by Karina Halle
Her jaw and cheekbones are sharp, nearly masculine in their design, as is the dimple in her chin. But her lips are full, lush, feminine and quick to break into a wide smile. Her eyes are deep blue and wildly expressive while her hair is thick, long, and shiny, parted at the side, the color of fall leaves. She’s not your white bread stereotypically beautiful woman. Instead, she’s anachronistic, a face a great artist of long ago would have died to paint.
I realize I’m staring at her like a bloody idiot. The last thing I want is to make her feel uncomfortable.
I gesture at the booth. “Have a seat. I won’t dare offer to help you, I know you hate that.”
She gives me a funny look. “You seem to know an awful lot about me already. Are you sure we haven’t already met?”
I suck in my breath, even though I know she’s joking.
She eases herself down into the booth and picks up her glass. “Well, even though I probably won’t have time to finish this, I thank you for the drink.”
I raise my glass, giving her a nod. “Sláinte,” I tell her.
“Sláinte,” she says back. She takes a sip and her eyes close briefly. It’s not even the best beer. The head is weak and the keg needs to be changed, and yet she’s enjoying it like it’s the best thing she’s ever tasted. I have to wonder if everything in her life is different now because she had to look death in the face.
Then again, I’ve seen death many times.
I’ve been death many times.
The only thing that changed in me was the realization that I had to get out, that I had to go back to the life I had where death didn’t follow me like a swarm of angry bees.
But it was too late. By the time I decided not to return to the army for another tour, Lewis Smith had done his damage. The madman opened fire in central London, bringing death to many.
Not Jessica though. They say she’s one of the lucky ones, but I’m not sure if she’d quite agree. Lucky would have been to escape it all to begin with.
I want to ask her so much, but she doesn’t know that I know who she is and it’s better that way. I saw the relief on her face when I feigned ignorance about her leg. I’m sure everywhere she goes, she gets noticed. It’s enough to be a stunning woman with a cast and on crutches; it’s another to be that and famous for it.
“So, Keir,” she says when she opens her eyes. They shine brightly at me. “Do you live around here?”
“Aye,” I tell her. “Around the corner, actually. This is my neighborhood pub.”
“It’s a good one,” she says, looking around her. “The pub. And the neighborhood.”
“My cousin owns a flat just up there,” I gesture with my shoulder. “He and his fiancé. He happened to know a place nearby at a good price and I jumped on it. The old woman downstairs is obsessed with red flowers. You’ll notice the place if you walk past on Circus Lane.”
She sighs, a dreamy look in her eyes. “I know the place you’re talking about.”
“You do?”
“The whole street is beautiful, like something out of the South of France.” She pauses, sliding her pale, slender fingers down the side of the pint. “I used to dream of living somewhere around here. It almost happened but my boyfriend was too practical.”
“Boyfriend,” I say. Something I hadn’t seen coming, though I should have figured. It doesn’t really matter in the end, but even so, there’s a hot poker of jealousy inside me. Totally uncalled for but still there all the same.
She smiles sheepishly. “Ex-boyfriend,” she says quickly. “Sorry. I’m still coming to terms with a lot of things.” She clears her throat. “We broke up. Last month. Old habits die hard and all that.”
“I’m sorry.” I tell her, and I truly am. “That doesn’t seem quite fair, to break up with someone in your state.”
“How do you know I didn’t break up with him?” she asks, an edge to her tone.
“Your eyes,” I say. “It still stings. It’s a different kind of pain when someone wrongs you, even if you knew it would happen.”
“You’re very observant.” She takes a long swig of her drink. “You know that? What do you do that makes you that way? Crime scene investigator?”
Now is the time, Keir. Tell her the truth. Tell her you were in the army, in Afghanistan. Tell her who Lewis Smith is.
“I’m a mechanic,” I admit. It’s still the truth. I was a mechanic before I joined the army and I was a mechanic in the army, working as part of the crew on the IVFs, even as I became Lance Corporal. “Had my own shop a long time ago. Looking to open my own shop again.”
She cocks her head to the side, showcasing the side of her delicate throat. “Huh. A mechanic. Well, I suppose you have to learn how all the parts fit, and you can’t do that without being observant.”
“Are you disappointed?”
She shakes her head. “Never. You like doing it, I’m guessing.”
“I love it.”
I will love it. It’s hard to love anything at the moment.
“As long as you love what you do, there’s no shame in what you do.”
“What if you’re a drug dealer or a prostitute?”
She gives me a wry look. “I’m not surprised you’re playing devil’s advocate.”
“Also not a bad gig if you like it.”
Jessica lets out a small laugh. It amazes me. The fact that she can laugh after what happened.
I decide to press my luck.
“And what do you do, little red? Is it a job that you love?”
Her face falls and I immediately regret saying anything. Something dark and haunted burns in her eyes. “I did have a job. I was a yoga instructor. Like you, I wanted to open my own business doing what I loved. I wanted my own studio.” She sighs, staring down at her beer. She gives a little shrug that makes her look unbelievably small. “But then I had an accident and things changed. I was let go from my position. I won’t be able to do yoga for a long time, let alone teach it.”
There’s a lot I want to say, to try and make this better. I want to tell her that I’m sure there are plenty of yoga instructors that are disabled, that have had injuries, that even if they don’t bounce back from it, they’re still able to adapt. To even teach. But I can tell she’s been told this a lot. I can tell that she can’t go back to the way things were, no matter how many times she’s been told otherwise.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, willing her eyes to meet mine.
And I am really sorry.
Terribly sorry.
This hurts me just as much as it does her.
But I can’t think about that, can’t dwell on it.
It’s not about me now.
She finally looks up at me, her eyes glassy, as if tears merely kissed them and went away. “Thank you. Most people just tell me everything is going to be okay.”
