He has a lot on his plate. The team, the sponsors, the constant scrutiny. His parents, who are both surgeons and can’t stop mocking him for his career, always using his successful older sister as a stick to beat him with.
And I tend to make things harder than they need to be. He has told me that often enough.
I’ve met his parents twice. His mother scanned me from hairline to hemline, paused on my scuffed flats, and said, ‘How lovely that dancers can wear anything.’ His father clapped Nevin on the shoulder: ‘Your sister’s got three fellowship offers lined up. And you’re still not serious about your career. Well, at least Polly will be a neurologist and treat your early Parkinson’s when your head is mush.’
Nevin pressed his thumb into the stem until the flute tilted and the champagne pooled over the rim. He righted it, set it on the tablecloth, and didn’t touch it again.
I know that feeling. That sting of bending for people who made you feel like you aren’t enough. Until their divorce, Mum and Dad were so busy arguing over money all the time, they hardly noticed me – they were too busy hating each other to love their child. So I tried to get better at ballet to show that it’s all worth it. That I’m worth it. Nevin lives in the same exhaustion.
And I’m supposed to be the soft place he lands. If I can’t manage that, if I make things harder instead of easier, then what use am I?
The film lurches into its saggy middle act, and the flannel-clad man on screen swings an axe. The heroine gazes at his biceps with an expression of dawning wonder.
My right hand has started to tremble. That fine vibration I can’t control, the one that creeps in when anxiety sinks its teeth in. I pinch my palm until my nails leave dents in my skin, and the relief is clean. A sensation I chose, cutting through the ones I didn’t.
Nevin’s texts and calls have been getting worse every day. Where are you? Who’s there? Send me a photo. When I don’t answer fast enough, the texts pile up, each one shorter than the last.
‘You should be happy I care this much,’ he told me last week, when I made the mistake of mentioning his excessive texting habit. ‘Other lads shag girls and drop them. I worship you. I want to be with you. You’re lucky. Do you fucking know how lucky you are that I stick with you? You’re a mess, Ava. A lucky fucking mess.’
Lucky. Yes. I’m so lucky.
That’s his favourite word lately. Lucky he puts up with me. Lucky he hasn’t left. Lucky I have someone who cares this much, even if caring looks a lot like tracking my movements and critiquing what I wear.
The voice in my head – the one that sounds suspiciously like Laurel after two White Russians – suggests that he is the lucky one.
The axe-swinging, flannel-clad ex kisses the heroine in heaps of fake snow. Perfectly choreographed flakes drift past. I flex my foot and focus on the ache.
The space beside me gapes like a wound.
This is ridiculous. I don’t know why I’m disappointed. But the emptiness beside me triggers the feeling of being an afterthought. Not worth showing up for.
Stop cycling through the old patterns, Ava.
My father missed my professional debut with Scottish Ballet because he was offshore and couldn’t change his shift. My mother watched from the stalls and left at the interval because her then-boyfriend had a dinner reservation. Nobody came to the stage door. I sat in the dressing room with flowers I had bought myself and told the other dancers they were from a secret admirer.
This is the same feeling. The childish ache of wanting someone to be there.
Except it isn’t about him. It can’t be. I don’t even know the guy. He is a teammate of my boyfriend, that’s it. Kindness mistaken for connection because I’m so desperate for scraps. A man like him – pure muscle, mass, and power – would never want the shivering wreck I have become. I’m lucky he tolerated me blabbering into his ear last week. Even luckier he kept my secret.
A snowstorm has trapped the couple in a cabin. I close my eyes. It’s a nice enough film. But it’s a sad excuse for entertainment when you were looking forward to taking the piss with someone else. I’m glad it’s as good as over.
The door opens. Fast, heavy footsteps on the worn carpet, moving up the aisle with purpose. My whole body goes still
It’s him.
He belts up the aisle with a bucket of popcorn clutched against his chest. Rain darkens his jacket, and his copper hair is plastered to his forehead.
‘Hi.’ He drops into the seat beside me.
‘Hi.’
For a full minute, neither of us speaks. He sits there, solid and warm and present. An unbidden grin spreads across my face. The empty seat was a vacuum – now it’s an anchor. I didn’t realise I was braced until his shoulder brushed mine and allowed me to exhale. It’s not a spark. It’s quieter than that. A lock clicking open in a room I didn’t know was sealed.
The tremor stops.
Scottie came. Not because he had to, or I asked. But because he wanted to.
He shoves the popcorn toward me. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he murmurs. ‘They’re forced to stay the night in that cabin and finally talk about their problems.’
