Текст книги "The Play"

Автор книги: Karina Halle

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

That evening, I make myself some tea and settle down on the couch, with the comfiest, over-sized cushions ever, Lionel and Emily lying beside me. I flip aimlessly through cable channels, trying to soak up as much local Scotland flavor as I can.

When Lachlan comes home, I realize that I should have gotten off with my vibrator earlier when I had the chance. The poor man is absolutely wrecked, and even though he’s not limping, he’s walking with extra care, as if he’s been hit by a truck.

He tells me not to worry, that he probably gave too much trying to prove himself, and that he’ll be fine. But I enjoy playing nurse anyway. I run a hot bath for him, dumping in some of my body wash for bubbles, and make him soak the aches away.

“Call me if you need anything,” I say to him from the bathroom doorway, enjoying the sight of his hulking, inked body among all the frothy water.

But the way he looks at me makes my blood still in my veins.

It pins me in place.

It’s a look that says he needs me and only me.

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Lachlan

I have the same dream three nights in a row.

For the first few nights Kayla’s been in Edinburgh, my dreams have been unmemorable. I’ve been sleeping deep, solid, and the night, unlike a lifetime of nights, have passed by in the snap of one’s fingers. I close my eyes, Kayla at my side, and then I’m opening my eyes, and she’s still here.

But by night number four, I’m swept into a wave of terror that resurfaces again and again, pounding me out of slumber and into reality.

Sometimes I wake up gasping for air, which in turn only makes Kayla worry. She questions me with her eyes, imploring me to talk to her, to explain. But I can’t, not yet. Not until I have to. Not until I know she won’t look the other way. The thought of losing face in front of her, the idea of losing her affection, that sweet, hopeful, hungry look in her eyes, is painful.

It’s a dream I’ve had before, and to share it would mean she’d see all the dark in me, the horrible, pathetic person that I once was.

It’s the day that Charlie died.

Of course, in a dream, it’s all skewed and a bit off. Just enough to fuck with you. But it’s the same alley, ironically not too far from the housing projects I grew up in. It’s the same Charlie. It’s the same Rascal, the stray that I would call my own dog until that very day that I never saw him again. It’s like Charlie’s death scared sense into the both of us.

In the dream though, it’s snowing. And unlike reality, we are never alone. There are people lined up along the alley walls in black and red rugby colors. Some of them wave flags that say McGregor number eleven on them. They are completely silent, and that’s the scariest part. They are rooting for me, for us, for our demise, with open, flapping mouths and judgemental eyes, and the only thing I can hear is the falling of snow and Charlie’s raspy breath.

It was only his second time doing heroin. I had been there for his first, but I hadn’t approved, not that first time. I didn’t have a logical, coherent part of my brain left, and yet somehow I knew that heroin was one step too far. As if it weren’t that much worse than meth.

But the second time, well, I got the drugs for him. The first time had gone so well, and he’d been a different man for a while. And isn’t that how it always bloody goes? One won’t hurt you. One makes it all better. Two will be fine.

But it isn’t fine. I get up off the ground, and even in my dream I can’t feel my frozen legs. I limp over to the line of rugby fans and I ask each one if I can score some smack. No one responds. They just scream at me, soundlessly. Men, women, young and old, their faces forever in silent torment. I beg, I plead for some, just a little bit, but nothing. No one hears me, no one cares. I might as well be invisible.

Charlie, though, he’s anything but invisible. He always was larger than life. He’s yelling at me to hurry up, to help him—he’s telling me I’m a terrible friend and hasn’t he done so much for me already?

Charlie is probably the only friend I’ve ever had, so of course I do what I can to keep him happy. I keep trying, even though the people’s expressions are changing, becoming more distorted, more demonic. The presence of pure evil is everywhere, that black oily shadow that clings to your back, influencing your thoughts and soul. Even after all these years, it’s still there, waiting for me to fuck up. It’s only when I reach the last person in the alley, and see that it’s myself at five years old, skinny and bruised and not so much different than the way I am in my dream, that I have a chance.

Five-year-old Lachlan hands me Lionel the lion. He nods at it, hinting at something more. I tear the lion open, splitting the seams along the gut, and the heroin pours out like white sand. It doesn’t stop filling the space around my feet, rising, rising, rising. Hands grab my ankles, pulling me down—my mouth, nose, and ears filling with the grains, my head exploding in fireworks.

Charlie stands above me, waving goodbye, blood running down from his nose and eyes.

