Ha! Saved by the Belle.
‘Drink?’ Nevin asks.
‘Water would be lovely.’
‘No. I need you to look like you’re enjoying yourself.’ He presses a flute of Prosecco into my hand. ‘It’s a party, not a funeral.’
I take the glass, but I don’t sip.
Polly’s house is packed. Bodies spill from the main room into the kitchen, cluster around a makeshift bar, wedge themselves onto a velvet sofa. There’s a pool table in a side room. My gaze sweeps the space and catches on a figure near the far wall.
I’m surprised it took me so long to find him.
Scottie leans against the white-washed wall with crossed arms. His Celtic-shirt strains across his chest, copper hair catching the low light. His forearms are hatched with stud-marks, healed pink stripes from tackles. My gaze drops to his quads. They fill his trousers to a dangerous capacity. Two pillars of muscle that look unyielding enough to stop a train. He is watching the crowd without being part of it. Nevin talks about rugby as content for sponsors and a way to piss off his parents; Scottie wears it under his skin.
Polly bops up beside him, bubbly in one hand, the other landing on his biceps. She squeezes and presses her fingers into the muscle, and then she leans in to say something.
My reaction is immediate and irrational. A hot, crawling anger that has no business existing. She is allowed to touch him. He is not mine. He is not anything to me – other than a friend. We watch films and split popcorn, and that’s it.
But her fingers are still on his arm, and that vicious rage keeps gnawing at me.
Stop. You have a boyfriend, whether you’re still in love with him or not. Scottie is your friend. You don’t get to feel this.
Polly laughs and pats his chest before drifting away.
I thought she despised rugby players. Horny cow.
Then Scottie’s focus shifts. He finds me across the room.
The noise dulls to static. For three heartbeats there’s only his face, his shoulders, the impossible width of him. The heat in my stomach dips lower, a slow unravelling that I’m one sip too sober to blame on the Prosecco. It’s the way he looks at me. As if he has been waiting.
I look away first. Before Nevin notices.
It’s been four weeks since Scottie carried me across the ice. Four weeks since I lied about the fading fingerprints and he let me, which was worse in a way. He saw right through me and said nothing. Made space for me instead of demands. I miss that peace. I miss the dark and the quiet. His warmth in the seat beside me.
I miss my friend.
His number sits in my mobile under ‘Bear.’ I’ve typed three drafts and deleted them all.
Nevin’s hand finally drops from my spine, and I can inhale without calculation. He vanishes into a gathering of rugby players.
Across the room, Scottie still hasn’t moved. His gaze is on me. A flicker of acknowledgment, barely a nod, a gesture easily missed by the rest of the room.
I see you. I haven’t forgotten. I’m here.
I return it. Just as small. Just as loaded.
I risk one more look toward the wall. Scottie has turned back to his bottle, face neutral, shoulders to the crowd. But something has passed between us. Something Nevin didn’t catch. Or did he?
His fingers clamp down on my shoulder before releasing. ‘Come on. Let’s mingle.’
For the next blurry hour, I am the perfect accessory. I shadow Nevin through a carousel of introductions, I smile at strangers and laugh at jokes. Nevin introduces me to everyone – my ballerina, my girlfriend, my other half. Mine. And each time I feel a little more like one of Polly’s expensive purses.
Somewhere in the crush, Scottie drifts further out of sight, but I always track him in the periphery, a copper-headed beacon near the pool doorway.
The room grows hotter. By now, most people are seriously off their tits. What is it with doctors and partying so hard? I escape to the drinks table while Nevin dominates the sofa. My fingers itch with the phantom urge to pull out my phone, snap a photo of the room, and send it to Laurel with an eye-roll emoji.
Polly’s voice cuts through the music. ‘Listen up!’ She stands on a coffee table. ‘This party is dead. We’re going to The Drum Vault. Everyone. It’s my birthday, so nobody is allowed to say no.’
