Page 40

JENNA

Watching Geordie leave, a heavy, aching loneliness settles on my chest. I’m torn between the need to be alone and a craving for company, but with the one person I want most driving away from me, my options are few.

Talk and laughter, underscored by cheesy pop music, tumble from the glowing windows, but the rugby club holds no appeal. It’s almost eight, so already many will have drifted off home to families and dinner. I could do the same, but the house will be empty except for Andy. After the victory over Cluanie’s old foes today, Dad and Grant will hold out for a few more hours.

Instead, I climb into my car and drive to the Railway. If I’m in luck, they’ll still have the pizza oven fired up.

Skylar’s working tonight. She only stayed after the game long enough to congratulate Brandon on his usual flawless performance, then raced off to start her shift at the pub. Maybe a little time swept up in the sweet, pink cloud of positivity that floats around her might help .

However, after ordering my favourite Margherita pizza and a glass of red to go with it, I fob off Skylar’s offer to sit at one end of the bar and chat with her between customers. Instead, I find a dark booth near the back wall—it matches my mood.

I sip my wine, my head swirling.

When faced with other people’s disasters, I’m cool and decisive. My own problems, though, leave me reeling. These past few weeks have been like a relentless rollercoaster ride—one I can’t escape. My world tilts and spins, shifting beneath me. I can’t tell which way is up, my vision struggling to lock onto the horizon. I’m too paralysed by fear to call for help, and no one’s going to stop the damn thing.

A thought pushes through the confusion: I should text Dad, let him know where I am. As I lean down to find my phone in my handbag, I become aware of the familiar, dull pulsing—a sinister Morse code tapping out a warning message inside my skull. In my peripheral vision, something flickers, like an F1 marshal waving a chequered flag at the finish line. I recognise the signs. Unless I take action, a migraine is coming.

Moving quickly, I dig into my handbag and find Rain’s herbal headache remedy. I roll a little on each fingertip, then lean forward, head in hands, elbows on the table, massaging my temples. The combination of gentle pressure, the repetitive circling of my fingers, and the woody scent bring some relief.

A few minutes later, I hear footsteps approaching and turn, ready to thank the server for the speedy delivery of my meal. But it’s not pizza—it’s Kyle Stewart. Before I can protest, he drops two glasses onto the table and slides into the booth across from me.

“Glad I caught you here, Jenna,” he says, his handsome face lit up with arrogant confidence. On anyone else, I’d describe his smile as sincere. With Kyle, it smacks of smugness, as if he’s a cat who’s cornered a mouse a second time, planning to torment it some more.

“ I’m not,” I snap at him. The situation with Geordie, my unbalanced state, the threat of a migraine, and now Kyle Stewart. What a fucked-up day.

“Yeah, well, I thought you’d feel that way, but that’s why I came over.”

“So you can make my day even worse than it’s already been with more stupid comments?”

“No, because I want to apologise for my stupid comments. And shout you a drink.”

He slides a glass towards me. Golden liquid splashes against the sides. The wood-smoke smell of whisky drifts upwards. “Jenna, how I behaved at the club—I’m not usually like that, not these days. I told you, I’ve changed. But sometimes, out with the lads, I slip back into my old bad habits. It’s fucked up, I know, but words just come out of my mouth without thinking sometimes.”

I snort derisively. Everyone’s telling me this is a new, improved version of Kyle Stewart. I’m still not seeing it. I glare at him. He’s not deterred.

“So yeah, I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be taking the piss about you and Geordie Mac. He’s a good guy and you’re a great girl, and any mug can see you’re good together. Except perhaps your father, and that’s probably not a bad thing, eh?”

He laughs at his own little joke.

“Kyle—” I raise a weary hand, but he ignores it and carries on.

“Jenna, I can only dream of someone looking at me the way you look at Geordie. It’s like those silly little heart-eye emojis my sister puts in her texts. And he’s sending them right back at you. Guess I’m envious. That’s why I’m giving you shit about it.” He pauses, an unexpected wistfulness in his eyes. “Because it’s something I don’t know if I’ll ever have. Not that I deserve it.” His voice trails away, low and unexpectedly sad.

Kyle’s quiet, underlying despair knocks me off balance. He doesn’t see himself as deserving of love, and yet I desperately want to tell him he’s wrong. Everyone deserves love—even Kyle—and should expect to find it. They shouldn’t abandon hope of being loved.