“See you soon, mate,” he says with a bloody smile. “One-way ticket straight to hell.”

The drugs drown me and the world goes black.

No wonder I wake up with my heart racing erratically, my lungs feeling devoid of any air.

“Another dream?” Kayla asks softly, and in the low light I can see the gleam in her eyes. She’s propped up on both elbows, watching me closely, trying to downplay it all, but I can see how scared she is.

My mouth is parched. “Aye,” I say roughly, taking in a deep breath.

“Have you had them before?”

I nod, just once. “I need some water.”

I get out of bed, Lionel sleeping so soundly at the foot that he doesn’t even stir when I crawl over him.

Once in the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection. Dark circles tinge the inner corners of my eyes. How is it possible to feel so bloody happy and look so much like shite at the same time? I open the medicine cabinet and eye my prescriptions. I’d purposely left the Percocet at home when I went to the States. The pain had subsided and I didn’t need the temptation. The anti-depressants only fuck me up, and not in a good way. The Ativan works most of the time.

I fill the glass by the sink with water and down the Percocet and Ativan together. If that doesn’t help me get back to sleep, then at least it will carry me through to the morning. Maybe even into the evening, when I think I’ll need it most.

That’s when I’m bringing Kayla around to see my parents, Jessica and Donald, the real McGregors. I wish I could say I haven’t been worrying about it ever since the plans were made, but that would be an outright lie.

The thing is, I’m not even sure why I’m nervous. Is it because I’m afraid my past will be brought up? It seems pretty unlikely. My parents respect me enough to never talk about it. Is it because I’m afraid Kayla won’t measure up to their expectations? That’s unlikely too. They’re the least judgemental people you could meet, regardless of their status in society. Kayla would only charm them.

Or is it that bringing her to meet my parents—when I’ve never brought anyone to meet them—says far more about the way I feel about her, about us, than I ever could?

I have a feeling the last one is the right answer.

I close the cabinet and lean my forehead against the cool mirror, closing my eyes.

“Lachlan?” I hear Kayla’s soft voice from outside the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”

I grunt in response, clearing my throat. “Just a minute.”

I take a quick piss, and when I get back to bed, she’s under the covers, watching me.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, climbing in beside her. “Come here.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and tug her up against me. I brush my fingers along her hairline, feeling the silk of her hair and skin sooth me into a drug-induced sleep.

***

Jessica and Donald live about an hour outside of Edinburgh, their house just a few shrub-lined blocks from the Firth of Moray and a fabulous fish and chip shop I used to spend much of my allowance on.

About twenty minutes away, I pull the Range Rover in beside Robbie’s Bar and put it in park.

“What are we here?” Kayla asks. “Do they live in a pub?”

“Nah,” I tell her. “But I used to frequent this place a lot growing up. When I was fifteen I hit my growth spurt and didn’t even need to use a fake I.D. It’s not as dodgy as it looks. Come on, let’s have a beer.”

She frowns at me, so I flash her a smile. “Don’t tell me it’s not fancy enough for you,” I add, knowing that will egg her on.

“Hey,” she says, raising her palm at me, “don’t talk to me about fancy. The most interesting people are found at dive bars.”

“Well, this is a dive pub, so it’s a step above. Just don’t order any of the food.”

“Don’t want to spoil my appetite.”

“You don’t want to get sick.” I get out of the car and grab her hand.

To be honest, I haven’t been in here since high school, but it smells just the same. Grease and salt from the fryer, fish batter, stale beer that owns the red and green carpet. The memories come flashing back, not all of them horrible.

It’s just after five o’clock, and the pub is fairly full of regular blokes off from work. We snag a high-top table by the door and I ask Kayla what she wants to drink.

“Surprise me,” she says, though there’s an air of caution in her voice, as if I’m going to get her a beer called the Haggis Surprise.

“Done.” I saunter over to the overworked bartender, who’s wearing a grey shirt with sweat stains down the sides. I’m pretty sure he’s the same guy who worked here fifteen years ago.

I lean against the bar and wait until he notices me, and when he does his eyes go wide. But there’s no way I look the same as I did back in the day, growth spurt or not.

“Well, I’ll be,” the man says, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm. “Lachlan McGregor.” I squint at him, trying to figure it out when he continues, “You’re the best part of Edinburgh rugby. Tell me you’re fully healed now? The team has been playing the dog’s bollocks since you left us.”

