Page 3 of Storm in a Teacup (Love in Edinburgh #3)

My aunt Wendy, Mel’s mum, slides into the seat next to me, pulling my attention away from the friends I should be trying to make. I noticed her carefully walking across the room, but was unsure if she was approaching me.

She pats my leg. “Hi, love. You alright?”

I sip from my drink. “Fine. The bridal shower came together nicely, don’t you think?”

“It did. It did.” She focuses on me, pushing her glasses back atop her auburn hair. “How are your eyes?”

My jaw tightens. “Functioning as best they can,” I answer.

I don’t want to talk about my eyes, but it’s her favorite subject.

Good for her, I suppose. Aunt Wendy and I share the same neurodegenerative eye disease, Retinitis Pigmentosa.

Long story short: we’re going blind. RP equals loss of night vision, peripheral vision, and eventual total loss of vision.

I’m having a great time with it. I really enjoy having my world slowly shutter around me, degrading bit by bit as the years go by.

Makes things interesting, all that impending darkness.

She uses the topic as a bonding method, which is fine, but I would appreciate it if we could talk about something else. Anything else. I was hoping her attention would be too ensnared by Mel and the wedding to bring it up today, but that does not appear to be the case.

“Same, same,” she says. “I heard about a trial they’re doing in the States…”

I try not to zone out as she talks, but she does this every time we see each other—asks me how my eyes are, then proceeds to tell me about a trial they’re doing concerning RP that more often than not deals with a different type than we as a family even have.

It’s cool that there are people out there working on a cure, but it’s hard to listen to when they’re really nowhere close to having a solution. A fix. An end to this.

“That’s cool,” I say, trying to sound genuine and not constantly discouraged.

She tuts quietly, seeing through me. “It could always be worse, you know. I think we’re lucky in the grand scheme.”

The existence of other people’s inarguably worse misfortunes does not diminish the impact of my own. However, I can’t have this argument again, so I say, “Yeah, I suppose.”

I think she finally senses that I am not an active participant in this conversation because she changes the subject to, “When are you venturing home?”

My shoulders sag in relief. “Early tomorrow morning. The shop is closed on Mondays, but since I was gone this weekend, I need to go in to work on a dining chair I’m reupholstering.”

“Good, good. So, you’ll be joining us for supper tonight? Shall I ask your father?”

“Yeah, we’ll be there.”

…

I slip out in the very early morning before Mel is awake to catch a train back to Edinburgh.

I snooze a bit on the train, then pull into Haymarket Station and walk the twenty minutes back to my flat, dragging my suitcase behind me.

I live above Better than New Antiques in a nicely sized flat that Auntie Carolyn owns.

She used to live here, but has trouble with the stairs—she can make it up and down them, but prefers not to on the daily.

She rents a ground-floor flat a short stroll from the shop.

Dinner last night was…predictable. My father took it upon himself to one, bug me about never seeing him, and two, urge me to “get back out there.” Time and time again, I have told him I am not ready for a relationship.

I haven’t told him I’ll never be ready because I don’t think he will accept that answer.

He’ll tell me I’m overreacting. Or rather, overcorrecting.

I can hear him now: “One bad relationship does not mean they will all be bad.”

But the thing is, they have all been bad. Atti, my ex, may have been the worst, but each man I dated before him held a degree of the same negativity toward me.

I am perfectly capable and content on my own.

Mel tried to direct the conversation away from me every time my relationship status was brought up by my father or her mother, which I appreciated. She sympathizes with my stance on the whole relationship thing.

I try not to get angry with my dad. He means well, but sometimes he goes too far because he’s worried about me.

I understand why. I was an absolute wreck when Atti and I broke up.

After telling my father everything that happened between us, he was about ready to spend life in prison for me.

But it’s because of that that he so badly wants me to try again.

I promised my dad I would see him soon, but I’m not sure when. Mel hasn’t solidified the plans for her hen do, but I figure I will be heading back to London for that in a couple of weeks. I’ll likely see him then .

But, for now, I am happy to be back in my own city.

My front door is securely closed when I get back, which is good. The door leading into my building has a very temperamental lock. I have to close the door in the exact right way for it to stay shut.

As I shove my key in the lock, I hear someone say, “Hey! Good morning!” Grunt . “Getting back from a trip?”

I pick my head up to see a petite blonde woman. Rachel, the American girlfriend to the owner of the new café next door to my shop. She’s the only person who says this peppy of a good morning to me, not that I mind. I was raised in the States by an American mother, so I’m used to this.

“Hi,” I say. “Yeah. I was in London over the weekend. What are you doing in the neighborhood?” The café isn’t open officially until the end of the week, I believe.

“I told Ben I’d drop off this sack of flour that got delivered to Isla’s place. Thankfully, it’s not too far of a walk.” I notice the sack she has clutched in her arms as she readjusts it without much avail. It’s about the size of her, so I am not sure how she is managing.

“Ben is Isla’s brother?” I confirm.

Isla is the owner of the café, whom I have met thousands of times by now, and Rachel about half as many, but I have never met Ben, Isla’s brother and co-owner.

They’ve been going through the opening process for six months now, so that’s odd, but I don’t dwell on it.

I’ve seen the back of his head, or at least who I assume is him, once or twice.

His hair is graying, so I wonder if he is a decent bit older than Isla.

“Right. Have you still not met?”

“Nope.”

“He’s been a bit of a recluse lately, so I’m not surprised.” She adjusts the flour again, the sack seeming ready to escape her grasp. “Anyway, this is insanely heavy. I should get it inside.”

“Good to see you,” I say, twisting the key in my lock and heading upstairs.