‘Aye.’ A pause. ‘My brother’s wheelchair packed in. Had to sort it.’
The words land without drama. But I hear what’s underneath. How he says ‘sort’ like it’s a reflex.
‘Sounds slightly challenging.’
He shrugs. ‘The usual. Then I drove like a maniac to get back in time.’
‘Scottie.’ I wait until he looks at me. ‘You’re allowed to be tired.’
Something flickers in his expression. There and gone. ‘Ditto.’
‘Yeah, well.’ I tug my coat tighter. ‘At least your family needs you. Nevin only needs me to be…less. Smaller.’ I don’t know why I said that. The words sit between us, too honest, too close to the bone. ‘Never mind, I’m just exhausted.’
Part of me waits for him to ask what I mean. He doesn’t. He ducks his chin once, and the silence absorbs what I can’t take back.
I unlock the car, but I don’t get in yet. ‘Same time next week?’ My cheeks heat. ‘Only if you can. I mean, you obviously have a life. This isn’t… I’m not expecting… What I meant was…’
‘Ava.’ My name in his voice stops the ramble. It’s a deep, resonant vibration that makes the air still.
A quiet heat spreads behind my sternum.
Next week he might be stuck somewhere I can’t picture, and I’ll be sitting in that back row staring at an empty seat. The thought stings more than it should. But it stings.
‘Give me your phone,’ I say.
His eyebrows rise a fraction. ‘What now?’
‘Your phone.’ I hold out my palm. ‘In case you’re stuck in Oban. Or the roads are shite. You can text me, so I’m not sitting there wondering if you’re dead in a ditch.’
His jaw works. Then he digs into his jacket pocket and drops the phone into my palm. Unlocked. The case is scuffed at the corners, and a crack spiders across the screen.
I type fast and save my number under a name that makes sense. Marzipan. Then I call myself. My own phone wakes in my coat pocket.
‘There.’ I give it back. Our fingers brush. His are calloused and thick. I wonder how it would feel…
Stop.
I gave my number to a man who isn’t my boyfriend. My heart flaps in my throat. This is…not great. If Nevin finds out, I’m done.
Wait a second. When did making a new friend become a crime?
That’s what this is. I made a friend. A tiny door cracked open in a room I’ve been locked inside for months. I don’t know where it leads. I don’t care. It’s mine.
‘Noted.’ He checks it. ‘Marzipan? Are you serious?’
‘Hey. It’s my undercover codename.’
One side of his lips curves into a grin. ‘Same time next week, Marzipan.’
In the pause between breaths, he refuses to let me look away, and the stillness between us pulls tight. A thread with weight. Then he backs away, and the thread slackens.
‘Okay. Bye.’ I duck my head and sink into the seat.
I pull the door shut, fumble the key into the ignition. The engine coughs twice before catching. I wrestle the stiff gear stick into Drive – Dad’s old automatic always fights back – and hiss through my teeth as the first press of the accelerator sends a spike of fire up my calf.
I pull out of the space. Scottie fills the rectangle of my mirror, a solid shape against the orange light, broad shoulders and copper hair. He’s waiting until I’m gone.
Safe. That’s what he feels like. Safe.
