Page 39

JENNA

The early evening air cools my flaming cheeks but does nothing to quench the fire smouldering inside. I stride towards the white van, the gravel of the carpark crunching under each furious step of my booted feet.

The bold lettering on the side—Bright Sparks Electrical Services—makes it obvious whose van I’m heading for, but no one’s around. Anyway, I’m beyond caring. Even if the whole damn crowd packed inside the clubrooms came spilling out to witness my meltdown, I wouldn’t flinch. I glare at the stupid cartoon lightbulb man on the side of the van. I’ve a violent urge to wipe the mocking, toothy grin off his face.

This is why I shouldn’t be with someone like Geordie. Adam was right—there’s some deep flaw inside of me, some lack—and he saw it in time to save himself. I tried to save Geordie too, back in that hotel room. We could have left it a fun one-night-stand and gone our separate ways in the morning. But he wanted more and, selfishly, I agreed .

Now this fucked-up friends with benefits arrangement has caused the outcome I wanted to avoid. Geordie thinks I’m embarrassed by him—that I’m like his father and all the others who’ve shone a spotlight on the things he lacks, rather than the qualities that make him so special. I’ve hurt a man who doesn’t deserve it, simply because I couldn’t do the right thing and walk away from him before we were both in too deep.

As my hand snatches at the door handle, there’s one beep, a click, and the vehicle unlocks. Determined footsteps echo behind me. I wrench the door open, clamber up into the high seat, and shut myself inside with a slam.

I suck in an enormous breath and exhale a sob. I will not cry. I will not cry. The second breath is even more of a failure. A single tear escapes. I swipe it aside with the sleeve of my jersey, as Geordie jerks open the driver’s door.

The van rocks as he hefts himself up into the seat. He fumbles the keys with a clatter and then, finding the ignition, fires up the engine. He jiggles the gear lever into reverse and the vehicle shoots backwards.

“Geordie, what are you doing?” I snap, and he brakes hard.

With unnerving calm, he swivels his head toward me. “I’m not going to sit here and fight with you in the rugby club car park, Jenna.”

“Fighting? Is that what this is?” I stare him down.

The quiet anger simmering in my chest boils over. I hear the snark in my voice and hate that he’s right: I am spoiling for a fight.

“I don’t know. Are we fighting?” His tone of disinterest riles me. I see his eyes, dimmed to the same blue-grey as the cloudy evening sky above us, offering a steady challenge and I leap to meet it .

“Yes, we bloody are,” I bark. “Now drive the damn van.”

“Thought so,” he says, releasing the brake.

Until this afternoon, I had my escape route mapped: November would come, I’d leave, and distance would naturally dissolve whatever we had. Our secret would remain a pleasant memory while Geordie built his new life here with his rugby, his mates—and eventually, someone else in his bed.

But a few hours ago, in one delusional moment, I let myself imagine rewriting our story—giving us the romance-novel happily ever after. After all, that’s how it works in books, isn’t it? Girl returns to hometown. Meets the guy from her past. They fall in love. She stays.

Except in real life, someone pays a price. Geordie gets the girl but loses what he loves most: his rugby. Our epilogue becomes a life where resentment for what he sacrificed festers between us. Where he wakes up one day and realises he’s tied himself to a place and a person and I was never worth the price.

A blazing argument—that’s my way out. Clean. Final. Geordie will hurt, then heal, then forget. But something deep in my gut twists at the thought of burning this bridge, of watching everything turn to ash in the space of one brutal fight.

He manoeuvres the van between tightly clustered rows of cars, out into the dark streets, before turning into the road leading to the top of Bourke’s Hill. It winds upwards, the scraggly bushes of the lower slopes giving way to larger trees and dense undergrowth.

The path bordering it, although steep, is popular with runners looking for an alternative to the flat, boring grid of streets that crisscross Cluanie. The car park, a wide area at the top, overlooking the town, is popular for other reasons. However, it’s too early for teenagers making out in cars. Ours is the only vehicle parked up tonight.

Below us, Cluanie’s lights twinkle, casting an unexpected charm over the plain town. By day, it’s unremarkable—not the picture-postcard Scottish village of books and films—but tonight, the glow of street lamps and lit windows transform it into something almost beautiful.

Lulled by the sight, I sit for a moment, Geordie’s steady, even breathing, strangely calming in the quiet stillness. The citrus smell of soap and shampoo, overlaid with his own familiar soothing scent, fills the van. I slowly inhale it and exhale some of my rage.

I’m not angry at Geordie. Just Kyle who can never leave well alone, and my dad with his ridiculous rules. And myself for believing I deserve someone who’ll lay everything on the line for me, who’d sacrifice the thing he loves most to be with me.

“Ready?” Geordie breaks the silence, his mouth quirking up at one corner, eyebrows raised.

I snort. “For what?”

“Whatever had you ready to tear my head off back there.”

“Kyle.” The name falls flat between us, a weak shield.

“Kyle?” He shakes his head. “The guy’s a pain in the arse. Nothing more.” His eyes haven’t left my face. “But he’s not the one you’re really looking to murder tonight, is he?”

