My phone lights up in the passenger seat. Three texts stacked on top of each other.
Where are you?
Why aren’t you home?
Ava fucking answer me!!!
* * *
I check the time. 19:39. My grip tightens on the wheel. Quickly, I open my recent calls and swipe left on Scottie’s call. Delete.
The evidence vanishes and leaves only the cryptic contact buried in my list.
Bear.
Chapter 7
Scottie
The sleet finds every gap in my jacket. I stamp my feet on the pavement outside The Wallace, breath fogging in the amber light of the canopy. December in Scotland is when the grey sky occasionally spits ice.
I’m waiting for Ava. There’s no pretending this is coincidence anymore. Tuesdays have become our thing for the past month. The whole point used to be about sitting in the dark and not having to speak to a soul. But last week she was ten minutes late, and staring at my own jacket taking up her spot genuinely pissed me off. Peace and quiet don’t actually kick in until she turns up, unspools her scarf, claims the middle armrest, and steals the sweets. The easiest part of my week.
My phone goes off in my coat pocket, so I fish it out. It’s Mum:
Boiler’s making that clanking sound again, love. Have a look?
* * *
I swipe it away. Not now. Another buzz. Finn texts:
Where did you put the remote? Also, we’re out of milk.
* * *
Worst flatmate ever. I type a quick reply:
I’m not your maid. We share the mental load, remember?
* * *
I stow the phone, stare at the wet tarmac gleaming under the streetlights, and wait.
Finally, her battered Volvo turns into the car park, wipers slapping at the rain. The knot in my back muscles loosens, and the noise in my head goes quiet.
Ava parks crookedly, front wheel kissing the kerb. The door swings open. Her cheeks are pinched pink, and her hair is scraped back into the usual bun.
I wonder what it looks like when she lets it loose.
She spots me and her face changes. Without scanning the car park or checking over her shoulder, she walks straight toward me.
‘Hi.’ She stops a foot away. ‘Sorry to break it to you, but you look like a freshly defrosted Viking.’
‘And you look like a frozen sparrow.’
‘Don’t you know anything about nature? Sparrows never freeze. They fluff up.’ She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small tube. ‘Here.’
‘What’s this? Lube?’
