‘Hardest athletic discipline on earth,’ she said. ‘Don’t let the tulle fool you.’
And now Nevin’s calling her a glass doll?
Won’t even eat properly because of all that stress.
She ate awright. Oh, she definitely ate.
‘Ava barely speaks anymore,’ Nevin adds, towelling off his chest. ‘Just sits there. Stares at the wall. I try to get through, but…’ He trails off and shrugs. ‘Can’t seem to do it right. It’s bloody frustrating. Women, eh?’
I think about the finger to her lips. The silent plea.
My mum used to go quiet. Before Dad’s stroke, back when the bottles lined up under the sink and the house held its breath every evening. She’d speak in monosyllables, staring at the telly without seeing it. I picked up the signs before I could read a defensive line: Mum’s breathing going shallow, shoulders creeping up a beat before Dad’s voice changed pitch. We all learned to read the silences, my siblings and me. Learned that quiet didn’t mean peace. It was the fuse burning down before the explosion.
I’m not saying it’s the same. I don’t know Ava. I’ve met her twice in person, sat next to her once in the dark, traded jokes, and watched her devour popcorn. That’s nothing. God knows what’s really going on here.
But she’s not broken.
And Nevin’s a liar.
‘Anyway.’ He slips into his trackies. ‘Have fun, lads.’
‘Sure.’ Finn salutes with his phone, which is Finn-speak for bolt, ya rocket.
Nevin heads for the car park, and the room exhales. The patter resumes. I don’t hear any of it. Because it doesn’t add up. The woman Nevin’s describing and the woman I met at The Wallace don’t match. Maybe she was putting on a front. Maybe Tuesday nights are her good nights, and the rest of the week she really does stare at walls for some reason.
Hell, I’d stare at a wall if the alternative was Nevin’s arrogant mug.
But the way Nevin said exhausting. He doesn’t appear tired. He’s fresh as a damn daisy. I want to believe I’m reaching. But the itch between my shoulder blades says I’m not.
‘Scottie?’ Jamie’s voice cuts through. ‘What about you?’
I grab my bag. The noise of the room presses in, all that heat and laughter and bodies, and suddenly I can hardly breathe. ‘Naw. Not tonight.’
Finn groans. ‘Pal, you’re turning into a hermit. One pint. Or milk and a biccie, if you’re feeling fragile.’
‘Next time.’ I sling the bag over my shoulder. ‘Need an early one.’
It’s a lie. I don’t need sleep. I need to figure out why Nevin’s voice is playing on a loop in my brain. I grab my gear and move, dodging the last of the patter from the forwards before anyone can snag me for another conversation I don’t want to have.
I’m crap at dishonesty. Always have been. If you can’t look a man in the eye and tell him the truth, you’ve no business being in his pack. That’s the rule. You show up, you front it, and you deal with whatever lands. Anything else is cowardice dressed in convenience.
The car park is dark and wet. I unlock the Audi, slide into the driver’s seat, and…sit there.
Next Tuesday at The Wallace Picture House will be Snow Way Out. Another lame Christmas romance with a predictable ending in the company of a confusing woman who might or might not show up. I shouldn’t care. I’ve got enough on my plate without borrowing someone else’s problems.
But I keep seeing her. How she asked if she could sit next to me, as though she needed permission to exist.
I’ll be there next Tuesday.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I dig it out, expecting Finn with some shite about me being a hermit again. He’s slowed down with his shagging and partying recently. And he’s my best mate. But he’s still a gobshite sometimes.
It’s Mum.
David’s chair is playing up. The wheel’s sticking and we can’t get it sorted. Any chance you could come Tuesday? He’s at the GP Wednesday morning, and we need it working by then. xx
* * *
I stare at the screen. The glow burns my eyes in the dark of the car. Tuesday. Of course, it’s Tuesday. The universe has a sick sense of humour.