As I look into his hazel eyes—normally sparking with trouble but now dimmed by quiet inner sadness—I see a mirror reflecting my own crippling doubt, clear and confronting. If Kyle is wrong, I’ve been wrong, too. I see myself as unworthy of love, so I keep Geordie at arm’s length, despite his readiness to give it to me. I refuse to allow our relationship to go where both of us want.

Part of me wants to open up to Kyle, to use my own stupidity as a lesson, to encourage him to not give up on the possibility of someone special in his future. But this is Kyle Stewart, and although I can see there are changes in him, I’m not ready to have that sort of heart-to-heart with him—not yet.

However, the sudden rush of empathy still causes me to do something impulsive, and arguably stupid.

“Have you eaten?”

His head jerks up, surprise splashed across his face. He’s not the only one.

“Nah, just a bag of crisps at the club.”

“I’ve got a pizza coming. No way I can eat it all.”

“Is that a dinner invitation, Jenna Sharpe?” His lips curl into that easy smirk, one I now suspect is just part of the mask he wears .

“Yes, but nothing more,” I say, my guard snapping back into place.

We spend two hours eating, drinking—against my better judgment with the lurking possibility of a migraine—and talking in a way that is scarily close to a conversation between friends.

We don’t veer off into serious territory again, but by the time Rory, the publican, calls the last round just before eleven, to my surprise, I can admit to having enjoyed this couple of hours with Kyle. There’s the same old Stewart charm, the quick wit, the playful banter, the confident way he carries himself as if he knows his attractiveness; but he is definitely different from the cocky teenager with a reputation for collecting girls like trophies.

There’s a maturity, perhaps forged from all he’s seen and done in the intervening years. Kyle doesn’t go into detail about his time in the army, even less on the close protection role that won him a commendation, and I sense that’s deliberate. I glimpse shadows in his eyes whenever we stray too close to the reality of his past work, before he quickly deflects to some anecdote about guys he served with pranking each other, or inside gossip about a certain MP’s indiscretions that were spread all over the tabloids.

Skylar clears the table, raising a questioning brow as she picks up my empty whisky glass—I’ve had three. My first response is a hiccupping giggle.

“I may be a little bit drunk,” I confess to her knowing smile, as I gather my things.

Standing on the steps outside, the cold air slaps my cheeks with the sobering realisation: I’m more than a little drunk. I’m too drunk to drive and have no way home .

This is Cluanie, where Danny Byrne, a mechanic from the garage who moonlights as the town’s only taxi driver, clocks off at ten, and Uber is a foreign word. Our house is miles away, out on the farthest edge of town, too far to walk, and anyway, I’d probably freeze to death on the way. I fumble my keys from my bag, thinking maybe I can sleep it off in the car for a few hours, although it’s not going to be much warmer there.

Kyle’s hand shoots out and grabs the keys. “Sorry, Jenna, but cop or not, you’re not driving. And I’ve had one too many to be legal myself.”

“I wasn’t going to drive,” I protest. “I’m going to sleep in the car.”

“Don’t be so fucking daft. It’s freezing out tonight.”

“I can’t stay here.” Rory locks the double doors behind us with an emphatic clunk.

“Come stay at mine.” Kyle tips his head towards the old building next door to the pub, the original Cluanie police station. It now houses Rain’s gift shop on the ground floor, and above it a flat, former offices once turned into accommodation for the Chief of Police. The current chief lives in a nice house over by Craig Ross Park and Kyle rents this place.

I shoot him a dubious glance.

“I swear I mean nothing dodgy by the invitation,” he says, raising his hands innocently. “Just a good copper doing his job, making sure the locals get home safe. And keep to the law. Don’t want to have to nick you for drink driving.”

Our easy conversation of the past few hours, helped by the alcohol, has dulled my suspicious side where Kyle’s concerned, and I do the sensible thing, hoping it doesn’t come around and bite me on the arse. I follow him to a bright red side-door and up a set of stairs to what is a comfortable flat, homely even, not at all the bachelor pad I’d expected.