That’s not exactly true. The end of last season wasn’t particularly good, but that might have happened whether I was on the team or not.

“I’m back,” I tell him.

“Brilliant. Practice going well? Ready for the big game?”

“Aye,” I tell him, not wanting to get into it. “Could I get a pint of ale and a pint of cider for the lady over there?” I gesture to Kayla. She’s sitting at the table, taking it all in.

“No worries. It’s on the house, mate,” he says, and promptly pulls out the pint glasses.

“Well, cheers then,” I say as he hands me the drinks. I take a moment to stare at the amber liquid, my thirst suddenly rampant. I could down it all in a second, just two gulps, and the relief would be immediate. Instead, I bring both drinks over to her, my hands shaking slightly.

“Here you go,” I tell her.

“Did the guy know you?”

I shrug. “Not really. More like he knew who I was.”

She beams at me, sliding the cider toward her. “That’s awesome. You’re famous.”

I grunt, holding the beer up to my lips. “It happens rarely.”

“Nooooo,” she says. “The other day when we were walking on, what was it, Princes Street, there were a lot of people looking at you.”

“They were looking at you,” I tell her warmly. “My beautiful girl.” I hold out my beer and knock it against her glass. “Here’s to…”

“Meeting your folks,” she says.

I nod. “Yes. That.” I drink my beer, half of it gone immediately.

She takes forever to finish hers, so when my glass is empty, she nudges her cider toward me. “Here, I can’t finish this.”

I hesitate. Just for a moment. Just enough to maybe rein myself in. The glass is about half full and I’m already feeling swimmy. If I finish it, I know it will lead me to that place where every guilty thought I’ve ever had will magically disappear.

I want to be in that place, especially now, especially with this gorgeous, wonderful woman who I am so terribly unworthy of.

But I won’t. With effort, I shake my head, declining the drink. I get us out to the car and on our way. The wind is picking up now, pushing grey clouds in from the coast and coating everything with a fine mist. Everything is blindingly green because of it.

Jessica and Donald’s house is about three hundred years old and looks it. The stone fence outside is crumbling, a few of the larger rocks having toppled over no thanks to me and my predisposition for running along it when I was younger. The rest of the house has ivy growing up the sides, though Jessica’s garden is manicured as always, the sunflowers along the south side already waist high.

“Oh my god,” Kayla says, her hand to her chest as we pause by the iron gate. “This is like something from a movie. Is this where you grew up?”

“Aye,” I tell her. “Hasn’t changed much.”

“It’s like a fairytale.”

Something in my chest clenches. While the pub held mostly pleasantly memories, maybe because I was always in there with my mates, the house held a world of others. It was both my first real home since I had been given up for adoption, and it was also the place I felt most unworthy of. It also held the time where my life began to go tits up for no reason other than my own doing.

Christ. I should have had that cider after all.

Before I can dwell on it anymore, the front door, forever painted bright red, opens, and Jessica and Donald step out, giving us a wave.

“Lachlan,” Jessica calls to me in that sing-songy voice of hers. She’s wearing all black, believing it to be slimming even though she’s always been quite thin. Her grey hair is straight and shiny, and she’s wearing just a few sparkly jewels and what looks like little makeup. Donald looks just as dashing in his usual vest, his hands shoved down into his pockets, wearing glasses that complement his sharp eyes. My adopted parents are some of the classiest, smartest people you’ll ever meet. I often wonder how they found it in their hearts to take me in at all.

I make the introductions quickly, giving them both a hug hello before proudly showing them Kayla. “Jessica, Donald, this is Kayla,” I tell them. Even though I mentioned on the phone a few days ago that I was bringing a girl over, I don’t think they’ve quite gotten over the shock because they both look taken aback.

Finally, Jessica shakes her head. “Oh, she’s darling,” she says, and brings Kayla into a light hug. When she pulls away, she holds her by the shoulders at arm’s length and peers at her. “Where ever did you find such a lovely girl? And one that would want to come all the way here with the likes of you?” she adds, taking the piss out of me like she often does.

Kayla is blushing. I love how she’s so confident at times yet always takes compliments with a sense of disbelief, as if she’s never heard how beautiful she is, as if she’s hearing it for the first time. It makes me want to say it again and again and again, until she believes it. If only she didn’t look so bloody brilliant when flushed.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Kayla says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I raise my brows. Actually, I’ve rarely talked about them, but it seems to be the right thing to say because Jessica looks pleased as punch.

