Chapter 10
Ava
It should relax me. Eucalyptus steam curls across the spa treatment room and I suppress a cough as my body sinks into the heated lounger. Ahead of the Burns Supper later, Nevin booked a whole spa day at Gleneagles – Scotland’s version of paradise for people with funds. It’s his apology tour for the mess at Polly’s party a fortnight ago.
When we checked in earlier, he gave me a folded note. I know I’ve been an arse. I’m trying. I’ll do better. Please let me try.
And maybe he truly means it. Maybe all the bad days were flukes, and this version of him is the real one. The other Nevin is stress and pressure and the rugby season wearing him down. But I’ve been here before – the gestures, the softening.
I push my thumb into my quad. I spent yesterday afternoon on the anti-gravity treadmill, while Margot analysed my gait on a screen. And I stayed late to mark the choreography for the spring production. Excessive heat is still inadvisable for the tendon, though, which is why I’m alone in the relaxation suite instead of sweating beside Nevin in the sauna.
The luxury and thoughtfulness. The fact that he planned this for us, all his idea. I should be grateful.
This is good. This is Nevin trying.
Still my thoughts keep drifting to two weeks ago. The Drum Vault. The bass thrumming through my bones, and Scottie’s gaze finding me across a crowded room. I let him watch. I wanted him to watch.
I smother the notion immediately.
My phone lights up on the side table and I take it.
Laurel?
Joy spills through my chest, chased by a twist of guilt. I haven’t called her in weeks. Not so much as a text beyond the occasional emoji. I’ve been a terrible friend, and she is reaching out anyway. I swipe to answer.
‘Ava!’ Her voice bursts through the speaker, bright and chaotic, six thousand miles away in Hong Kong. ‘I was expecting voicemail. Are you alive?’
‘Barely.’ I press the phone to my ear, sinking deeper into the lounger. ‘How’s Lotta?’
‘She snores. Tiny, adorable walrus noises. I want to smother her with a pillow, but also I love her, so I’m conflicted.’
A laugh spills out of me. ‘That must be true love.’
‘It’s torture.’ Laurel’s grin is audible. ‘We have dim sum almost every day. Char siu bao. Har Gow. Curry fish balls. I’m eating my body weight in carbs and regret nothing. But my hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket, thanks to the humidity.’ She pauses. ‘Wait. Where are you? It sounds echoey. Are you in a toilet? Did you pick up your phone while you’re having a jobby? Ava!’
I let out another huff of laughter. ‘Spa. Relaxation suite. Nevin booked us in.’
‘A spa?’ Her pitch spikes. ‘Oh my God. The fancy fucker.’
‘Yeah. Gleneagles. The whole day. Massage, sauna, the works.’
She whistles. ‘Gleneagles. I’m impressed. Maybe he’s getting his head out of his arse. So things are going well. That’s grand.’
I open my mouth. The truth is right there on the tip of my tongue.
Moving in with him was a mistake. I think I’m disappearing, and I don’t know how to get out.
I should tell her. But admitting I’m trapped means admitting I failed. It means confessing that the smart, independent Ava MacKinney – who moved out at eighteen and navigated the world of professional ballet – got herself tamed and caged by a man with a nice smile and a set of pecs. I can’t bear the pity. I got myself into this, and I’ll manoeuvre myself out. I only need to find the right angle. The right moment.
I swallow, and the truth goes down with it. ‘Yeah. He has been great lately.’
Which is technically not wrong. All depends on your definition of lately.
‘You deserve it, hen.’ She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. ‘Are you happy?’
It finds the hairline crack in my ribs and pries.
Am I happy?
