And now I’m sitting here planning renovations based on her opinions about interior design.
It’s pathetic.
No, worse.
It’s revealing.
I want her to see that I’m serious. That I’m done running. That Glenfield isn’t just a temporary stop between Edinburgh and… wherever else.
I fold the pages and shove them into my jacket pocket before heading downstairs.
The cottage kitchen is quiet. Mary isn’t awake yet.
Or she’s avoiding me.
Both options feel equally possible after last night.
I make coffee.
Black. Strong.
The kind of coffee that wakes the dead and scares off the living.
My phone vibrates.
NATE
Swinging by the clinic with scones in 30 mins.
Maybe texting him in the middle of the night on impulse and demanding he come to the clinic as soon as possible to discuss renovations wasn’t my brightest moment.
FINN
No need for scones.
NATE
Too late. Already on my way.
I sigh and finish my coffee.
Might as well head to the clinic now. I can’t stay here listening for Mary’s footsteps upstairs while wondering if she regrets everything.
The medical practicelooks exactly the way I left it yesterday:
Depressing. Outdated. Haunted by the ghost of McKinnon.
I switch on the lights. The fluorescent bulb in the waiting room flickers angrily.
I sit behind my desk and pull the list from my pocket, smoothing the pages across the scarred surface.
These three sheets of paper look dangerously close to commitment.
A few minutes later, the clinic door bursts open and Nate walks in carrying a paper bag that smells incredible and two coffees.
“You look like hell,” he comments, setting everything on my desk.
“Good morning to you too.”
