Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

J ack stared at the wiggling icon on his phone screen.

Delete.

The app disappeared, taking with it three years of casual hook-ups and meaningless chats. His thumb lingered on the empty space where the icon had been, like pressing on a bruise to check if it hurt.

It didn’t.

At least not that one.

The kitchen timer shrieked, jolting him back to reality. Pasta bubbling over, steam fogging up the window. He grabbed a tea towel, yanking the pot off the stove.

‘Da! Phil’s eating the raw spaghetti again!’ Beth shouted from the kitchen table.

Jack turned to find his youngest crunching on uncooked pasta like it was a snack. ‘Out of your mouth. Now.’

Phil grinned, a pasta stick dangling from his lips like a straw.

‘I mean it.’ Jack held out his hand. ‘Raw pasta makes your tummy hurt, remember?’

Beth piped up from the table, where she was allegedly doing homework. ‘Like that time he ate all the cookie dough and—’

‘We don’t need to revisit that story.’ Jack intercepted another pasta stick heading for Phil’s mouth. ‘Right, who wants proper food?’

Jack Jr. looked up from his phone. ‘Is it the red sauce with the bits?’

‘Aye, but no bits.’

‘Good. I hate the bits.’

‘I know.’ Jack focused on draining the pasta in the sink, steam scalding his face. ‘Now, plates please.’

‘Da?’ Beth asked as he spooned sauce over her portion. ‘Are we still watching the film on Friday?’

‘Course we are.’ Jack watched his kids dig in. His own plate sat untouched.

His phone pinged. Not her. Never her. Just another notification. Wonderful.

When he finally speared a forkful into his mouth, the pasta tasted like cardboard. Everything did these days. But he forced it down, one mechanical bite after another. Because that’s what adults did. They kept going. They didn’t fall apart over…

Over what? A woman who’d breezed through town, captured some photos, and moved on with her life?

Christ, he was pathetic.

‘Da?’ Phil’s voice pulled him back. ‘Can I have more juice?’

‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Abracadabra?’

Jack sighed and reached for Phil’s cup, the plastic Batman logo worn nearly smooth from countless washings. His movements were mechanical, disconnected. Like watching someone else pour juice through a fog.

‘Da?’ Beth twirled pasta around her fork. ‘Will Trish come to film night?’

The juice sloshed over the rim. Jack seized the tea towel, mopping up the spill. ‘No, darlin’. She’s gone back to Edinburgh.’

‘Oh, okay.’ Beth’s fork clattered against her plate.

Phil pushed his pasta around, sauce all over his chin. ‘I liked her cookies.’

‘The ones with our letters?’ Beth’s face did that thing that always made him cave in at the toy shop. ‘Those were pretty!’

Jack glared at his plate, sauce congealing into abstract patterns. Two weeks. She’d been in their lives for two weeks, and already his kids talked about her like she belonged. Like she was…

He couldn’t finish that thought.

The kitchen fell silent save for the tap-tap-tap of Beth’s fork against her plate and the sound of Phil slurping his spaghetti.

This was his life, right here. Three wee souls who needed him, who counted on him. Even if it weren’t for Melissa, he couldn’t uproot them, upset them, couldn’t chase some dream of…what? Playing house with a woman who’d already chosen her path? A great one at that. One that she deserved.

His phone on the table, screen dark. No messages. No missed calls. Just silence.

‘Time to clear the table.’ Jack set Phil back on his feet. ‘Then finishing homework.’

Three groans echoed through the kitchen.

As he loaded the dishwasher, muscle memory taking over, Jack’s mind wandered. To hair as untamed as her laughter. To honey-brown eyes behind smudged glasses. And kisses in Hazelbrae’s kitchen.

Perfect. It had been perfect.

And that was exactly why it had to end.

Because perfect things never stayed perfect. Nothing did. He’d learned that lesson, hadn’t he? Ten years old, standing in his aunt’s kitchen, clutching a backpack. Then, watching Melissa pack her bags to go to uni. And again, when she’d left him and took the children.

‘Da?’ Beth’s voice threaded through his thoughts. ‘Can you help me with my maths?’

Jack turned and saw his daughter holding up her homework like a peace offering.

This was what mattered. This was real.

He only wished this reality could include…her.

‘I’ll try, love.’ He dried his hands on a tea towel. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’

Wednesday night landed Jack in his usual spot for band practice, surrounded by the familiar clutter and musty air of the Blue Bonnet’s backroom. Equipment cases and spare chairs crowded the corners like sleeping giants. The last note hung, weighty and thick, before dissolving into the quiet. Jack lowered his double bass, fingers still tingling from the final pull of the strings.

