That version of him exists. It surfaces after every storm, tender and exhausted, as if the rage costs him too. It’s episodic, like the weather.
I let out a rough laugh. Love isn’t like the fairy tale I just paid to watch. It’s a task and constant compromise. Especially when the other person is so generous. Nevin organises our life. He owns the flat; he pays the bills.
Relationships with artists and athletes are difficult by nature, I suppose. And you don’t throw away a contract because the rehearsals are gruelling. You work through the cramps. Everything worthwhile has a cost.
My thumb traces the rim of the steering wheel.
Why did I come back here tonight?
To thank him. That’s the script I rehearsed. I wanted to thank the nice wall of a man for not blowing my cover last week. Bear – I still don’t remember his real name, and the shame of that heats my neck – didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t demand I explain the tears or the limp. He offered me a snack and insulted a fictional prince to make me smile.
In screen three, I wasn’t an injured ballet dancer, or a disappointing girlfriend, or a negligible daughter. I wasn’t too much or not enough. Bear held the popcorn bucket out, as if it were the most common thing in the world to feed the stray next to you.
And he kept my secret.
That’s the part that snags. Athletes talk. Changing rooms are echo chambers for gossip. But he didn’t say a word. Perhaps he didn’t care enough to mention it. Or he saw the panic in my eyes last week – the terror of being found out and having to deal with the consequences – and decided not to be the reason for trouble.
A giggle bubbles up. I actually laughed today. More than once. I forgot I could do that.
A soft knock on the window.
My spine snaps straight, and the air punches out of my lungs in one sharp gasp. For one hideous second, I’m back in the kitchen, pressed against the worktop.
Then I turn my head.
Red beard. Broad shoulders blocking out the orange lamplight. Green-brown eyes, the shade of moss after rain. It’s him, stooped almost double to peer through the glass. One massive palm raised in apology, a crooked grin on his lips.
My lungs unlock. Air rushes in, and with it, a flood of relief. I fumble for the crank. The pane jerks down in fits and starts, letting in a cold November breeze.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘You didn’t.’ My fingers still tremble against my thighs.
One eyebrow lifts. He doesn’t call me on it. Instead, he holds up a coil of red wool. ‘You left this under your seat. Took me a minute to find your car.’
My scarf. The one Mum sent from Ballyclare last Christmas. I hadn’t even noticed that I left it.
‘Oh.’ I reach through the gap and take it from him. ‘Thanks. I didn’t… Thanks.’
He is close enough that I catch his scent. Warm cedar and washing powder, clean and uncomplicated. The lamplight turns his hair into copper wire. Beard trimmed close enough to show the jaw underneath. My stomach does a weird flip.
Okay. He is fit. So what?
‘You okay there?’
‘Fine. Only a bit jumpy.’ I wind the scarf around my neck. ‘Long day.’
‘Know the feeling.’ He stands there with his fists shoved into his pockets, breath misting in the cold, and waits.
My ribcage eases by another notch. Something about him pulls at the air, a gravity that slows everything down.
‘I realised,’ I say, ‘I don’t actually know your name. Your real one. If you want to share it.’
‘Scott.’ A pause. ‘Scottie, if you’re being friendly. Kerr, if you’re about to blow a whistle and tell me I’m offside.’
‘Scottie. A bit dainty, isn’t it? For a man of your dimensions, I mean.’
‘Oi. It’s a solid Scottish name. And I’ve yet to meet anyone brave enough to call me dainty to my face.’
