachlan at eight-thirty in the morning reeks of desperation, but then I see I have nine new messages—all from him.
6:47 am: Ok so i know this is an extreme 1st world problem but the blackout shades in my bedroom are broken and i had to rise with the sun this morning like some kind of mediaeval serf. Send help. Or at least don’t grass on me to my liege.
6:48 am: Are you the kind of American who is good at making pancakes? Like flip them in the air and stuff? Will you come make me pancakes?
6:51 am: Ive had further thoughts on scran: i don’t want pancakes, i want a kebab. Not asking you to make one, because i’m assuming you don’t have access to a giant rotating meat spear at seven am…just needed to tell someone
6:52 am: Please insert a “giant rotating meat spear” sexual joke here
7:00 am: Why aren’t you awake yet? Do your blackout shades work? You won’t believe me but I’m shouting at you right now so you will telepathically wake up
7:01 am: ABBYYYYYYYY AAAAAAABBBBBBBBBYYYYY which way do you prefer? I like the one with lots of Ys—makes me sound more pathetic
7:08 am: I wonder if i could make an omelet out of kebab ingredients? Internet suggests yes. Get off your giant rotating meat spear and come have breakfast
7:15 am: Ok macca i have accepted that you aren’t just sitting there watching these texts roll in and laughing at me, so give me a bell when you wake up. If I don’t answer search all the kebab shops in the greater liverpool area x
7:52 am: ABBYYYYYYYY
I read each one in his accent, that warm and lilting Scottish burr that manages to come across as wholesome and dirty at the same time.
I can hear his little exclamations, the “ochs” and “ayes” and “wees”—the ones he insists he doesn’t say because they make him sound like a walking stereotype, but that nevertheless punctuate his life, and now, by extension, mine.
Each text brightens my mood considerably, shoving away all thoughts of Steven and wedding un-planning and Fiona’s sex life and my lack thereof.
By the end, I’m laughing out loud and there’s a happy pressure in my heart as it swells closer to the size it used to be.
The laughter is still on my lips when I dial his number; he picks up on the second ring.
“Finally. I was worried you had turned me in to the Ministry of Inappropriate Breakfast Cravings.”
“I’d be more worried about the punishment you’re going to get from your liege. He says you still owe him seventy acres of barley.”
“Fuck that guy. Up with the peasants! The revolution starts here!”
“Says the man complaining about the broken blackout shades in his penthouse.”
He laughs. “Touché. What are you doing? Ma’s gone back up to Oban so I’m all alone. Do you want to come over and eat pancakes and/or a kebab? Don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m craving them.”
“Well, you’ve got me all hot and bothered with that talk of meat spears, plus I woke this morning to the sound of my roommate boning her boyfriend, so you might need to give me some time to take a cold shower first.”
“Or just hop into Fiona’s room and join in.” I can’t see his face, but I know exactly what he’ll be doing with his eyebrows.
“I heard some screams that pretty conclusively signaled the end of regulation, but I’ll consider it if they go into extra time.”
“Look at you with the footy terminology! I’m so proud. But come over when you’re finished. I need to do a quick workout, but then maybe let’s go see a midday film like a couple of old geezers.”
We settle on a time to meet, nearly two hours from now.
It already feels like an eternity. I shower and dress and manage to slip out of the flat without running into Fiona and Oliver, which is a small miracle.
And then the bus that takes me to Lachlan’s neighborhood pulls up right as I get to the stop, and my day is decidedly on the upswing.
In Lachlan’s building, I approach Joe the security guard and give him a little wave. I’m sure he recognizes me at this point, but I always announce myself just in case.
“Welcome, Ms. McIntyre,” he says. “Mr. Ramsay told me to give you a set of keys so you can let yourself up whenever you want.”
“Oh, wow, okay, great, thanks, terrific.” I cannot stop saying words, even as the lift doors close.
Then I’m rocketing up to the penthouse and opening the door and trying to let my excitement shout down my nervousness.
Lachlan Ramsay gave me keys to his flat.
It took Steven more than a year to give me a key to his apartment; it has taken Lachlan less than three months.
Totally different situations, of course.
And maybe he doesn’t actually want me to keep the keys; maybe it was just expediency.
Or he wants me to water his plants or something. Yeah, probably that.
There’s no sign of Lachlan in the main room, but from the music blaring down the hallway, I guess he’s still working out. There’s a bowl of grapes on the counter, which I pick up as I head toward the gym.
He’s in there—shirtless, naturally—doing pull-ups or chin-ups; I’ve never known the difference.
His back is to the door, though, so I can briefly ogle him before he notices, which I do while feeding myself grapes.
It’s so decadent of me, like a Greco-Roman queen lounging on her chaise; Sadie would love it.
A ray of autumn sunshine filters through the windows, illuminating the fine, light hair that covers Lachlan’s forearms and the thousand tiny freckles dotted all over his body.
I have the oddest urge to grab a pen and connect the dots, tracing swirling lines from shoulder blade to ankle and back again.
Thankfully he notices me before I can act on this impulse. He smiles and lowers himself to the floor. “You’re early.”
I turn down the volume on the speaker a few notches. “No, I’m right on time. You are late, as usual. But now I can sit here and heckle you. Which of these surfaces is least covered in your bodily fluids?”
“Fluids, plural? What exactly do you think I get up to in here?”
I put up the hand not holding the bowl. “Your routine is your routine.”
“Okay, then sit on that bench there. I haven’t spaffed on it in at least twenty minutes.”
I do as I’m told and watch him hop back up on the bar, this time facing me. He’s doing some sort of mega-pull-up now with his legs extended straight out in front of him; I literally cannot conceive of the series of commands it would take to get my muscles to do that.
“So you gave me keys, huh?”
“I did. Has that sent you into some sort of overthinking-slash-apologizing tailspin I’ll have to deal with for the next three weeks?”
“You know what? I resent…how accurate that is, yes.”
He laughs at me. “Just a recommendation: If you’re going to sell them to the highest bidder, hold out for at least seven figures. I think I’m worth it.”
“You should be more worried about me sneaking in here in the dead of night to eat whatever treats Moira has sent down.”
“I would absolutely love it if you did that. I hate rattling around in this big empty place all by myself.” He dips again and smiles at me.
Several of my internal organs flip-flop and I change the subject before I can think or say nasty things about Claire, who has the right and the opportunity to be here and watch him do this every day and yet for some reason chooses not to. Unfathomable. “What are we listening to?”
His face lights up, glimmering all the more for being covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “This, Abigail, is Scotland’s greatest band.”
“The Proclaimers?”
“Fuck the Proclaimers! Why are they the only ones anyone has ever heard of? They can get tae fuck with that ‘500 Miles’ pish.”