Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

T he buzzer for Trish’s flat bellowed through the Edinburgh night. Jack pressed it again, heart ricocheting up and down his ribcage. His breath fogged in the cold air, joining steam from a nearby grate. The metal button was icy under his trembling finger.

No answer.

He jabbed it a third time, harder than necessary. His stomach churned with every second of silence. What if she’d already left? He was an idiot for coming unannounced. But he couldn’t wait. If he did, he’d be back to second-guessing everything.

Come on, Shutterbug. Be home.

Static crackled through the speaker. Then her voice, thick and raw: ‘Who’s there?’

‘Royal Mail.’ His weak attempt at humour died in the frigid air. The silence stretched, broken only by distant traffic and his thundering pulse. Each heartbeat felt like judgement.

‘Jack?’ Her voice cracked on his name. ‘What are you—’

‘Let me up?’ He moved closer to the speaker as if he could will her to say yes. ‘Please? I know I don’t deserve it, but…please?’

More silence. Then, a sudden metallic chirp that made him jump. The door lock clicked.

Four flights of stairs, no lift. By the time he reached her floor, his thighs were burning and his courage melting. But there she was, silhouetted in her doorway, wearing the Clash t-shirt he’d left in her room and ratty sweat shorts. Ice cream stains dotted the front. Behind glasses, her eyes were swollen and red.

‘Have you been crying, Shutterbug?’

She swiped at her nose with her wrist, half-hiding behind the door. ‘No.’

‘Liar.’ The word came out gentle.

‘What do you want, Jack?’

Everything. He wanted everything. But the words tangled in his throat. ‘I saw the magazine. Or rather, didn’t see it.’

‘Oh. That .’

‘Yeah. That .’ He inched closer, afraid she’d close the door again. Which would be perfectly okay, even if it’d rip his fucking heart to shreds. ‘Why aren’t our photos in there?’

‘Because… I pulled them.’ She lifted her chin in defiance. ‘All of them.’

‘But the job and your career—’

‘Fuck the job and the career.’ The words burst from her. ‘I couldn’t… They wanted this sappy fantasy. But you were right. That’s biscuit tin bullshit. What Kilcranach is – its people – it’s real. Multidimensional and complicated and… I couldn’t cheapen that. Thank you for helping me see clearly.’

‘I… Can I come in? Please? I want to explain. To apologise. To grovel, honestly. And I couldn’t wait until morning.’

‘Okay.’

He stepped into her tiny flat, barely bigger than his living room and kitchen. Boxes, books, and camera equipment covered every surface. A half-empty tub of ice cream melted on the coffee table, spoon stuck upright like a flag of surrender.

Who eats half a tub of ice cream?

A mug of tea sat beside her laptop, screensaver cycling through her photos of Kilcranach. His heart clenched at the sight of his kids’ faces among them – Beth mid-laugh, Phil concentrating on his cookie decorating, Junior proudly holding up something undefinable green.

‘I’ve been editing.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Well, trying to. Mostly just staring.’

‘About the magazine—’

‘Don’t.’ She hugged herself, his shirt swimming on her frame. ‘I made my choice. I won’t compromise my vision just because some London twats want picture-postcard Scotland. I should have said that much earlier, but I was so tempted by that job offer.’

‘That’s what I love about you.’ The words broke free before he could catch them. ‘You don’t settle. You see the real beauty in things. In people.’ He swallowed hard. ‘Even when they can’t see it themselves.’

‘Jack. I—’

‘No, let me finish.’ He paced, boots silent on her worn carpet. ‘I’ve spent most of my life running. From feelings, from commitment, from anything that might hurt. But you…’ He gestured helplessly. ‘You dive right in. You see something worth capturing, and you go for it. No fear.’

She let out a wry laugh. ‘No fear? I’m terrified all the time. Of not being good enough. Of letting people down. Of…’ Her voice fractured. ‘Of letting myself want things I can’t have.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like…you.’ The words hung between them. ‘Like this crazy idea that someone who’s known me for three months, or weeks, could actually want…’ She trailed off, blinking hard.

‘Want what?’ He closed the distance between them.

‘The mess.’ She waved a hand at herself. ‘The neurotic photographer who talks too much about f-stops and cries over ice cream. Who’s so desperate to prove herself she almost sold out what she believes in.’

‘You think that’s what I see?’ His voice roughened. ‘A mess?’ He clasped her restless hand, stilling it against his chest. ‘I see someone brave enough to walk away from money and a cushy job because it didn’t feel right. Someone who makes my weans laugh until milk shoots out their noses. Someone who…’ He rested his forehead against hers. ‘Someone who terrifies me because she makes me want to be better. And that’s a fucking first.’

