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JENNA

I wake on Monday morning to sunlight sliding around the edge of my curtains. My still-sensitive eyes clamp shut. I probe my body with tentative mental prods. The migraine no longer crushes my temples in its vice-like grip, although one hip aches and my neck creaks as I roll onto my side. I swallow the sour tasting residue of the nausea, also now gone. At least I didn’t spend all night barfing in the loo, like I have before.

I silently thank the pharmaceutical gods for their gifts to us mere mortals and lever myself upright. My surroundings sharpen—sweat-soaked sheets, a packet of meds sprawled open, its contents spilling across the bedside table, Andy snoring on my pillow. A wave of gratitude crashes over me. I almost feel normal.

Normal until my brain jolts into action, dragging me back to yesterday morning, replaying the awful moment in sharp detail, and the miserable hours afterwards, Sunday ticking by in unbearable slownes s

All day I agonised over my last sight of Geordie in the van, his eyes conveying messages of hurt, disappointment and bewilderment in one heartrending look.

When I managed to recharge my phone enough to text him, the messages sat there, not even the word ‘Delivered’ offering some consolation. I wrote it off as lack of cell phone coverage, but the tightness in my throat, like a sob threatening to escape, remained with me all day, while I listlessly tried to pass the hours.

Picking up my latest book, watching the anticipated next episode of a television series, even heading over to my office to deal with a few emails from clients; all filled the time, but none occupied my brain enough to divert it from endless reruns of those few crucial seconds, and my devastating blunder at not going straight to him. I could have yelled at Connor to stop, raced to the van, begged Geordie for a minute alone, damn it even chased after them waving my arms and screaming like a mad woman; but I didn’t.

The migraine that had murmured subtle threats in the pub on Saturday night crept closer throughout Sunday. It circled all day, a predator biding its time, waiting to pounce. It stayed watchful as I made futile attempts to ward it off—my herbal oil, some ibuprofen, the preventative tablets that have saved me in the past—while the creature lurked in the shadows, patient, knowing its moment would come.

Then, last night, when Dad took Grant Darby’s call, it tensed, muscles coiling, sensing weakness. As my worry swelled, it readied itself, knowing the kill was imminent.

Grant passed on the news: the weather had turned bad and seven Cluanie guys, all from my father’s team, were overnighting on the summit of Beinn Greannach. Crazy thoughts flooded in, and strongest amongst them the sickening realisation that if something happened to Geordie on that mountain, I might never have the chance to tell him he means everything to me, that I’m done hiding it, and I want the entire world to know.

Within five minutes of the call, I found myself drowning in a whirlpool of visual disturbances and slashes of pain. After ten minutes, sensing opportunity in my weakness, the creature pounced, embedding teeth and claws, showing no mercy. The dull pulsing became vicious hammering, and I gladly sent myself into oblivion with the maximum dose of my meds.

Now, I dither on the edge of my bed. Part of me wants to face the new day, reading the sunny morning as a hopeful sign. Another part wants to pop another pill, dive back under the covers and slip into that dark, calm, chemical-controlled space where nothing can hurt me, and I can’t hurt anyone else.

On the pillow next to me, Andy leaps to attention, tilting his head from side to side, listening. Footsteps on the stairs, a gentle tap, and my father’s voice follows.

“Can I come in, luv?”

Andy launches himself toward the door. When Dad ignores the dog’s joyful bounces and small yaps of greeting, I know there’s something wrong.

He lowers himself cautiously onto the bed. His face is haggard. There’s a weariness in his normally erect posture, with shoulders slumped, and a resigned expression in his eyes, the sort I’ve seen when he’s had to tell a player he’s no longer wanted, or replace one of the coaching staff.

He may be loud and cranky on the sidelines with his coach’s hat on, but Dad’s always had this calmness when things really turn to shit. Maybe I’ve inherited it from him, an essential quality in my PR work. Seeing it now, I’m sure something bad has happened.

Dread settles on my shoulders, heavy as a collapsed scrum. I can’t regain my footing, dragged down by the weight of those around me.

“There’s been an accident,” he begins. I close my eyes, not wanting to face the reality of what is coming next. Bile rises in my throat, thick and bitter, as I brace myself with arms rigid at my sides, one hand twisting the bed cover into a knot.

“It’s Brandon Smith.”

It’s not Geordie. I sag in relief.

“I’m afraid the lad’s gone. Took a fall over a bluff in the middle of the night. Mountain Rescue’s up there now, bringing him down.”

Guilt swoops in. How could I be so selfish, thinking only of my happiness while Skylar’s world falls apart?

I turn to my father, a plea in my eyes, still desperate for more news of Geordie, but even now, I’m too afraid to ask him outright.

“And the others?”

“Poor bastards, they’ll be in shock for sure. Connor Murray’s leading them back down. All able to walk out, they say. Except for your laddie, young MacDonald.”

My laddie. My beautiful golden boy. I hang my head, tears burning tracks down my cheeks.

“It’s OK, luv.” He puts an arm around me. It’s solid and dependable, just as it’s always been. “He’s going to be OK.” Relief gushes out of me. “I know you’re soft on the lad. I’m not daft. Hard to miss the way he follows you around like a lost puppy. And you think I’d assume you’re just popping up to MacFarlane’s for a whisky, belting up the road like your tail’s on fire. I wasn’t born yesterday. You know fine there are no secrets in Cluanie. ”

“But I thought you’d…” I choke out.

“Aye lass, I know. I’ve been a grumpy old bastard, trying to warn the lad off ye. But I can see he’s determined to be with ye. And I’m not so blind I canna see how happy you’ve been since he’s been hanging around. I’d nae deny you that. Not after…”

He doesn’t finish—he doesn’t need to. Not after Adam. Not after Mum.

I lean into his chest, sobbing against the scratchy wool of his Aran jumper. I cry for Brandon and Skylar. For Geordie. And, selfishly, for myself too—this mess I’ve made of something that could have been really good. Might still, if I can salvage it after yesterday’s disaster.

Dad smoothes my hair, murmuring soothing reassurances against the top of my head. I’m still his little girl, seeking comfort in the person who’s always understood me best.

“He’s a good lad, young Geordie. And it’s naught to worry about. They’re stretchering him out. Suspected broken ankle. Him and Stewart were out looking for Brandon. Near went over the edge himself, by all accounts, but Stewart’s quick thinking saved him.”

That’s Geordie—always putting others ahead of himself. A man prepared to take a risk for someone else. When all of this is over, will he still be prepared to take a risk on me?