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“Ladies, what on earth is going on here?”

CHAPTER 9

MOIRA

This may be the first time in the history of the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa that anyone has ever been kicked out of a Tartan Tea.

The thought occurs to me as Kenzie and I stand in the church foyer pulling our coats on. I can hear the pipes droning down in the basement, and it only takes me a few beats to recognize the dance as one called the Village Maid.

I should be down there supporting my kids, but as Kenzie and I had dictated to us by an aghast Margerie, we are ‘in no fit state to represent the organization.’

In some bout of quick-thinking I was definitely not prepared to do myself, Kenzie managed to pass off the destruction in the kitchen as the result of a spontaneous plumbing fiasco the two of us heroically fought to get under control, with the brownies being an unfortunate casualty of the frantic chaos that took over as we battled with the sink.

As far as we can tell, we haven’t jeopardized our shot at the scholarship—or our jobs as dance teachers—but we’ve still been asked to leave due to what an absolute mess we are.

“I am so glad my mum and dad weren’t at this tea,” I mutter as I get my jacket done up.

“Aren’t they usually at stuff like this?” Kenzie asks as she types something on her phone.

I haven’t looked her in the eye since Margerie found us. Doing that feels like admitting everywhere else I’ve looked at her today, and I’m not sure I’m ready to be that honest with myself, never mind Kenzie.

Did we almost kiss?

The question plays in my head on a loop, paired with the image of Kenzie’s dark lashes brushing her cheeks as her eyes drifted closed and her mouth leaned in towards mine.

“Yeah, they are,” I answer, “but my little brother has veered off the family path and started doing karate. They’re at this thing at his dojo today.”

Even sixteen-year-old Logan has taken my parents up on their constant encouragement to ‘dream big and do whatever you want.’

Unlike me.

I push the brooding thoughts away as Kenzie hums in answer, her eyes fixed on the screen as she continues typing. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to leave now. We’re both ready to go, but instead of saying goodbye and heading for the bus stop, I blurt the first question that pops into my head.

“Do you have siblings?”

Her fingers go still, but she keeps staring at her phone.

“Sort of,” she answers after a moment.

“Sort of?” I repeat, even though she’s already typing again and giving off a strong ‘do not ask follow-up questions’ vibe.

“Yeah, sort of.”

“What does sort of mean?”

She blows a huff of air out of her nose and looks up to stare past my shoulder like she’s searching for the nearest water source to spray me with again.

“There isn’t really an established way to refer to the kid of someone your mom used to be married to, and I always feel stupid calling him my ex-stepbrother, so yeah, I sort of have a sibling.”

“Oh.”

She goes back to typing, and even though she’s giving me every indication to drop the subject, I don’t. If we stop talking, I’ll have to leave, and if I have to leave, I’ll have to face how much I don’t want to leave. So instead, I ask, “What’s his name?”

She presses her lips together, two creases forming between her eyebrows. A couple moments pass, and I start to think that expression is the only answer I’m going to get before she mumbles a name I only just manage to catch.

“Chris.”

Her face relaxes, like his name is a soothing spell, but her eyes get almost too soft, like she’s seconds away from tears.