‘I came back the next week to thank you,’ I continue. ‘And you kept my secret again. And again. And somehow you made everything better. Without saying much at all.’
His hand flexes on mine. A small negotiation with himself I understand without words.
The sign for Oban appears in the headlights.
‘Thank you.’ The words feel hopelessly cheap, and I say them anyway.
Scottie shifts. ‘That’s what friends are for.’
‘That’s what we are. Friends. Right?’
The road curves. The headlights sweep across a deer warning sign, then into darkness again.
‘Aye. Friends.’
‘Scottie…I don’t really know what to do now.’
He cuts a sideways look at me. It lasts a tad too long for safe driving. ‘For starters, I know I’m not letting you go back there.’
My fingers curl tighter through his, holding on in a way that means more than holding on.
‘How long are we staying?’ My brain needs a framework for the chaos.
‘Until you’re ready to leave. Rugby season’s not over, so I have to get back at some point. What about you?’
‘The company’s touring with The Nutcracker. I’ve been training for the next production, because I want to be Principal dancer. That’s all I want. I can’t commute from Oban, but I don’t have to be in Glasgow constantly right now.’
He tenses, his whole frame locking into a promise. ‘We’ll figure it out.’
It’s not a plan, but I’ll take it.
Shortly after midnight, we pull into a gravel drive. The house is modest, stone walls weathered by salt air, and warm light spilling from a kitchen window. A coastal wind shoves against the car door when I open it. I climb out before my legs decide they are ready.
Scottie is already at the back door. He shoulders my duffel bag and tucks the coffee maker under one arm like a rugby ball.
His mother appears in the doorway before we reach the steps, tying the belt of her fleece housecoat. She is a good bit shorter than her son, but has the same red hair threaded through with grey, and watchful eyes that take in my puffed-up face and his bruised hands.
‘Hi, I’m Gillian. Kettle’s on. House is quiet. Get in, the pair of you.’
The fridge door is plastered in mismatched magnets, a reminder card for the dentist, and a faded takeaway menu. It’s so ordinary and a world away from Nevin’s Smeg that it actually makes my eyes sting. She shuffles around the units in her slippers, slots a mug into my hands, and points me toward a chair at the pine table. There’s nothing pitying in the way she looks at me. Only warmth.
The kitchen light flickers. Scottie sets the coffee machine on the worktop – a shiny chrome alien in the rustic kitchen – and drops my bag by the door.
His mother opens the freezer and pulls out a bag of frozen peas. ‘Ice those knuckles before they get any worse.’
He sits down. She passes behind him, and her fingers brush his cheek, brief and private and so tender it knots my stomach.
This is what family looks like.
I haven’t seen my own mum since June. My birthday. Eight months ago, but it feels longer.
‘Katie’s room is free,’ she says, running water over a cloth at the sink, wringing it with hands that have clearly done this ten thousand times. ‘End of the hall. Clean towels and a toothbrush are on the bed. Breakfast whenever you wake.’ She drapes the cloth over the tap. ‘And you’re staying for as long as you need, love.’
The mug is chipped at the rim, old and well-used, and the tea is builder’s strength. I take a sip, and the heat spreads through me.
‘Thank you. I’m so sorry for?—’
‘Nothing to be sorry for.’ Her voice is kind but firm. ‘You get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, the world will look different. You’ll see.’
