I’ve waited long enough. He had his chance.
‘Mind if I try?’
Scottie’s head snaps up. He scans me, then looks down at his hand, then back to the tyre. ‘I’ve got it.’
‘You haven’t got it. Your hand is mince. Move.’
‘Ava, don’t be daft. It’s dirty. You’re…’
‘I’m what? Made of porcelain? You wish.’ With a smirk, I saunter past him and pick up the brace. ‘My dad is an engineer. Taught me how to change a tyre before I even knew how to drive.’
‘Ava—’
‘Sit. Down.’ I speak in the tone that our choreographer Nicole uses when someone dares to sickle a foot.
Scottie pulls his chin back, stunned by my tone, and sinks back onto the paving stones. I inspect the wheel. He has managed to loosen two nuts, but the bottom two are seized tight. I fit the wheel brace onto the nut and stand on the end, using my full body weight to bear down.
I bounce once. Twice.
Creak.
The first nut gives.
‘Leverage,’ I say, stepping down. ‘It’s knowing where to apply the right amount of pressure.’
Scottie watches me as I work with the tool. My fingers are coated in black, oily muck.
Good. Let him see the dirt. Let him see that I don’t shatter because things get messy.
‘It’s Friday.’ I move to the last nut. ‘Don’t you have grown men to grind into the mud or lift a lorry for fun this weekend?’
‘Naw. As I said, Six Nations opening weekend.’ He picks at a piece of moss between the pavers. ‘Wallace said to go home and recharge.’
‘So you’re staying here?’
‘Aye.’
I spin the nut loose. ‘Good.’
Then I get the jack positioned under the chassis point and wind it up with the mechanical click-click-click. The van rises.
‘Ava… How long has this fucked-up shit been going on?’ His voice is restrained, rough with the effort of keeping a lid on an anger that isn’t directed at me. I know what he’s asking about – and it’s not the tyre.
I pull the wheel off. It’s heavy, but I brace it against my thighs and use my core. I roll it aside and pick up the spare.
‘Shortly after I moved in, I guess. Mostly, it was grabbing and shouting. Then breaking things near me.’ I keep my eyes on the wheel hub, line up the holes, and slide the spare onto the bolts. It clunks into place. ‘Telling me what to wear and how to behave.’
‘I swear to God.’ Scottie’s tone is bone-chillingly calm. ‘I will fucking smother him. I will find him in his bed, and I will squeeze the life out of him.’
My movements seize, and I glimpse at him. He is sitting on the cold ground, knees drawn up, staring at the paving stones with a look of such desolate, violent certainty that my stomach folds in on itself. I can’t even think of how rugby training is going to be after what happened last night.
‘It’s a mess.’ He rubs his face. ‘I’ve made a mess of it.’
‘No. You didn’t make the mess.’ I start tightening the nuts, putting my back into it. ‘Nevin did. You just drove the getaway car.’
He gives a short, humourless laugh. ‘Aye, you could say that.’
I finish the last nut and lower the jack. The van settles onto the new tyre, and I check the pressure with my thumb. Solid.