‘Well, that was shite.’ Niall set his guitar down with a grimace.

‘Speak for yourself.’ Bert adjusted his drums. ‘I was brilliant.’

‘Aye, if by brilliant you mean off-tempo.’ Niall grabbed his water bottle. ‘We need to run it again.’

Jack’s shoulders tensed. ‘Gary and Linda are with the kids. I should head—’

‘Nowhere.’ Niall’s voice was firm. ‘Not until we get this right. Only two days until we play on Christmas day, lads.’

‘Och, it’s good enough for the Blue Bonnet.’ Jack busied himself with his instrument case, avoiding Niall’s eyes.

‘Right, lads. I’m off.’ Bert stood and stretched. ‘Fiona’s waiting, and ye ken how it is.’ He paused at the door. ‘Try not to kill each other before Christmas.’

The door closed behind Bert. Jack felt Niall’s stare boring into his back.

‘Out with it,’ Niall said.

‘Out with what?’

‘Whatever’s got you playing like your strings are made of washing line.’

Jack’s wry laugh landed with all the conviction of junk mail. ‘Just tired.’

Niall crossed his arms. ‘This is about her, isn’t it?’

‘Her who?’

‘Don’t play daft. I’ve known you two-thirds of your life, remember? Trish.’

Jack’s fingers slipped on the case’s clasp. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Is that so?’ Niall’s eyebrow shot up. ‘Because you’ve been walking around like someone pissed in your porridge ever since she left.’

Jack’s grip tightened on his bass case. ‘Leave it, mate.’

‘No, mate .’ Niall’s boots scuffed against the floor as he stepped closer. ‘You’ve been off. Playing like shite. Cancelling practice.’

‘I’ve got the kids.’

‘Never stopped you before.’

Jack yanked the case shut, metal clasps snapping like they meant it. ‘Some of us have responsibilities.’

‘That’s rich.’ Niall’s laugh was anything but amused. ‘Since when do you care about responsibilities? You’ve spent three years shagging your way from here to Inverness and back.’

‘That’s a different story.’

‘How?’

‘It just is.’ Jack’s knuckles went white on the handle, the leather straining under his grip.

‘Because none of them mattered?’ Niall prodded. ‘Because none of them actually made you feel—’

‘Feel what?’ Jack swivelled around. ‘Go on. Tell me what I’m feeling since you’re such a fucking expert.’

Niall settled onto an amp. ‘Afraid.’

The word dropped like a weight on his chest. Fuck. All the barricades he’d been holding onto simply gave way. ‘Arse. But aye, possibly.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘Nothing happened.’ The words left an acrid residue. ‘She’s gone. That’s it, end of story.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

Jack’s head snapped up. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means you’re being a right numpty. Did you even ask her to stay?’

‘She has a life in Edinburgh. Or London. A shining career ahead of her. I’m not mental.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

Jack’s face seized up like a rusted letterbox. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Niall’s tone gentled. ‘Because from where I’m sitting, you’re both miserable for no reason. Been there, done that. Waste of time.’

‘I’m not—‘

‘Save it. As I said, I’ve known you since we were boys. You’re shitting yourself.’

The truth of it burned. ‘I have the kids to think about.’

‘The same kids who haven’t shut up about baking cookies with her and the banana thing? Aye, they told the Bellbottoms. And Marla. Fifty times.’ Niall let out a dismissive grunt. ‘So try again.’

Jack’s hands bunched. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘How about the truth?’

‘The truth?’ Jack’s laugh burst out like a punch – a quick, broken sound. ‘Fine. The truth is, I fucked up. I got scared, and I pushed her away. Happy?’

‘Getting there.’ Niall’s eyes held his. ‘What scared you?’

‘Everything.’ The word escaped before Jack could stop it. ‘The way she fit. How easy it was. How much I wanted…’ He broke off, throat tight.

‘Wanted what?’

‘More.’ Jack’s voice folded inward. ‘I wanted more. And that terrified the shite out of me. Because let’s be real – someone like me? Never gonna measure up to someone like her. Different leagues, different planets. I’m not daft.’

‘Up for debate. You know what your real problem is, Jack?’

‘Please, enlighten me. Since you really can’t seem to stop yourself.’

‘You’re so busy protecting yourself from getting hurt, you don’t see you’re already hurting.’ Niall’s voice carried the weight of every late-night conversation they’d ever had. ‘And not just yourself.’

Jack’s fingers found a loose thread on his jeans, picking at it. ‘They’re fine. The weans are—’

‘I’m not talking about your children.’ The amp creaked under Niall’s weight. ‘Though Christ knows they adore her.’

