‘You tell me.’ I smile at the contact, even though it still hurts. Her touch. My cheek. The massive great shiner I’m sporting. ‘This is what your friend callsScottish hospitality.’ Her gaze clouds with confusion. ‘I think he’s none too fond of my weekend visits. ‘Cos this time I came back with more than a tin of shortbread.’ At least they’re not all hating on me; the old lady gave me a kiss on the cheek and a scone a couple weekends ago.
Her eyes flare, an expression quickly smothered as she exclaims, ‘Nat did this! Why?’
‘I wished to fuck it had been her.’ I scoff. ‘Because the meat head’s got a punishing right hook.’ And I didn’t retaliate. Not this time, at least. It was his one and only shot, as I’d told him... once I’d made sure I still had all my teeth. ‘I’ve been there every week since you walked out on me.’ As her hand falls away, I want to grab it. Pull her to me and never let go.
‘I didn’t walk out on you. I left because you already had your hands full.’
‘If only you knew,’ I return bitterly.
‘It seemed there was quite a bit I didn’t know.’
‘Right back at you, titch.’ I can feel the sneer on my face. Shit, yeah, I’m angry, but not about this—her supposed divorce and widowhood. Not about everything that followed. I’m fucking seething that she ran. Didn’t give me a chance to explain. Didn’t give us a chance.
The fabric of her black shirt rasps against the wall as she straightens, her eyes flashing furiously. ‘You left me in the salon. Told me find you, but I found you with Beth instead. Did you plan it that way?’
‘What? Fuck, no! Did you plan for the reporters to be there?’ I retort.
‘You know I didn’t.’
‘Do I? Only a few hours before you were a widow and I didn’t fucking know about that!’
‘In your own time,’ she almost yells back. ‘That was what you said. Meanwhile, you...’ Suddenly she halts, tilts her head and closes her eyes again. ‘But none of this matters. Not now.’
The way her fists are clenched say otherwise. I want to take them, prise them open, and slide them around my waist. But I don’t. She looks so fragile, and yeah, ill, but still so beautiful. The urge to touch her is almost overwhelming. I slide my hands into my pockets, fighting it.
‘I agree. None of it matters.’ The only thing that does is what happens now. ‘So, what have you been up to?’ I ask blandly. Keep calm; keep it casual. Keep her here.
‘Really? You want to do small talk?’
I reply with one savage nod.
‘Working,’ she says, the word expelled in a sigh, like she can’t believe she’s even talking to me. ‘Moving on.’
‘Fuck that.’ I laugh bitterly, because that fucking burns. ‘It’s not what this looks like. No one hides because they’ve moved on.’
‘I wasn’t hiding—’
‘Not true and so fucking wrong! So what if you didn’t know about my visits? You didn’t bother to wait around—to ask me. What about me? What about the truth?’ My voice rises along with my temper, my hands pushing through, what must be now, hair as wild as I feel. As wild as my heart beats. ‘When were you going to tell me you’d let me go?’
‘I never had you, Rory,’ she replies, soft and earnest. ‘And I was never yours.’ Gentle voice, cutting words; they slice through me—through skin and rib bone, piercing my heart.
‘This is about him, then? The bastard husband. The one who, turns out, isn’t dead.’ More’s the pity. I get an odd sense of satisfaction from her shocked expression. ‘Yeah, I watch the news.’
She lowers her gaze, her shoulders doing the opposite. ‘Then I’m surprised you’re even talking to me,’ she says. And again, I want to swallow my words—take her in my arms. ‘All those awful things they said.’
‘Tabloids newspapers print shit all the time,’ I mutter through a clenched jaw.
‘We’re getting divorced,’ she says quietly. And that short sentence feels like a blanket of relief. ‘Kind of ironic, really.’ She raises her head, her smile sad. ‘When you think about it.’
‘Moronic, more like.’ She physically recoils as though kicked. ‘Him, I meant. Because he must be a total fuckwit to have left you, in any form.’ As I step closer, her body withdraws even more. ‘Because I’d never leave you, titch. I haven’t given up.’
‘Please don’t.’ I reach out wiping her single tear with my thumb, almost giving license to those that follow. ‘You don’t know me,’ she says, tears tracking her face. ‘You don’t know the stupid things I’ve done.’
‘We’ve a lifetime to discover what kind of fuck ups we are.’ My knuckles scrape across bare brick as I wrap my arms around her waist. ‘Like I told you in that God-awful café, you’re it for me, whether you like it or not.’
I tilt her head as, through streaming eyes and nose, Fin huffs out some semblance of a laugh. ‘Oh no, please not the patter.’ Her eyes are shining as she lifts her gaze to mine. ‘Lord save me from a smooth talking devil.’
I smile as my stomach unclenches, but before I’ve a chance to answer, the kitchen door swings open, an arc of bright light drawing both our gazes.