“Just got to nip back down to the yard and get Dora,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

I sit on the couch, intrigued by the mysterious Dora. A minute later, the door swings open, and a large, gangly dog barrels through it and races towards me, planting two damp paws on my knees, and grinning up at me, all white teeth and long lolling tongue.

“Sorry, she’s a bit excitable,” he says, making no attempt to correct Dora while I fuss with her floppy ears. “Worse when I’ve been out for a while.”

“She’s beautiful. You are, aren’t you?” I coo at Dora, scrunching her soft jowly cheeks between my hands. “How long have you had her?”

“About a year. You’ve heard of Pen Farthing, yeah?”

I nod. How could anyone not have heard of the ex-Marine and his controversial evacuation of animals during the fall of Kabul?

“Seeing it on the news got me thinking. Did some reading about places that match up veterans with rescue dogs. Helps them cope with some of the shit that fills your brain when you’ve been through stuff. Thought it might help.” I don’t probe Kyle for details, but it seems he’s got some memories he’d rather forget. “So I went to the SSPCA and came home with Dora.” Hearing her name, the dog races to him and springs into his arms, where he catches her effortlessly, holding her in his arms like a huge baby, waving long legs in the air. “Like to think we each saved the other, eh? Didn’t we, girl?” The dog licks at his face and he laughs, before lowering her to the floor. He walks towards the hallway, the dog dancing at his heels. “Let’s show Jenna to her room, shall we?”

I wake at daylight, disoriented by the distant bubble and hiss of a coffee machine, and the rhythmic snoring coming from a large body next to me. A sliver of light peeks around floral curtains, highlighting unfamiliar sage green walls and a simple white pendant light above my head. A head which is surprisingly clear given how I ignored last night’s threat of migraine, consuming not only red wine, but way too much whisky with Kyle.

It’s definitely weird waking up in his house. Hell, I never thought I’d give the man the time of day, let alone choose to spend a night under his roof. Old me would never have trusted old Kyle to stay in his own room.

This Kyle is, as others tell me, a changed person. Dora obviously thinks so, and dogs are surprisingly accurate judges of character. I mean Andy bit him, but Andy has bitten lots of people, even Geordie, so his reads on people can’t be trusted.

I pull on my jeans and jersey, trying not to disturb a sleeping Dora, but as I’m lacing my trainers, she bounces to life and waits by the door, tail thumping. She follows me to the kitchen where Kyle is at the worktop, pouring coffee into a flask.

“Want one?” he says. “Help yourself. Breakfast too, if you want. Eggs in the fridge, cereal in the cupboard. But you’ll have to make your own. Connor and the lads will be here in five. Stay as long as you like. Just pull the door behind you when you go—it’ll lock itself—and put Dora out in the yard.”

I’m tempted by the inviting scent of fresh coffee, but leaving now might allow me to slip back inside my house unnoticed before Dad wakes up.

“Thanks, but I’ll head off when you do.”

“That’s about now,” he says, tucking the flask into a pocket of the large hiking pack leaning against the wall. “Just got to shove my boots on.”

“How about I put Dora away for you?”

Armed with Kyle’s instructions for feeding his dog, I set off downstairs, calling her after me. She doesn’t look unhappy at being sent to canine jail, bounding through the high gate and immediately beginning an investigative mission around her grassy walled space, which is littered with dog toys. Dora doesn’t even seem concerned when I lock her in, more intent on inhaling the scoops of kibble I placed in her dish.

I meet Kyle on the front steps, just as a long van pulls into the kerb in front of us. Connor, in the driver’s seat, smiles and tips a hand in greeting.

“Good timing,” Kyle says, taking the steps two at a time. “Wish us luck climbing the fucking mountain.” He tosses me a grin over his shoulder, then joins Connor, who’s now standing at the back of the van, the hatch open, ready for Kyle to sling the pack inside.

This is not good timing. I’m paralysed, a statue on the steps, knowing exactly how this looks. Geordie’s in the passenger’s seat and his eyes bore into mine, filled with bleak devastation. I want to go to him, explain this isn’t what it looks like, but there’s no time.

Connor dives back behind the wheel. The gaping side door swallows Kyle before sliding shut. With a roar of the engine, the van speeds off, leaving me standing there, stunned by the cruel irony—just as I’ve finally found the courage to free Geordie and me from this endless holding pattern, one stupid decision may have cost me our relationship.