‘They barely know her.’

‘Two weeks, that was enough.’ Niall’s eyes fixed on him. ‘Same as it was enough for you.’

Jack yanked the thread loose. ‘What the fuck do you want from me?’

‘I want you to stop being a coward.’

The word struck like a knife. Jack’s head whipped around. ‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me.’ Niall’s voice didn’t waver. ‘Remember when your mum sent you here? To live with your aunt?’

Jack’s insides compressed. ‘Don’t.’

‘You’d only been in Kilcranach a day,’ Niall bulldozed forward. ‘She dragged you to Old Harris’ birthday party. You looked like a drowned rat, just standing there in the corner. Hood cranked up, fists bunched like live grenades. Like you’d bolt or detonate if someone so much as looked at you wrong.’

Jack’s jaw locked, memories bristling back. ‘I was ten.’

‘Aye, and scowling like a wee fucker.’ Niall stepped closer. ‘But you stayed. Until we started up some god-awful tune, and you asked if I could teach you the chords. Then you told me—’

‘That was ages ago.’ Jack’s voice hung by a thread.

‘And you’re still that same scared lad, running from anything that might get close enough to hurt you.’

Jack stood up and marched to the door. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No? Let me tell you this: casual isn’t enough anymore. Never was, actually.’ Niall’s words kept hitting like arrows. ‘And that’s terrifying.’

Jack’s hand found the doorknob.

‘Go on then. Run. Ignore. Play it down. Pretend nothing matters. Your masterclass.’

Jack’s fingers tightened around the cold metal.

‘Or you could try something else,’ Niall’s words came slower now, careful as tuning pegs, ‘like actually telling someone how you feel.’

Jack’s forehead pressed against the door, wood grain rough against his skin. ‘What if… What if it fucks everything up? You and me. Marla. The whole village knows each other’s business.’

‘Aye, maybe. But that’s not why you’re standing there with your head against the door.’ Niall’s heel tapped against the amp.

‘Fine.’ Jack turned. ‘What happens when she realises she isn’t happy with…this?’ He gestured at himself. ‘A small-town part-time single dad who still plays in his former school band.’

‘As opposed to what? That London tosser who couldn’t handle her? Marla told me about him. What a sad prick.’

‘At least he could afford to take her places. Show her things.’ Jack’s fingers traced the doorknob’s edges. ‘I can barely afford new shoes for the kids.’

‘Jesus, Jack. You think that’s what she’s after? Overpriced wine and oysters in the Maldives? Have you met her?’

‘That’s what she’s used to. And I think she deserves more than film nights with three kids and frozen pizza.’

‘Have you ever asked her what she wants?’

Jack’s hand dropped. ‘If it goes wrong—’

‘The real question is: What if it goes right ?’

The words held suspended in the musty air between them. Outside, snow slipped past the window, each flake dipping through the streetlight’s glow like a twinkle of possibility. Appearing and melting away.

‘I can’t.’ Jack’s voice came out strangled. ‘Not with her being Marla’s best friend. Too much at stake.’

Niall stood. ‘Och, you’re just looking for excuses.’

‘I’m being considerate.’

‘Naw, you’re being a coward.’ Niall stepped closer. ‘And you bloody well know it.’

Jack’s mouth set like dried cement. The pipes groaned overhead, a counterpoint to his frenzied heartbeat.

‘If it goes wrong, it goes wrong.’ Niall said and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘But at least you’ll know you tried.’

Jack turned and stared at his friend. ‘Since when did you turn all life coach?’

‘Must be those self-help books you keep delivering.’ Niall’s mouth twitched. ‘That, or I’m just sick of watching you be a knobhead.’

‘Whatever.’ A dry laugh slipped out, ragged and genuine. ‘Cheers, mate.’

‘Anytime. Now, are you going to fix this, or do I need to lock you both in the post office till Hogmanay?’

‘I think I’m awright. I’ll figure it out.’

‘Good.’ Niall pulled him into a rough hug. ‘Because if I have to watch you mope through one more practice, I’m replacing you with a better-looking bassist.’

‘Good luck. I’d like to see you find one ‘round here.’

They pulled back, grinning like the same smartass schoolboys who’d first clicked.

Stars pierced the winter sky like tiny ice chips as Jack trudged home, his bass case bumping against his leg. The snow had settled into a hard crust, each step breaking through with a satisfying crunch. His mind churned with Niall’s words, replaying their conversation like a stuck record.

A bark cut through his thoughts. Mrs Bellbottom appeared around the corner, Muffin straining at his lead.

‘Evening, Jack!’ She waved, her leopard print coat lighting up the streetlight. ‘Just finishing our constitutional.’

