‘Me,’ David and I say in unison.
‘You think you’re Patrick Swayze or what?’ A muscle ticks in Scottie’s cheek.
‘I’m fine, you bampot.’ David swats at him, still laughing. ‘It was brilliant. My arse is sturdier than your ego, Scottie. Calm yer tits.’
Scottie exhales through his nose. ‘Fine.’
‘Fine,’ David echoes, grinning. ‘Now help me up, you grumpy bastard.’
This noise. The terrible music, the insults, the laughter. Even toppling over playing dirty dancing. This house is glorious, warm chaos.
It’s terrible to suddenly experience what you’ve been starving for and then remember it’s not yours.
* * *
It’s past midnight, and the dishwasher hums. The others have gone to bed. It’s only us now. I’m leaning beside the sink, drying a wine glass that missed the load. Scottie is wiping down the table.
‘Your family is a bit mental,’ I say.
‘I know.’ He walks over to the sink and rinses the cloth under the tap. ‘Erin has no taste, and Dave has no boundaries.’
‘I like it.’ I put the glass down. ‘I like all of it.’
He turns to me. The kitchen is dim, lit only by the lights under the units. They catch the relief of his face: the strong nose, the scar on his brow, the weary set of his mouth.
‘You looked happy today,’ he says.
‘I was. I am.’ I set down the glass and trace the grout line with my toe.
Without warning, my brain slingshots back to yesterday. The bathroom. Nevin’s fist punishing the door. The fear that if the lock gave way, I might not survive it.
I’m here. In Oban with the Kerr family. Safe. And yet guilt curdles in my gut. Guilt for laughing today, for feeling warm, for forgetting that safety is an illusion.
‘Scottie.’
‘Aye?’
‘Can I sleep next to you again tonight?’
He stiffens, the shutters are coming down. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why? It was fine last night.’
‘Last night was…necessary. You were in shock. Tonight’s different.’ He turns away and twists the cloth between his fists. ‘You need to learn to sleep alone, Ava. You need to know you’re safe without a guard dog.’
The rejection stings because he is right, and I hate it.
‘I know how to sleep alone,’ I say, clipping the syllables short. ‘I don’t need you to manage me, Scottie. I don’t need a man telling me what I need and don’t need.’
‘I’m trying to do the right thing!’ He spins back around. ‘I’m trying not to take advantage of the fact that your life has imploded and you’re confused and terrified!’
‘I’m not a limping deer you picked up at the roadside. I’m a grown woman.’ I move to brush past him. I need to leave the room before I say something stupid, or cry, or throw the abducted coffee maker at him.
‘Ava, wait—’ He moves to stop me, or maybe to get out of my way.
It’s a fumble. A clumsy collision of trajectories. I step left. He steps right. We crash.
My hipbone collides with his thigh, and I might as well have walked into a boulder. A mass of unyielding muscle that stops me dead and sends a very confused, very warm signal straight to my ovaries. I stumble, and his arm shoots out, an instinctive reflex, catching me around the waist to stop me falling.