‘I don’t want you to be better.’ Her fingers latched onto his jumper. ‘I want you to be you. The postie who makes terrible puns and plays in a band called the Salmons of Knowledge—’

‘Oi, we’re a respected local institution.’

‘—and somehow makes me feel safe enough to be myself. Even the parts I usually hide.’

He traced the curve of her jaw. ‘I’m not good at this. At letting people in. At risking…things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Everything.’ The word came out raw. ‘My heart. My kids’ hearts. The whole damn village’s opinion if this goes tits up because I’m—’

She put her finger on his mouth. ‘Stop. You’re not a disaster, Jack. You’re…real and exactly what I want.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The confession punched out of him, fast and graceless as tripping up concrete steps. ‘I was an arse and a coward.’

‘Yes. You were. But I—’

‘Shhh, I’m grovelling. Let me grovel, Shutterbug.’

A smile broke through, then vanished. She exhaled slowly, looking away. But then she nodded, arms loosening a little.

‘I ran like a wee boy.’ His voice trembled at the seams. ‘Not from you. From this.’ He sliced his hand through the space separating them. ‘From how right it felt. Too good to be true for someone like me. Too good to be true after such a short time. But it was true. It is.’

‘Jack…’

‘I panicked.’ He raked both hands through his hair. ‘Of how much I wanted this. How right it was. You with the kids, stealing my shirt…’

Her fingers tightened in the fabric. ‘I was going to return it. Via mail.’

‘It’s okay.’ He leaned close enough to see the tiny freckle beside her left eye. ‘Part of me was hoping you’d take it with you. I’m sorry for freaking out.’

‘Yeah, but the thing is… I’m not innocent in all this.’ She toyed with the frayed hem of his t-shirt. ‘I was hiding behind my profession. Behind what everyone expected. I’ve been so busy trying to make everything picture-perfect that I forgot how to just…be. How to be me. How to live.’

‘You never needed to hide. And I don’t want you to.’ His fingers found that wild curl by her ear, the one that never stayed put. ‘To me, you’re perfect when you’re real. When you’re you. Even with ice cream on your chin and yesterday’s mascara under your eyes.’

She smiled. ‘Still a smooth talker.’

‘I mean it.’ He yanked her closer. ‘I love how you stick your tongue out when you’re concentrating. The fact that you made my kids personalised cookies. Your brilliant brain that knows every photographer who ever lived, but you still laugh at my dumb jokes. You make me want to actually give a damn. And that daunts me, but not as much as the thought of not having you in my life.’

Her eyes turned glassy.

‘I know, we’ve only just met. But it feels like I’ve known you all my life. And aye, I’m only a postie.’ The words scraped his throat. ‘I can’t give you fancy holidays or posh restaurants. Or any restaurants besides Eddie’s chippy. But I can give you film nights and pancakes and three weans who think you hang the moon. I can give you our reality. My heart, if you’ll have it.’

Her eyes went wet and shiny, and Christ, he’d rather take a roundhouse kick to the face than watch her cry.

‘I don’t want fancy—’

‘Trish, I’m falling in love with you.’ The truth broke free like a dam bursting. ‘With the way you see beauty in everything, even a grumpy postie and his fucked-up life. I want that. All of it. I want to watch you chase the perfect light and hear you swear when the shot isn’t quite right. I want to carry your tripod or anything else you need me to carry. I want to love you through deadlines or dark rooms or whatever comes our way.’

‘But what if I ruin it? I’m neurotic and obsessive and—’

‘Perfect’s boring.’ He guided her hand to his thundering heart. ‘You think I don’t wake up shitting myself every morning? Worrying that I’m not enough for my kids? That I’ll fuck up, and as soon as they’re old enough, they’ll leave like everyone else? But I love your kindness, your talent, your patience. That you make my kids laugh and my heart race and—’

She kissed the words right off his lips.

Her tongue tasted of salt and chocolate ice cream. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. She felt like coming home.

They broke apart, foreheads touching. ‘I’m falling in love with you too, Postman Pat.’

His thumbs traced circles on her hips. ‘Even though I’m a commitment-phobic slacker who drives you mental?’

‘I kind of like that about you.’ She smiled against his mouth.

‘I’ll grovel properly.’ He kissed her nose, her cheeks, her tear-stained eyelids. ‘For days. Weeks. Years. However long it takes.’

‘Good.’ She pulled back, eyes bright despite their puffiness. ‘About the commitment-phobia—’

‘I might not be cut out for relationships, Shutterbug, but I sure as hell am cut out to be with you.’