I squirm in my seat, pinned by his gaze. The words tangle in my throat, and my sigh says everything I can’t.

“You thought I’d told them,” he says. Not a question. “We agreed to keep it quiet, yeah? But Nathan’s the only one who knows, and Christ I didn’t tell him—“ He runs a hand through his hair. “Those walls aren’t exactly thick.” There’s the hint of a smile. “Connor’s known from the start. Reckons he saw something between us out on the terrace back on the night of the party. But he won’t say anything. Even Kyle won’t. The team’s too important to him. He’ll keep his big gob shut.”

Geordie pins me with that stare again. I have to give him more.

“No, Kyle’s not the problem.” I stare at my hands. “He can stir all he wants. And the other guys...you’re right, they’ll figure it out, anyway.” I swallow hard. “But saying it out loud makes it real. We said casual, remember? The moment we tell people, it becomes something else. Then you’re not just...then you’re my boyfriend.”

“Are you sure I’m not?” His eyes lock with mine until something he sees there makes him turn away, his jaw tight against the darkness. “Why not call it what it is?” His voice drops. “Unless you want to sleep with someone else?”

The real question hangs between us, unspoken: Why am I so afraid of calling him mine?

“Of course I bloody don’t.” The words burst out, rough with frustration.

Geordie’s too calm, too reasonable, leaving me nowhere to run. Why can’t we drop this and go back to what we’ve been? That’s what I imagined this afternoon. Everything would stay the same except without an expiry date. But my chest tightens at the thought. Living this half-life where we’re everything behind closed doors and strangers in daylight. Where I pretend what we have isn’t burning through every wall I’ve built. It’s not what I want, and god knows it’s not what he deserves, but I don’t see another way out.

He turns back to me and waits, his eyes pinning me in place. Something wild rises in my chest, a desperate need to break this moment before it breaks me .

“You think I have time for anyone else?” My voice sharpens. “Every spare minute, I’m in your bed. With you. Fucking.” The word sours on my tongue. “There’s no one else, Geordie. I’ve kept my end of the deal.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” I hate the flatness of his reply, the disinterested shrug of his shoulders. “At least you haven’t made a fool out of me by making an arrangement with some other guy.” The way he spits out ‘arrangement’ conveys the bitter taste it leaves in his mouth.

“Geordie, you don’t seem to understand.” I enunciate each word with exaggerated precision. “I don’t want people to think we’re... in... a... relationship.”

“Yeah, well, that would be fucking terrible, wouldn’t it?” he says. His unaccustomed sarcasm stabs at me. “For people to think you and I are anything at all. How fucking embarrassing for you.”

He turns to meet my eyes, and the raw pain in his gaze triggers a wave of shame. If anything should embarrass me, it’s the hurt I’ve inflicted. I bite back a humiliated sob. This is what I’ve done—driven a gentle, kind man to lash out like a wounded animal fighting to survive.

I stare down at the lights of Cluanie, wavering through unshed tears. Minutes ago, they sparkled with promise; now they’re tarnished by my cowardice. The truth cuts deep—I’m not ashamed for others to know about Geordie and me. I’m ashamed because I can’t face what we are myself.

Geordie’s phone lights up, the distinctive ring tone he’s set for work blaring through the emptiness between us. I hear the echo of an agitated voice as he makes calming noises.

“I’ll be right over, Heather,” he says, ending the call. “Gotta go. Work. ”

He starts the engine. We spiral down into the town, the silence a gaping space that neither of us knows how to fill. At the rugby club, he parks the van alongside my car.

“Look, I’m sorry.” He turns to face me, and I can’t believe he’s apologising. I’m the one who’s done wrong here. His eyes catch the dim light, wet with unshed tears. “I’ve been a bastard, I know. But Jenna, this thing is eating me alive. I can’t end it—Christ, I wouldn’t survive. Everything changed that night in Edinburgh. For me, anyway.”

“Can we talk later? After?” My suggestion triggers guarded hope in his eyes, piercing straight through my defences. Since Edinburgh, my world has shifted too. This afternoon, it lurched even further on its axis. The thought of telling him I’m staying terrifies me. It will only fuel his determination for us to step out of the shadows and face the whispers and watching eyes of everyone in town—and my father. But I need to tell him.

“Not sure when I’ll finish,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “Heather Buchanan needs me up there pronto. They’re fully booked and the power’s failed in one of the cottages—right as the last guests were checking in. She’s keeping them calm with complimentary drinks, but that won’t last long.”

“Better get up there,” I say resignedly. Heather Buchanan’s boutique hotel keeps half of Cluanie employed. I can hardly begrudge her an emergency call-out. Of course he has to go.

“Tomorrow then?”

“There’s the stupid bloody hike with the guys.” He gives an irritated huff. “I’d bail on it, but Connor’s done all the planning, organising the gear. I feel—”

“Like you’d be letting him down. I get it. Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night.”

He leans in. There’s a tentative hesitation before he presses a single, delicate kiss to my lips. I slip out of the van. Rather than watch him disappear into the night, I close my eyes and touch my fingers to my mouth, where the warmth of his kiss lingers like a promise.