‘Bit late for walkies, isn’t it?’

‘Och, you know Muffin. He’s in charge.’ She patted the Border Terrier’s head. ‘Say, did you see the Christmas edition of Wanderlust ? Just came out today.’

Jack’s stomach dropped. ‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Don’t fall over yourself to rush to the shop.’ She adjusted her scarf. ‘Not a peep about Kilcranach in there.’

‘What?’ Jack stopped dead. ‘But Trish…the photos…’

‘Not a single one made it in.’ Mrs Bellbottom wore that same knowing look she’d used when catching students passing notes. ‘Funny that.’

‘But…’ Jack’s mind raced. ‘All the work. The Christmas market shots. The castle. My k—’ He stopped himself. ‘Everything.’

‘Indeed.’ She smiled, unperturbed. ‘Though I must say, I was rather looking forward to seeing myself decorating that tree. I felt like a star that day.’

‘You’re not upset?’

‘Why would I be?’ She guided Muffin away from a particularly interesting lamppost. ‘Some things matter more than fifteen minutes of fame.’

‘Agreed. But… like what, exactly?’ He let out a grunt. ‘Purpose? A higher calling?’

‘Like being true to yourself.’ Her voice carried on the night air. ‘Ever notice how people get swept up chasing what they think they should want?’ Mrs Bellbottom’s words drifted between them. ‘Always reaching for the next rung, eyes fixed upward. Meanwhile, life’s happening right here at ground level.’

Jack traced a seam on his sleeve. ‘Sometimes you have to climb though, don’t you? To get somewhere?’

‘Somewhere.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘And where exactly would that be?’

‘I don’t…’ He trailed off, unable to finish. ‘The stars?’

‘The thing about ladders,’ she adjusted her coat, ‘is they only go up and down. But life? Life spreads out in all directions. The real gold isn’t found by climbing higher and higher. It’s found by standing still long enough to see what’s there.’

His heart folded like an envelope. ‘What if standing still doesn’t work for some people?’ He couldn’t let go of the thought that some folks were meant to chase after dreams while others were destined to remain rooted in place.

She patted his hand. ‘The truth doesn’t need all those fancy words we dress it up in. It just needs to be spoken. Sometimes it’s about finding the courage to express what’s in your heart, regardless of where you think it should take you.’

He leaned against the lamppost. ‘But what if that truth changes everything?’

‘You know what’s in your heart.’

The night air felt heavy with possibility. ‘And if I’m wrong?’

‘Being wrong isn’t the worst thing, dearie.’ She smiled. ‘Never giving yourself the chance to be right, that’s the real tragedy.’

The stars above seemed to pulse brighter. Jack’s heart thundered against his ribs as understanding clicked into place. Deep and unforgiving, sweeping away every excuse he’d clung to. All this time, he’d assumed she’d used those photos to climb the fancy London career ladder. But they weren’t in the magazine. Not one. What the hell happened? Did that editor knock them back? Was Trish gutted about it? Or had she…chosen not to publish them? The thought carved a path through his assumptions.

Whatever had happened, he’d been a complete dickhead, zero context, all knee-jerk reaction. He’d jumped to conclusions without even asking for her side of things. And now he saw it, clear as day: his anger about the photos wasn’t the real story. It was a shield, a cheap trick his brain had pulled to avoid what really terrified him: that she might take one hard look and walk away, taking what was left of his heart with him.

The need to find her was like the need for oxygen, full stop. No room for negotiation. He had to understand. To make it right.

Because the thought of not hearing her ramble about light and angles ever again made his chest ache with a rawness he’d been avoiding his whole life.

Fuck, yeah. He was in love with her. Proper, scary, all-in love. The kind that made him want to be better. To try harder. To actually give a damn, every day.

He knew because he’d never felt like that before.

This was it.

And he’d cocked it up spectacularly. Burned down the whole damn bridge without even checking if anyone was still on it.

Maybe she felt the same. Maybe she’d already written him off as another disappointment. But he was going to listen to her. Whatever she wanted to say. Whatever it took.

‘Mrs Bellbottom?’ The question stuck in his throat like keys in a rusty lock. ‘Could you watch the kids tonight? And tell folks their mail will come late tomorrow?’

Her smile widened. ‘Planning a wee late-night road trip, are we?’

‘Edinburgh.’

‘About time.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Go on then; I’ll handle things here. It really takes a village, and, lucky for you, you’ve got one. And I’ve got your spare keys.’

Jack set off at a run. His boots kicked up loose snow, each step carrying him closer to his car. To her.

If he’d driven all those miles for fucks, he could put on a few more for love.