I could say no and tell my mum I’ve got plans. She’d probably understand. But she’s spent twenty years understanding, making space, asking for nothing.
If I go to Oban on Tuesday after a half-day of training, I’d miss the cinema. I’d miss…her.
And I don’t even know why that matters. Only that it does. The way she asked permission to sit beside me… Nobody asks like that unless they’ve forgotten what it feels like to take up space. And that’s not okay. She’s not okay. Clear as day. And the mere fact of knowing that makes it my problem.
And I’ve no idea what to do.
Chapter 6
Ava
The seat beside me is empty. I fixate on the worn velvet, the faded patch where the red has gone rusty.
I arrived early, bought my paper ticket with a tap of my phone and walked past the kiosk without stopping. I climbed the stairs to the back row, to the spot where Scottie Kerr and I sat last week and lowered myself into the seat beside his.
The thought lands strangely. Two Tuesdays by accident. Kind of. That’s all we’ve had. Two films, some jokes. It’s nothing. Yet, here I am on purpose the third time, in the seat I chose because it’s next to where he was.
The trailers blare. A perfume advert with a woman running through Paris in stilettos. I never understood those ads. Where are they running to? What are they running from? Eludes me. My arch hurts beneath the compression sleeve. The tendon protests if I sit too long, so I point and flex, tracing careful circles to keep the blood moving.
Rehab is going okay. Slower than expected, though.
Nevin’s at a sponsorship dinner this afternoon. His agent texted about some sports drink brand looking for Scottish faces, so Nevin put on his good shirt and left. He didn’t ask if I wanted to come, which was weird. Usually, he tells me to be there. Tonight, though, he said he would be late and not to wait up.
It’s possible that he is embarrassed of me. Worried that I would say the wrong thing, wear the wrong dress. Maybe it’s easier for him when I’m not there to mess it up because this deal is really important. Or him leaving without me is punishment for something.
If so, it’s not working.
Shameful relief sits in my chest.
Because when he is not home, the air gets a lot easier to breathe.
The other night, he spent forty minutes explaining why I shouldn’t text Laurel so often. She is needy, he said. Draining and superficial. Doesn’t deserve my attention. I bowed my head and pressed myself against the banister while he leaned into my space.
My ribs were still bruised from the argument the night before. The one about the outfit I wanted to wear to his team’s Christmas party in two weeks. Too tight, apparently. Inappropriate. Gives other men ideas.
He shoved me against the wardrobe when I told him that it’s all in their heads, not mine.
Yeah, that hurt.
But I guess he sometimes forgets how strong he is. Not surprising when you slam into giants for a living.
The film starts. Another romance about a successful New York career woman who returns to her small hometown in Maine to sell her late gran’s bed & breakfast, only to find that her high school boyfriend is still there, still single, and hotter than ever.
I count the audience. Sixteen people. A woman three rows down, alone with her cardigan and her glasses. A cluster of students scrolling their phones.
The seat beside me stays vacant.
Something cold opens in my stomach. A hollowness I can’t explain. I’ve sat through films alone a few times before, after long rehearsals. But last Tuesday, I came to hang out with a stranger, and for ninety minutes, I wasn’t managing anyone’s mood or scanning for the next storm. I existed, and someone existed beside me, and that was enough.
It’s dangerous to remember what it feels like to breathe without a knot in your chest. It forced me to look at the ashes and made me wonder when the fire started.
Nevin was different at the beginning. Easy to be around and incredibly attentive. The version of him I fell for didn’t interrogate my schedule or outfits. He laughed at my jokes. He made me feel chosen instead of tolerated. He was…nice.
Tears well in my eyes.
He was a really, really nice guy. And underneath all the fury, he still is.
But somewhere between then and now, the warmth curdled into something else. I can’t pinpoint when. Perhaps it was when I stopped telling Laurel everything. Or when I started to check his face before I spoke, calibrating my words to his mood, a constant adjustment of turnout at the barre. Or it was the first time I flinched when he reached for me.