“Is that so?” she asks, sending me a questioning look. “Good things, I hope.”

“Always,” I say just as Donald comes forward, offering his hand.

“Glad to have you here,” he says to her. “How are you enjoying Scotland so far?”

“I love everything about it,” she says. “It’s going to be hard to go home.”

If I was numb, those words wouldn’t hurt the way they do. She seems to still a bit after saying it, the smile frozen on her lips, almost hyperaware. She’d told me a few days ago that we weren’t to mention that she was leaving, and we’d been sticking to it, living in a dream of sex and soul, pretending the days were endless and time was only for other people but not us.

“Well, you just stay here for as long as you like,” Donald says smoothly, putting his arm around her shoulder and leading her into the house. “We have a nice cuppa ready for you.”

As he leads her inside, Jessica grabs my arm and pulls me down toward her.

“I just wanted to say,” she says quietly, her eyes bright, “that I didn’t know what to expect when you told us you were bringing over a girl. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is. I know you very well, Lachlan.” I frown at her and she continues, “You’ve never been one for sentiment. But I just wanted to tell you that I’m so happy for you. She seems lovely, and she’s beautiful.”

I swallow uneasily. “Thank you,” I say gruffly, but I don’t add anything else.

“She treats you well?”

I give her a quick smile. “Yes. She does.”

She pats my back, satisfied, and we go inside to the sitting room where Donald is pouring Kayla a cup of tea. I sit in my usual seat, a vintage upholstered chair that Jessica always wanted to throw away because it was threadbare in places, but I’d convinced her to hold onto it. They’ve always been very wealthy and love to show that off in subtle ways. Jessica’s aesthetic for the house is cozy but not enough for ragged furniture. The chair was the only thing I could really relate to though, as daft as that sounds. When you’re an orphan, you look for comfort anywhere you can find it.

While Jessica putters about, getting shortbread and scones for us and placing them on the table with her finest white and pink china, Donald asks Kayla if she’s from San Francisco, which then gets them talking about the city. Donald worked in finance from an early age and a lot of his career had him traveling around the globe. Born to a poor family, he is a completely self-made man and it’s one reason why I admire him so much, other than the fact that he took me in when he did and ruled with an iron fist when he had to.

“And your job?” Donald asks, biting into his shortbread which leads to a shower of crumbs on the carpet. Jessica makes a good-hearted tsking noise and sits down, sliding the plate toward him so it won’t happen again.

This is where I see Kayla stutter. She rubs her lips together, and I know she’s trying to think of the right response. Finally she says, “I work for a weekly newspaper. The Bay Area Weekly. I’m in advertising.”

“Ah,” Donald says, adjusting his glasses. “That must be very interesting.”

Kayla glances at me and then says, “No. It’s not really.” She lets out a dry laugh, shrugging. “I’ve always wanted to be a journalist, to actually write the articles, but it seems no matter how much I try, I can’t get there.”

I clear my throat. “Well actually, Kayla wrote a brilliant article about me and Bram about the work he’s doing over there for lower-income housing.”

“I did,” Kayla said with a slow nod. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever get that chance again. I didn’t even get credited with the article. Someone else did.”

“That’s bollocks,” Donald says, slapping his knee lightly and trying to talk without spitting crumbs everywhere. Jessica has all the elegance in this relationship. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I mean, I complained, but the editor doesn’t listen to me. Or anyone.”

“Have you ever thought about writing on the side then, maybe for free for a while?” he says, peering at her over his glasses. “Build up a portfolio and a reputation, hone your craft. Then start looking for a job that will actually pay you to write?”

I often wish I were Donald’s actual son, least not that he could have passed those brains down to me. Being born of crackhead blood is never to your advantage.

“Yes, Donald,” Jessica says. “That’s a great idea. Why not start with travel writing? You’re here, maybe Lachlan could show you some of the hidden spots of our country, the places no one writes about.” She gestures at me with her cup of tea. “Or another article on the organization. Even the gala next week. You could help each other out.”

Kayla and I exchange a glance. I hadn’t thought of that, and clearly neither had she.

“I wouldn’t know who to write for,” she says.

Jessica dismisses that idea with a wave. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I know a lot of people. So does Donald. It wouldn’t be for pay, but like Donald said, just to get your foot in the door and build up your brand. At the same time, Lachlan and the dogs would benefit. What do you say? If I could make this happen, would you be interested?”

