She’s strung wire-tight in my arms, every sinew braced for flight.
‘Nevin’s a bully with a mobile and a fragile ego,’ I say. ‘He thinks he can scare you into hiding. He thinks he can scare me into letting you go.’ I look up, letting her see the steel in my stare. ‘Let him try to burn everything down.’ The certainty in my chest bleeds straight into the words. ‘I will stand in the ashes and hold you, Ava. Do you understand?’
I’ve never said anything like that in my life. I don’t make fucking speeches. Let alone promises that require me to be the main character. But I am now. And I fucking mean it.
Ava searches my face, looking for cracks. For doubt and regret.
She won’t find any.
‘I’m not letting you go. Not for him. Not for anyone. As long as you want to be with me, I’ll stay right fucking here. Is that clear?’
She nods, but the fear is still there. Our bubble popped. And judging by the terror on her face, I realise one thing with chilling clarity.
Knocking Nevin out wasn’t the end of the fight. It was the opening bell.
Chapter 20
Ava
I’m in the passenger seat of Scottie’s Audi, watching the Highlands scroll past in shades of wet slate, and all I can think is: So this is what the morning after the apocalypse feels like.
I haven’t touched my phone since we left Oban an hour ago. Laurel’s screenshot is burned into my retinas. Nevin’s wounded-puppy act. The hashtags. The thousands of strangers already picking sides in a war they know nothing about.
Last night, I finally called Laurel. One hour on the phone, ugly crying into Katie’s pillow while Scottie pretended not to hear through the wall. I told her everything. Nevin. The bathroom door. Scottie’s fist. The way I’ve been whittling myself down to nothing for months and didn’t even notice until I stopped.
She didn’t say I told you so. She listened.
The cuffs of Scottie’s grey hoodie are hanging past my knuckles. I’m practically wrapped in a blanket. My knee jitters, and I clamp my hand hard over my kneecap and force it to slow. Four counts in. Four counts out. The same technique I use before stepping into the wings.
Scottie’s fingers curl around the steering wheel, the bruises fading to green and yellow.
Ha. I know that all too well.
He keeps his focus on the road. But occasionally his pinkie drifts from the gearstick to brush my knee – the one I moved as close as possible on purpose. The silence between us is strange. Not awkward but loaded with all the things we haven’t said.
‘You’re a hundred miles away again, Marzipan.’
I pluck at my cuticle until it bleeds and stuff my hand under my thigh to hide the evidence.
‘Well, yeah. My life is basically nuked.’ I turn to face his profile. ‘I can’t go home, because there’s no home to go to.’
‘What about your mum?’
‘She’s in Northern Ireland with her partner.’ I pick at my cuticles again. ‘She invited me for Easter two weeks ago, but I never replied. Laurel is in Hong Kong until May. My dad is up in Aberdeen. And I can’t live in Aberdeen and work in Glasgow. Not until they invent beaming. But I’ll bet they do the killer robots first.’
‘Our flat share in Duncraig. You can stay in our flat until you find something. I take the sofa.’
‘I’ve slept in your narrow bed for a full weekend, Scottie. I think we’re past the sofa stage.’
‘Fair enough. So it’s decided then.’
‘No. I mean…’ A wobble sneaks into my tone. ‘I can’t… You can’t?—’
‘It’s not charity. More…temporary logistics until you find somewhere permanent. Maybe the ballet’s got emergency housing. Talk to them tomorrow.’
Temporary logistics. He packages the offer in practical words to defuse the fallout of my own bad decisions. I want to argue and tell him that his help is a debt I can never repay. That it makes me feel ashamed and weak. Instead, I say: ‘Okay, I guess.’
Scottie unspools against the driver’s seat. He didn’t realise he was braced for rejection until I didn’t give it.
