Stop hiding.
The thought is clear. It’s what Nicole said. Show me the woman who isn’t asking for permission.
I examine the ticket.
I’ve spent my life waiting to be picked. Waiting for a choreographer to cast me. Waiting for a man to choose me. Waiting for permission to matter. Today, I walked into the centre of the space and took it.
And the world didn’t end.
I’m done waiting.
But I can’t knock on his door and say, ‘Oops, sorry for the emotional damage and ripping your heart to shreds. But I’m back now. Where were we?’
I need to do something. Something that shows I’m not falling into his arms again because I’m sad and lonely, but because I want him. That I see him.
An idea forms. It requires the one thing I’ve spent a lifetime conditioned not to do: make a scene. I choreograph it in my head. Eight counts of grovelling, a pas de deux of abject apology, and a finale that’ll either get him back or burn my last shred of dignity to ash – and my heart along with it.
Chapter 25
Scottie
The Sean Lamont poster above the bed in my old room has started to peel. Forty days ago, this single bed was a piece of furniture I’d outgrown. A relic of the boy who worshipped Lamont like a deity.
Now, it’s the place where Ava MacKinney stripped away every boundary we drew. I offered her every scrap of myself on this duvet until the boy who used to live here died and a man who needs her took his place.
I’m propped against the wall. My knees are higher than my hips, and the position compresses my lungs. I’m staring at my mobile. The screen brightness is set to maximum. But I’m not doomscrolling. I’m refreshing a browser tab for the Scottish Ballet production news feed.
Refresh. Nothing.
Refresh. Nothing.
The audition was two days ago. I know, because of course I’m subscribing to their newsletter.
Text her.
Physically, my thumb barely moves. Yet the energy required to stop it from swiping to my contacts list and hitting the green icon is immense. The effort forges the fibres in my forearm into knotted cables. It’s a brutal exercise. Every second I don’t text her is a rep.
Just say: Did you get it? How was it?
I lock the phone and the screen goes black.
No.
Ava told me with wet eyes that I saw people as projects, as messes to mop up. If I write to her now – if I corner her to break the silence – I’d make it about me. I’d ignore her agency only because I can’t stand her absence.
That’s a fucking euphemism for when your heart lives outside your body with someone else.
Am I respecting her choice? Or am I shitting my breeks that if I reach out, she’ll tell me to fuck off again?
I flip the phone over on the duvet.
Respecting her choice. Sounds like something a good man would do.
‘Scottie!’ Mum’s voice drifts up the stairs, carrying the forced cheer she’s been wearing all day like an ill-fitting hat. ‘Come get your birthday cake.’
Twenty-five.
The milestone clobbers me with the dull slap of a wet sandbag. A quarter of a century on this planet, and what do I have to show for it? I’m hiding from my family because I can’t construct a facial expression that shows anything resembling joy.
