That pulls a genuine laugh from me. I head out into the hall with a grin that refuses to shift. Flawless sarcasm after a night like that? The pure pluck of her. Fucking adorable.
* * *
The kitchen is command central, and Mum’s at the helm. She’s tightening the loose screw on the kettle with a butter knife, a mug next to her elbow.
She sets it down and turns to me. ‘Front tyre on the van’s flat. I was about to phone Joe down at the garage to?—’
‘Leave it.’ I pull out a stool, already mentally mapping where the jack is kept. ‘Don’t call him.’
‘It’s no bother for Joe to pop round.’
‘Save the cash. I’ll swap the wheel out the second I finish breakfast.’
Her gaze lands on my hand, then on my eyes. ‘Is the lassie still asleep?’
It’s less a real question than an invitation to tell her more. I only gave her a rough sketch last night.
‘Aye. Just waking up.’
Mum takes a sip of her tea. ‘She seems nice. Bit quiet.’
‘She’s had a tough time recently.’ I turn my attention to the chrome hostage I tucked under one arm last night. It uses an expensive Italian setup, but my fingers know the shape of a portafilter almost as well as a rugby ball, thanks to double shifts at Jenny’s Coffee House to help Mum with the electricity bill when I was sixteen. I plug it in, and the machine hums to life. In the cupboard, I find the last bag of the dark roast.
‘Are you in trouble, son?’
‘Naw.’ It’s only half a lie since I don’t know how much trouble I’m actually in.
Mum has this knowing look on her face. ‘Does she need an ear? I can?—’
‘Don’t think so. Not yet.’ I switch the grinder on. The aggressive noise of the high-torque motor drowns out the conversation I’m not ready to have. Dark powder mounds in the basket.
She needs safety, not an interrogation.
I level the grounds with my finger, then tamp them down, before locking the portafilter into the group head and flipping the switch. Dark liquid oozes out. A mouse tail of perfect extraction. Small triumphs.
Mum’s still studying me. She sees right through the ‘just friends’ defence I haven’t even officially constructed.
‘She’s safe with us,’ Mum says quietly. ‘You know that.’
‘That’s why I brought her here.’ I turn to the door. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
She reaches out and squeezes my arm. ‘Get that coffee into her. And make extra toast. She looks like a breeze would knock her over.’
‘She’s a lot stronger than she seems.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Mum moves to the fridge. ‘I’ll get the eggs and sausage ready.’
Ten minutes later, I sort a tray. There’s no chance she is ready to face a kitchen full of strangers – my mother, Erin and David. I stick a mug of strong coffee next to a morning roll loaded with square sausage, egg, and brown sauce. A glass of water and a tin of Irn Bru go next to it. Giving her something solid to eat is the only useful thing I can do right now.
I carry it up the stairs and leave it on the bedside table while she’s in the shower.
Downstairs, the rest of the squad is surfacing. David wheels himself to the head of the table, locks the brakes, and surveys me.
‘Good fucking morning, Sprinkle tits.’ He smirks. ‘Your knuckles are swollen. And you’ve got that face. The one you wear when you’ve done something stupid.’
He reaches for the toast rack, and I move to help.
‘I swear to God, Scottie.’ He stops me with a scathing look. ‘If you reach for that, I will end you.’
