‘You got the salted.’ He speaks around a mouthful, and the unmasked gratitude on his face is a dead giveaway.
I knew it.
‘Yeah, I caught the wince you tried to hide each time you forced down the sweet stuff.’
A single corner of his mouth ticks upward. A tiny victory, but it doesn’t mean I’m off the hook.
Time for the next move.
I pull my phone from the hoodie’s front pocket and text Fraser up in the booth. The projector hums to life above us and the opening credits of A Scottish Castle for Christmas roll across the screen.
‘It’s April, Ava.’ Scottie sinks lower in his seat, and his knee bumps mine.
‘So what? I was feeling nostalgic. And true Christmas romance aficionados don’t stop only because it’s spring.’
Neither of us moves. The touch stays, denim against tights, and that small connection gives me enough courage to speak.
‘I was wrong,’ I say. ‘In the bar. I told you that you saw people as projects, and some of that was true. But it’s not a bad thing. It means you care. So much. And I’m not used to that.’ I take a long breath before I continue. ‘I labelled myself as a lost cause so I wouldn’t have to find out if you would stay. I used my own mess as a shield. And I’m sorry.’
He angles his body toward me. The pale blue glow of the projector washes over his profile.
‘But… The thing is…’ I trace the armrest with my finger. ‘I’ve spent my life waiting for somebody to choose me. In auditions, in relationships, in a twisted way even by my parents. And, very often, they didn’t. So that’s what I learned to expect.’
‘You’re not the only one who fucked it up.’ His hand is curled on his thigh. ‘I was afraid that you’d realise you didn’t need me.’ He turns to face me properly, and the naked honesty in his face tears a strip off my heart. ‘I thought if I bulldozed every problem… If I made myself indispensable and held up the roof, you’d have to stay. But all I did was show you that I didn’t think you were strong enough. Which is utter pish.’
‘It is, and it isn’t.’ I reach out and find his hand. ‘But I can hold the roof for a while. Or we can both hold it.’
Scottie stares at my hand covering his. Then he brings our joined hands to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.
‘I almost called you three times,’ I say. ‘Got as far as your name on the screen and then I threw my phone across the room.’
‘Only three?’
‘Took out my last tea mug on the third one. Had to stop.’
He laughs, and the sound of it breaks the dam that I’ve been holding in place with force of will for forty-four days. I drop my chin to hide my face and swipe both sleeves over my cheeks, but the water falls faster than I can wipe.
‘I’m sorry, Bear. I’m so sorry. I want to try again. I want to do this right, if you let me. I-I… If you need time to think about that I understand, but I did pay for the length of one film, so?—’
Scottie knocks the bucket clean off the armrest. Kernels erupt across the carpet, and while I’m still mourning the loss of fifteen quid worth of kiosk goods, he leans over and grabs me. One palm behind my neck, the other on my waist, he lifts me out of my seat. I land hard on his broad thighs, straddling him. It’s messy, a tangle of limbs, but his hands are iron bands on my waist, and I don’t care because now his lips are on mine.
Eleven weeks of silence compressed into a single, burning point of contact.
He kisses me with the ferocity of a man who has been running this moment behind his eyelids every night since I left. His stubble scrapes my chin, a coarse sting I will cherish for days. I bunch fistfuls of his hoodie and make a sound that’s extremely unbecoming of a professional dancer.
My hands find his face, his hair, the dense ridge of his shoulders. He is vast and concrete and here, and I’m trying to get closer, trying to crawl inside him, but the armrests are digging into my knees, and the angle is all wrong and I don’t care, I don’t care?—
He pulls back a fraction. We’re nose to nose, breathing hard, foreheads touching.
‘I love you, Ava.’ He says it simply – as if he’s been holding it in, waiting for the right moment. ‘I love you, and I am forty-four days starved of you. And if you ever do that to me again, I swear I’ll?—’
‘I love you, too.’ I’ve said it before, but now I finally understand why people write songs about it. The feeling fills every single one of my cells with warmth.
‘You nicked my jumper,’ he murmurs against my chin.
‘It’s cosy. And it smells like you.’
His hands travel under the hoodie and find my bare skin. The texture of his rough palms catches on my skin. ‘You’ve nothing under this again. No bra?’
