A dark little scoff cuts through the wind. ‘Can we skip the drama part? I’d settle for someone who doesn’t shout.’
‘Low bar.’
‘You’d be surprised how low I can limbo.’
‘You shouldn’t settle, Ava. Never.’
A huge gull swoops, diving for my mint choc chip. I duck, shielding the cone, and the bird screeches past my ear. ‘Fucking beady-eyed bastards!’
Ava’s laughing. Head thrown back, genuine laughter that shakes her shoulders. She’s not broken. She’s bent, maybe. Bruised for sure – literally and metaphorically. But the steel is there.
It’s that stubborn, unbreakable spirit that makes me fucking lucky to have her in my life.
‘Come on.’ I stand up. ‘Time for the main event.’
* * *
I unlock the door to the studio. It’s a small space above a charity shop, usually used for yoga and kids’ tap classes. Mum’s pal Pamela gave me the keys. Mirrors line one wall. The floor is sprung wood, scuffed but decent.
Ava steps inside and stops dead. Her eyes dart to the mirrors, the door, then me. ‘Scottie, what is this…?’
‘I ken a few folk. You can book in here by the hour to train, for as long as you’re in Oban. It’s free.’
She turns to me. Her eyes are huge. ‘You organised a studio? For me?’
‘You said you don’t have to go back to Glasgow right away, but you have to work on the dancing. So I thought…’
Ava looks at the space, then returns to me. ‘Wow. I’m actually speechless.’
‘Wanna try it?’
She stands there for a beat, weighing the gift against the cost, before she pulls out her phone. ‘I didn’t bring anything,’ she says, scrolling through a playlist.
‘Doesn’t matter. The floor doesn’t know what you’re wearing. It’s so you can see if it works for you. It has the wooden rail and all that.’
‘The barre.’ Ava smiles and connects to the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.
Slow and melancholic piano music fills the room as she takes off her shoes and socks. She saunters to the centre of the room and finds her focus. Rolling her ankles, she starts warming up, stretching her calves, careful with the foot that’s recently recovered.
I stay in the corner, in the background. Arms crossed, trying to be part of the furniture.
Then she moves.
I’ve watched and played rugby all my life. I know about force vectors, momentum, impact. I know what it takes to stop a 120-kilo prop moving at sprint speed. I understand raw physical power and brute force.
But this? This is different. It’s defying physics through discipline and grace.
It starts small. A lift of the arm. A turn of the head. But then she explodes. She spins, and the jumper she’s still wearing flares out. She leaps, and the laws of physics cease to exist. She lands silently, absorbing the impact through ankles and knees, and immediately flows into the next shape.
It’s powerful. I see the quiver in her muscles as she holds a leg extension that seems impossible, and I want my hands where the strain is.
She’s not fragile. She’s strong. Ava is a fucking force of nature that I’ve been trying to protect with bubble wrap. Jesus. I’m a patronising prick. She doesn’t need my protection.
She spins. Once, twice, three times. Four. Pirouettes that whip her jumper out. She’s panting, a sheen of sweat on her forehead. On the fifth spin, she stumbles, overcorrects, and comes hurtling towards the corner
I move forward on instinct. ‘Easy, watch your?—’
She lands directly against my chest. Neither of us breathes. Her small hands are braced on my shoulders, breath hot against my neck, pupils blown wide. My heart kicks so violently, I’m convinced she can feel it through the layers of fabric.
