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“What can I say? She probably just thought I was more fun. And kind. And better in every way, really. Oh, and I know she slept in your bed normally, but do you remember what would happen if I stayed over at yours?”
When we were young, if Iona’s maw and da ever went away for a night, to see a show in Inverness or whatever, Aidan would kip in Ally’s room and Iona in mine. That practice stopped come puberty, after which Iona bunked with Cat instead.
“Crap, Molly would snuggle up with you, wouldn’t she? I’d forgotten about that.”
“She would, and I think that tells you everything you need to know. I was definitely the favourite. Don’t beat yourself up about it, though. I mean, who wouldn’t fall in love with this?” She gestures to herself.
And she’s absolutely right—who wouldn’t? She’s got the personality, the looks, everything. Tonight she’s in a quirky grey dress covered in white hares and yellow flowers, and her hair is in its usual messy bun, with stray waves falling down to frame her bonny face. Her cheeks are rosy, probably more from the wine than the fire, and it only makes her all the more beautiful.
Who in their right mind would let this incredible woman slip through their fingers? Oh, aye. Me.
“Do you remember the time Molly ran into the haunted cottage?” I ask.
“Oh my God! I’d forgotten we used to think that place was haunted.”
The cottage in question has since been demolished, and a nice new property now stands in its place, but when we were young, it had lain empty for many years and fallen into disrepair. It was situated on the very outskirts of Bannock, far enough from other houses to give you the sense that, even if you screamed, no one would hear you. Ally and Aidan used to spook me and Iona with stories of strange goings-on and dreadful, terrible things that happened to any child who entered the place. Big brothers can be such dicks sometimes.
“You and I were walking Molly one day,” I say, remembering. “We were, what, ten, eleven? Suddenly she bolted—I think maybe she chased a squirrel?”
“Aye, that was it. We ran after her, calling her name, but she kept on going. Then she came to the cottage and went straight in, and you stopped dead. Soon Molly was barking like mad, and you were sure she was being tormented by ghosts. You paced and paced, psyching yourself up to go in and rescue her, but you took so long that I got fed up waiting. Without a word to you, I went in and got her.”
“To this day, still the bravest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Iona laughs. “Well, even as a kid, I don’t think I ever really believed in ghosts. And what do you know, it turned out the only reason Molly was barking was because she’d cornered the squirrel and didn’t know what to do next. But you, Lewis? You believed all the stories about that place. In general, you had more guts than me, but when it came to ghosts and spirits, you were such a coward.”
“And I’m still not a fan of horror films.” I pat my left bicep. “These guns are no use against the supernatural.”
“God, it’s clear why Molly liked me best. She obviously realised that, between you and me, I’m the alpha.”
I bite my tongue, even though I’m desperate to add a caveat or two to that statement. When we were hooking up, that wasn’t our dynamic—at least, not always. Sure, I let her boss me around a lot of the time: Stick on this glow-in-the-dark condom, Get your dick out so I can use it for a game of hoopla, and all that stuff. She always did get a kick out of treating my cock as her personal plaything, and I was happy to go along with that and let her do whatever she wanted. But when it came down to it, when we were actually doing the dirty, our roles were clear—and hers was surrendering to my every thrust, her body arching, as I commanded her breathless moans. I was the alpha then.
“You know,” Iona says, “I was talking with Maisie earlier about how I reckon people in Bannock see me in a way that doesn’t match how I see myself. That story reminds me that, even as a kid, I could be pretty gutsy.”
“You absolutely could—I’ve always known that. And if that’s not how people see you, then you obviously have to reinvent yourself.”
She drains her wine, and I worry this may be her cue to leave, but she says, “And how would you suggest I do that?”
The local band are setting up: Neil on the accordion, Eileen on the fiddle, Scott on drums. They often play a bit of live music of an evening.
“You just have to do something no one would expect you to do. Like, nobody would expect you to get up right now and sing a song in front of everybody.”
“Hmm, aye, that might do it. But I’d need company, of course.”
“Er . . .” I drum my fingers on the table. I’d expected her to immediately veto the suggestion. “Are we joking about this? I can’t tell.”
“I’m not joking. Are you? It was your idea. I’ve done karaoke before—it’s not a big deal. The question is, are you up for it, Lewis McIntyre?”
Shit, I’ve never done karaoke—it’s definitely not a thing here in Bannock. Also, I’m a terrible singer—and stone-cold sober. I was too worried that, if I went to the bar to get a drink, Iona would use that as an opportunity to leave. Mind you, if I refuse now, that might encourage her to leave, so . . .
“Sure,” I say, feigning far more confidence than I feel.
“Great!” She bounces up to her feet. “Let’s go have a chat with the band.”
So, reluctantly, I go up with her. The band aren’t immediately opposed to the idea but they do wonder what song we have in mind. They play traditional Scottish music, not popular stuff, and there’s no karaoke machine to display the lyrics.
“Hmm, what trad songs do Lewis and I both know the words to?” Iona ponders. “Oh! We both know ‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye’. Do you know that?”
The band do, but . . . really? That tune? Our theme song from a time in our lives when we engaged in casual sex? I suppose it’s not like anyone in the pub is aware we have a personal connection to the lyrics, but still. Is Iona too tipsy to realise that might not be the best choice, all things considered, or does she just not care?