Kayla blinks for a moment, then straightens up. “Yes. Yes, of course! That would be great. When is the gala again?”

“On Friday,” Jessica says, and gives me a hard, discerning look. “If I know Lachlan, he’s completely dropped the ball on this one. Wouldn’t be the first time. One year he showed up in his rugby uniform because he came straight after practice.”

I clear my throat. The fucking gala is a fundraiser for the shelter. Jessica hosts it every year, and I just kind of show up, sign autographs, meet people, and put out some good PR for the organization. I usually bring Lionel to the event with me, and he wins people over far better than I can.

“It slipped my mind,” I tell them. “I’ve been…busy.”

Kayla smiles knowingly at that. “It’s okay. Amara told me already. I just wasn’t sure when it was.”

“Always at the start of the season. People are excited for rugby again, and usually I can get a few of my teammates to come show some support.” I pause, very aware of the way Donald and Jessica are staring at me. “I would love it if you would be my date, so long as you don’t mind sharing me with Lionel.”

“You know I don’t.”

“He’s a good one, isn’t he?” Jessica says warmly.

“Who, Lachlan or the dog?”

I let out a small laugh. “Oh, love, please don’t choose.”

My words bring out a look between Donald and Jessica which I do my best to ignore.

The doorbell rings and Jessica gets up. “That must be Brigs.”

Brigs is my brother, and I immediately feel bad that I haven’t gotten in touch with him upon getting back. We’ve had a pretty good relationship, though I put him—and Jessica and Donald—through hell when I was younger. It’s only recently that he’s pulled away more than I have. His wife and child died three years ago in a horrible car crash, and he hasn’t been the same ever since. I understand him, though I can’t say I understand his exact grief—nor would I want to. But I get why he’s distancing himself from everyone around him. It’s not just the pain of loss. He blames himself for the accident since they had a fight beforehand. I never learned what the fight was about, but according to Brigs, it was enough to make him think it was all his fault. Sometimes I want to reach out to him, to tell him I know what guilt is, but I don’t have the courage to even bring up that shit with myself.

“Hey, Mum,” Brigs says, kissing Jessica on both cheeks. Though I call them my parents, I’ve never been able to call them Mum and Dad. I’m not sure if that’s a defense mechanism or what.

Brigs walks in the house and eyes the rest of us in surprise. You can see my cousins in Brigs, and vice versa. He’s tall and athletic, though looking quite thin as of late, with vivid blue eyes that I can’t describe as anything other than haunted. His cheekbones are thanks to Jessica, sharp and angular. When he’s feeling particularly angry, you definitely want to clear the room. I can silence someone with my fists, but he can silence a room with one look.

“Lachlan,” he says, and there’s a gaiety to his voice that wasn’t there before.

I get out of my chair and give him a hug, the old slap on the back.

“Good to see you, brother,” he says, looking me dead in the eye.

“Same to you.”

He looks over my shoulder and raises a brow when he sees Kayla. “And who is this, then?”

I can’t help but beam proudly at her. I probably look quite the fool, but I don’t care.

“This is Kayla. She’s from San Francisco.”

“Is that so?” he asks, and gives her a nod. “First time in Scotland, yeah?”

“It sure is,” Kayla says.

“And you have this ape as your tour guide? I should show you around, yeah? Show you the real Scotland not seen through the eyes of a hothead rugby player,” he says with a big grin. It takes him from sinister to jokester in a flash, and I can see Kayla’s shoulders relax.

“Brigs,” Jessica warns. “Be nice.”

“Nice is a four letter word,” Brigs says, and luckily everyone laughs. It’s nice to see him happy, and for a moment I realize it’s probably nice for everyone to see me happy too.

Soon we gather around the dining room table while Jessica goes about preparing the dinner, a succulent roast duck that Donald says he shot in the Highlands last weekend on a hunting expedition. The wine comes out. It takes a lot out of me, but I decline and have a glass of mineral water instead.

The conversation then moves on to normal topics. Donald discusses his work with the Lions Club, Kayla talks about housing in San Francisco, and I say a few things about rugby practice. Brigs is ever quiet, more so than me, until Jessica starts dishing out the sides and brings up the fact that he’s got a new job.

I don’t make too big of a deal about it because that’s just the way that Brigs is. He lost his job as a teacher after the accident, and has been looking for work ever since. I was never worried—he’s a shrewd guy and a hard worker, he was just going through a lot. But Jessica is bursting with pride. I can tell it makes him uncomfortable.

