She nods, and the two of them just stare at each other for a second, obviously not wanting to pull apart. Eventually, he steps back and jerks his head at me. “C’mon.”
With one last look at Summer, I follow him out into the corridor, the heavy feeling increasing.
I know I shouldn’t feel worried. Cameron and Alec will come around. We have a week. They’ll get over their shit, and we’ll ask Summer to stay, and it’ll all be fine.
I just can’t stop the feeling that something bad is going to happen.
FIFTY-NINE
SUMMER
With Fraser and Cameron gone, the farmhouse feels weirdly shadowy and empty. Alec is outside, busy making sure everything is secured for the storm later tonight, so I wander the house like a lonely ghost. Left alone for the first time in weeks, my thoughts keep going down the same sad track.
In one week, this will all be gone. I’m going back to London, away from warm fires and fresh air and cute animals and…them.
My mind keeps going back to last night. I remember being laid out on the picnic blanket by the loch, being kissed and cherished under the stars. I remember Alec calling me beautiful. Fraser holding me close. Cameron kissing me. The moments play over and over in my head, a shining ribbon of memory on constant repeat.
In true Summer Faye fashion, it is possible that I have let myself become too attached.
I spend the morning trying to work on a corset top I’ve been sewing from a pair of old tweed trousers, but I’m so distracted I keep messing up the seams. Eventually, I give up and play withCrumpet instead. She’s fully recovered from her scare in the lambing barn and has gained a ton of weight. The men say that she should be able to join the other sheep in pasture soon, but for now, she seems content to follow me everywhere like a woolly duckling. I hope she’ll fit in with the herd when she eventually makes it to the field.
At lunchtime, Alec joins me for reheated chilli. It’s immediately obvious he’s not doing well. He’s trying to hide it, but his face is pale, and he’s so distracted he can barely keep up a conversation. He doesn’t eat at all, and he spends most of the meal checking the weather app on his phone, his jaw clenched. When rain starts hitting the windowpane, he flinches.
Eventually, I set down my spoon and go to stand over him, nudging his knee with my bum. “Can I?”
He parts his thighs, letting me perch on his knee. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, letting his head fall onto my chest. “I know I’m a bit…”
I run my fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”
He takes off his glasses and scrubs at his eyes. He looks so stressed it hurts me. “I shouldn’t have sent them off,” he mutters.
“They’ll be okay,” I assure him. “The storm’s not going to hit Inverness, right? And they’re already in the city.” We got a text about an hour ago from Cameron and Fraser, confirming they’d arrived safely.
Alec doesn’t answer. When I cup his cheek, his eyes have nothing behind them at all.
“I need to get back to work,” he says emotionlessly, sliding me off his knee. I sit and watch him head back outside into the storm.
With nothing else to do, I wind up curled in front of the fire with my sketchbook and a mug of tea. Emotions tangle insideme as I swipe through all of my old dress designs. I can’t stop thinking about Fraser’s suggestion last night.
I couldn’t really start my own line, right? I haven’t designed in forever. And having your own label is about more than just drawing pretty clothes. The pieces have to be marketable. Likeable.
I pick up my pencil. Crumpet lays her head on my knee and watches as I sketch out a beige latex pencil skirt. Not something I’d choose, but it would probably go viral on Picturegram. When I’m done, I squint at it.
It’s cute, I guess. But it’s boring, and it will make anyone with sensory issues actively want to die. Besides, fashion moves so fast. If I tried to produce something like this, neutrals would be out of style by the time it was done.
Crumpet bleats.
“What’s that?” I ask her. “You think it looks like a condom too?”
She sneezes on the page.
I sigh and flip the paper, starting from scratch. This time, I make the skirt softer. I scallop the hem and can’t resist adding a sweet little bow in the back. The result is a Frankensteined mishmash of styles.
Crumpet side-eyes me. “You’re very judgmental for someone who’s literally always naked,” I inform her, starting again.
I lose time as I work. As the sky darkens outside, I slowly let my imagination get wilder. The drawings morph from bland fashion pieces to girlier, softer designs. I draw a lace-edged corset top tied with ribbons. A velvet summer dress embroidered with jasmine flowers. A pink sleep set, the matching boxers and top cut out of pointelle fabric. As I scribble, the rest of the world fades away. I don’t think about London. I don’t think about what I’m going to do next. I feel completely, utterly myself.
