Page 31 of Tribute Act
“Turning up for my first day at a Scottish secondary school with an Essex accent wasn’t much fun,” was as close as he got to admitting it.
He downplayed most things actually. I worked out that his mum had probably fallen ill a year or so after they got to Scotland. They had moved in with his grandparents in Glasgow a few months before she died.
He’d been fifteen then, to my sixteen. At the other end of the country, I’d been studying for my GCSEs, going to swimming and football training every week, playing a league game every Sunday. Prompted by the adults around me, I’d been thinking about what A levels I should do, what university I wanted to eventually go to, what I wanted to do with my life.
Things had plainly been very different for Mack.
“I left when I was seventeen . . .”
Where had he gone? I wanted to know that next part of his story, but he didn’t offer and it felt wrong to ask. That was something he held quite far back behind his line.
By the Friday of the third week, Mack was itching to go out. I got back from work that day to find him putting on his trainers.
“Where are you going?”
“I need some air,” he told me in a fractious tone. “I’m fed up looking at the same four walls.”
I’d bought snacks on the way home for the Aliens movie night we’d planned. I took them through to the kitchen and dumped them on the table, then headed back into the living room. He was standing now, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand in that gesture that meant he felt uncomfortable. My stomach flipped at the sight of him, all long and lean in his soft, worn jeans and beat-up jacket.
“I’ll come with you,” I said.
“You don’t want to do that. You’ve just got back from work, and you’ve been on your feet all day. I’ll be fine.”
He was clearly determined not to inconvenience me, and okay, I didn’t really want to go out for a walk right now, but I did want to go with him. He was tons better than he’d been even just a week before, but he was still wincing from time to time when he moved around.
“Come on, it’ll be nice,” I said in a cheerful tone. “We’ll stroll down to the seafront and get a coffee or something.”
He smiled, and for an instant, I was sure I saw a flash of . . . relief? Or maybe gratitude? I didn’t know, but it made me glad I’d insisted on going with him.
“Okay, coffee,” he said gruffly. “It’s too cold for ice cream today.”
“Hey, it’s never too cold for ice cream!” I scolded teasingly.
It took about three times longer than usual to walk down to the seafront. Mack started off at his usual pace but soon had to slow down.
“God, this is ridiculous,” he complained. “I should be better by now.”
“It’s only been three weeks,” I pointed out. “You need to be patient. You’re a lot better already, but they did say you needed six weeks recovery time minimum.”
Mack sighed and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. I wished I could . . . I didn’t know, I supposed I wished I could put my arm round him. Instead I contented myself with a shoulder bump, prompting another of those rare smiles.
Shit, I had it bad for Mack MacKenzie. Which was, well, not the best, considering he clearly had no interest in me.
When we got to the seafront, I sat Mack down on an empty bench, then jogged over to the Square Peg Café to fetch us a couple of coffees, ignoring the waitress’s boot-faced scowl when I asked her to put the drinks in takeaway cups. I ordered a skinny latte for me and a filter with a dash for Mack—he didn’t like “milky coffee”—then, on impulse, added a chocolate brownie to go. Mack could do with a bit of fattening up.
By the time I got back to the bench, Mack looked like he was freezing in his thin bomber jacket. I knew he’d refuse my warmer one if I offered it, so instead, I satisfied myself with handing him the hot coffee, which would at least warm his hands, and gradually fed him the brownie. I knew by now that if I tried to simply hand him the brownie, he’d say he didn’t want it. But I’d discovered that if I offered him treats like that less conspicuously, bit by bit while chatting, he’d happily eat them up.
We sat there on our bench, gazing out to sea, swilling down our third-rate coffee as the sun crept towards the horizon.
“You know,” Mack said after a while, “I don’t think I’ve said thanks to you, for putting me up. You’ve been really generous about it, and it’s not like you knew me before all this.”
I glanced at him, uncomfortable. “No need to thank me. You saved Rosie’s life, for God’s sake. And you’re family.” I felt odd as soon as those last words left my mouth, not because they weren’t true—they were. Mack was family—but they brought up the idea of our being stepbrothers, and that absolutely wasn’t how I thought of him.
He didn’t respond to that, just stared out to sea. I watched him surreptitiously. He had a very nice profile, did Mack.
“Do you think you could put up with me another week?” he asked at last, his tone diffident.
“Only a week?” I said, frowning. “I assumed you’d be staying with me till you were recovered.”