“Congratulations,” I tell him. “It’s about time. Here’s to that.”

And maybe I’ve said the wrong thing because his eyes narrow sharply and he raises his glass. “Here’s to me? No, no. Here’s to you, Lachlan.”

I frown and he continues, completely sincere. “I’m serious. Really, I’m serious. I don’t think we’ve ever really toasted to Lachlan and the person he’s become.”

There’s a worm of unease in my chest.

Brigs looks at his parents. “Really, I don’t think we have. I think we just opened our arms up to Lachlan and brought him back in, but I don’t think we’ve ever really told him how proud we were that he was able to beat his addiction.”

The globe stops spinning on its axis, just long enough to make me feel sick.

“Brigs,” Jessica warns, in barely above a whisper.

But Brigs isn’t picking up on how still I’ve gotten, on how my hands have curled into tight fists, on how Donald and Jessica are sending him warning looks, and Kayla is staring at me with open confusion. He doesn’t pick up on any of that because he’s looking into his glass of beer like it’s telling him what to say.

“We really thought you were gone, Brother. Meth, heroin. Not many can pull themselves off the streets, pull themselves off the drugs, and actually do something with their lives, but you. You. You’ve done everything you set out to do.” Finally he raises his head to look at me, completely earnest, not noticing my wide, wild eyes. “Here’s to you, Brother. I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad she’s here too.”

The most awkward silence imaginable blankets the room. Everyone eyes each other then slowly reaches for their glass. I can’t even bother reaching for mine. I’m utterly paralyzed. Not just from humiliation, because when you’ve lived for years on the street, you learn to have no shame. None at all. But it’s the fear that grips me, like a vise around my heart, because Kayla didn’t know any of that, and I wasn’t sure I could ever bring it up with her.

But there it is, out in the open, for her to reflect on, to judge, to fear.

I can’t even look at her. I quickly excuse myself from the table and walk through the kitchen to the bathroom, passing by the fridge where I swiftly grab a bottle of beer and head right on in, locking the door behind me. I lean against the sink, breathing in and out, willing the pain to stop, for the regret to subside, but it doesn’t. So I slam the top of the beer against the sink, the cap snapping off, and down it in five seconds.

I burp. I wait. Wanting it all to go away, for my pulse to stop fighting my veins.

The longer I stay in the bathroom though, the worse it will get. I put the beer in the rubbish bin then head back out to the dining room. I swear, this moment is scarier than any moment I’ve ever had on a rugby pitch.

Thankfully, luckily, they’re all talking about Obama, of all people, so my return to the table isn’t overly noticed.

Except by Kayla, of course, because she notices everything. And there is absolutely no way that I’ll be able to let this sleeping dog lie.

I decide to wrap the evening up early, just after dessert, telling everyone that I have to return home to the dogs, especially Emily who isn’t used to being left alone yet. We say goodbye to everyone, though I know we’ll see Donald and Jessica at the gala. When Brigs hugs me goodbye, he pulls me tight and whispers in my ear.

“If she still loves you, she’s a keeper.”

I want to smash his fucking face in for that and can only mutter an angry syllable in return.

The car ride back to Edinburgh is as choked with silence as one can imagine. I try to concentrate on the road, on the white lines slipping underneath the car, at the black highway rolling toward the headlights. There’s something so dreamy about the moment, that after-dinner, late night drive, but the gravity of the situation brings me back.

Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I clear my throat, keeping my eyes ahead, my grip stiff on the wheel. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, voice low and dripping with unease.

It takes her a moment. “About what exactly?”

I really don’t want to spell it out for her, but I will if I must. “About what Brigs said. His toast to me. About the person I used to be.”

She sighs noisily. “Right. The person you used to be. Tell me about him, then.”

“Do you really want to know?” I glance at her to see her nodding, her eyes focused out the window and into the darkness.

“Yes,” she says. “I want to know everything about you. Especially the events that made you who you are.”

“And who am I?” I ask softly, heart pleading. “Who am I to you?”

She turns her face to me, skin lit up by the pale dashboard lights. “You’re Lachlan McGregor. And you’re mine.”

Another gut punch, but sweeter this time, dipped in honey.

“Please don’t hold anything back from me,” she says. “You don’t owe me anything, but I…I want to understand. I want to be there for you, I want to know every inch, not just your body, but your mind and your heart and your soul. You can trust me, you know. I’m not going anywhere.”