‘Done.’
Scottie stands up. He towers over me again, blocking the weak sun, reaches out, takes my dirty, grease-stained fingers, and inspects them. ‘You’ve got oil everywhere. Here. On your face.’
‘Proof of a job well done.’
‘Very impressive, Marzipan.’ He uses his middle finger to gently wipe my cheek. ‘Thank you.’
The drag of his skin against mine bleeds heat all the way down across my collarbone. It’s a slow, tender arc that makes the fine hairs on my neck stand up in anticipation.
Oh, I’m savouring his touch far too much.
Scottie eases back and breaks the heat, while I’m trying to act like my brain hasn’t gone to mush. He rocks back on his heels, the intensity in his face flattening out as he hunts for a safer topic.
‘How’s the foot doing?’
‘Healed.’ I lift a shoulder. ‘I’ll have to get ready for the solo.’
‘Why do you want it so much?’ he asks. ‘The solo part.’
‘Because it’s hard. It requires perfection. Discipline, devotion, skill. Everything I’ve been working for.’
A short, dry puff of air leaves his nose. ‘That’s it?’
It’s unnerving how easily he peels back the layers.
‘No. I mean, that’s part of it.’ I pick at a flake of rust on the wheel rim, avoiding the interrogation in his eyes. ‘When I’m on stage… When I execute a phrase that makes my lungs burn… It’s the one thing in my life that belongs to me. It’s what I was put here to do. Principal dancer… It’s all I’ve ever wanted.’
His gaze narrows. I think of him at training, grinding through drills, holding positions nobody thanks him for. How different are we, really?
Scottie nods slowly. He gets it.
I pick up the punctured tyre. ‘Come on. Let’s get this in the boot before your mum sees us slacking.’
* * *
By evening, the lounge in the Kerr household is a din. The telly drones in the corner. Music drifts from a battered docking station on the sideboard – some atrocious nineties Eurodance track. Gillian left an hour ago for her pal Pamela’s. ‘Away wi’ the girls’, she announced.
Erin is cross-legged in the chair, scrolling on her phone. I’m sitting on the sofa at the coffee table, staring at a Scrabble board that has become a battlefield.
David is opposite me, drumming his fingers on the armrest. He may look like a sweet choirboy, but he plays like a vulture.
‘Your go, twinkle toes.’ He grins.
‘Oh, you’re going down, you wee goblin.’
‘I admire your optimism. It’s heart-warming.’ David studies his tiles. ‘Scottie tells me you’re staying the weekend. Maybe longer.’
‘If you’ll have me.’
‘Oh, we’ll have you. You raise the collective IQ of this house by at least thirty points. And you’re prettier than him.’ He jerks his chin toward the kitchen, where Scottie is making tea. Then he surveys the board, grins, and slaps down five tiles with the satisfaction of a man laying down a winning hand.
‘A-T-L-A-S.’ He leans back. ‘Call me butter, cause I’m on a roll. But speaking of Atlas… He’s got it bad, you know. The Atlas Complex.’
I pause. ‘Expand and explain.’
‘He thinks he has to carry the world.’ David studies me longer than is comfortable. As if he is running the numbers on whether I can handle what he is about to put on the table. ‘Right. I don’t normally dump this on civilians. But you’ve got a look about you that says you don’t spook easily. And my brother seems to like you. So…’
His face sobers. ‘Not sure if he’s told you, but our dad was a violent alcoholic. I was too young to remember it, but Scottie kept the score. Then Dad had the stroke, and Mum was forced to care for him until the second one took him out.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘And then I had the audacity to fall off McCaig’s Tower. Scottie blames himself for it. No matter how many times I tell him it was my decision to follow him up there. It’s annoying as fuck.’
