‘He drove a long way to build a shelf.’
I nearly jump before I spin around. Claire is standing by the kitchen door, two mugs of tea in her hands. Steam curls up from them.
I set the bin bags down and take the mug she offers. Mostly because my hands are cold. ‘He’s not a carpenter. More an engineer.’
Claire’s eyes are pale blue. They don’t miss a thing. ‘Some people show love with their hands, not their words,’ she says. ‘You’d do well to remember that.’
Love with their hands.
Images flash in my mind, visceral and high definition. Scottie repairing the boiler, his enormous body contorted into the cupboard. Scottie carrying my bags. Scottie holding me together when I was falling apart.
I’m the one lifting it. I know my limits.
The memory of his voice cuts through me. I shut my eyes against the sting, breathing through the sudden spike of adrenaline.
Don’t go there. Pack it away.
‘Settle in, hen.’ Claire sips her tea. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Please don’t play loud music after ten.’ She winks, turns, and walks away, her slippers scuffing softly on the floorboards.
The quiet that follows her exit isn’t peaceful; it’s a void.
I climb back up to the attic, set the full mug on the floorboards, and let myself fall backwards onto the mattress. The room is getting dark. The lamp casts a yellow pool of light over the dodgy bookshelf. I train my eyes on the ceiling for eight breaths. Then, before the courage leaks out, I open my contacts and scroll past the L’s, past the M’s – Mum. The icon is a photo from a year ago: her at the veggie garden in Ballyclare, squinting into the sun, holding up a giant courgette like a trophy.
I type:
Hi. I’d like to come for Easter. If the offer’s still open and it’s not too much of a bother.
The tick turns blue almost immediately. Then the dots. Then:
It’s always open, darlin’. Always. We would be so happy to have you here. Xx
* * *
I press my phone against my chest, a compress on a wound I didn’t know was still bleeding. Then I close my eyes. I want to sleep. To turn off my consciousness for a year and wake up when the hurting stops.
My parents are flawed, and our history is a disaster, but they showed up in their own ways. It may be possible that I don’t give them enough credit. A relationship always goes both ways. I guess I dropped the ball with both of them after I moved to Glasgow.
I don’t know how long I lie there. Ten minutes? An hour? My mobile buzzes on the mattress beside me, and I snatch it up, my heart leaping into my throat.
It’s not him. Why would it be? I made myself much too clear.
A DM notification on Instagram. Finn Lennox?
Hey. Don’t know if you’re talking to anyone rn but thought you should know. Scottie’s got his hearing tomorrow. He’s taking the hit.
* * *
Makes sense that Scottie told Finn about us. I don’t know how much, I don’t know what. But my eyes burn holes in the words until they blur. Finn has the investigative instincts of a tabloid journalist and the subtlety of a brick through a window. Of course he found me.
He’s taking the hit.
I know what ‘taking the hit’ means. It’s Scottie paying for Nevin’s anger issues. It’s Scottie absorbing the Board’s judgment. Facing the consequences of my bad life choices. He’s going to walk into that room tomorrow and sacrifice his career.
My phone slides out of my hand. I told myself I left to save him. That his life would be easier without me in it. I told myself I was being noble.
But I’m beginning to realise that I didn’t cut the rope to save him from me dragging him down with me. No, I cut it to save myself from the terror of depending on him. Because depending on someone, needing someone, means they can leave you. Or hurt you. And some will.
But Scottie won’t. And I broke us.