“I can see why they would want to,” I tell her, ignoring the crushing pain in my chest. “Your eyes tell the world everything you’re feeling. People just don’t want you to suffer. They’ll offer up any kind of lie to make your pain go away. You’ll even lie to yourself.”
She eyes me sharply over that last one. “You’re right.”
I take a chance. “So what happened with your leg?”
She holds my gaze, her pupils getting smaller. She swallows hard, straightens her shoulders, arming herself with a lie. “It’s embarrassing,” she says, then offers a fake smile. “I was in the shower with my ex-boyfriend. Things got a little frisky. Soap was involved. I slipped and my leg went the wrong way.”
The story settles around us like dust. She doesn’t want to tell me the truth.
I don’t want to tell her the truth either.
“Jessica!”
A high-pitched voice breaks through the pub and I swivel my head to see a girl who’s somehow even shorter than Jessica walking toward us.
“Hi,” she says when she spots her, then frowns at me. This has to be her sister, they practically look the same. While her hair is more strawb
erry blonde, she wears it the same and has similar blue eyes and a wide expressive brow.
“Hi,” Jessica says to her. She nods at me. “Christina, this is Keir. Keir, this is Christina.”
Christina offers me a polite smile, though I know she’s a bit bewildered that I’m here. “Is this the guy from your support group?”
I glance at Jessica, brows raised. Her eyes widen, then plead with Christina not to say any more.
Support group. Huh. So I was right about that.
“No,” Jessica says quickly, scrambling. “I just met Keir tonight, here. I almost fell down and he saved me.”
“Knight in shining armor then,” Christina says, crossing her arms and studying me.
“More like tarnished armor,” I tell her.
“He bought me a drink,” Jessica goes on, starting to slide out of the booth. “And we all know that’s my weakness.”
“Mmmm.” Christina makes a vague murmur of agreement as she picks up the crutches that were leaning against the table. “Well, I hate to make you drink and run, but the car is outside illegally parked.”
“No worries,” I tell them both. “It was nice to have the company.”
Jessica gets up and Christina hands her the crutches. “Do you need help? The floor here is slippery. Do you want my arm?”
Jessica waves her off, and I can see why she was so dismissive of my gestures. She then looks down at me. “Thank you again for the drink, Keir. It was nice to meet you.”
There’s a nervousness to her now, and I think it has to do with the slip-up, like I’m going to wonder what kind of support group she’s a part of.
“It was very nice to meet you,” I tell her. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
She nods, shooting me a soft, almost grateful smile. “Maybe. Good luck with everything.”
And then my own panic hits, sharp stabbing pains in my chest, the fact that this might be it and I might not see her again. I might not get the closure I need.
But I have to be okay with it, if just for this moment.
“You too,” I tell her, raising my glass.
She and her sister turn around and leave the pub.
I am alone once more.
***
I stay at the pub until it closes, not wanting to go home and face the solitude there. I like the flat. I have the entire top floor, which doesn’t sound like much considering it’s a small house, but it’s more than enough for me. The only thing I share with Tabitha, my landlady, is the main staircase and the yard out back. I don’t even set foot back there. Her obsession with cultivating red flowers has spread to that area as well and she barks at me if I even look at her garden.
When the lights dim, I finish my drink, bid farewell to the bartender, and stroll up the street. The night has a nip to it, the smell of fallen leaves. I tip my head back and stare up at the sky, wishing I could see more than just a few stars, the night brightened by city lights.
Lachlan is home, judging by the lights in the living room as I walk past. But he and his American fiancé, Kayla, have a nice little life together and I’m not one to disturb it at eleven o’clock at night. Lachlan is a quiet man, but he doesn’t have to say anything for me to know that Kayla is a little firecracker. I’ve only been around them a handful of times and she constantly has that look on her face like she’s going to drag him off to the bedroom at any time. If I rang his door now, I’d definitely be interrupting something.
If I must admit it, I’m envious. Lachlan has had a troubled past and isn’t an easy man to love, at least that’s what my family is always saying (though what do they know), and yet he’s found his happiness, his other half. I doubt that will ever be in the cards for me.
That’s not to say I haven’t dated from time to time. I was engaged at one point in my life. I had a few flings in between tours. But I never found what so many of my comrades found, that person to write home to, a person to miss, the woman who will greet you at the airport with tears in her eyes and wrap you in her arms and tell you everything is going to be okay.
I always came home to nothing. And I went back to nothing. It’s always been just me.
Me and the men I fought alongside. Me and my section.
People like Lewis Smith.
The thought of him digs an ice pick into my chest.
He really was my best friend. We told each other everything, as much as men do. But you’d be surprised. During a tour, when you’re out there far away from everything you know, when death lurks around every corner and fights for dominance over unending boredom, you talk. You get to know one another, stuff you would never discuss with your mates back home.
I knew Lewis inside and out. That’s why this hurts so bad. That’s why so much of this is completely my fault. I knew my friend, and he confided in me. He told me all of the horrible thoughts he had, the dreams, his cries for help. I was the only one who listened, who understood. When the suicide bomb hit and we lost Privates Ansel and Roger, we suffered the loss together. When Lewis up and left his post one night, deserting us and the army, I was the only one who understood.
I knew he was sick and wasn’t getting the help he needed.
I didn’t try hard enough to save him.
“Keir,” a gruff but jovial voice says from the side.
I turn to see Lachlan striding across the road with three dogs on a leash. One, with a sad looking muzzle, is Lionel, a sweet little pit bull with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen. The other is Emily, a wiry haired mutt who is constantly looking at you with suspicion. The third is another pit bull, a steel grey color that nearly shines under the dim streetlights, a tiny little thing with an even smaller muzzle.
“Hey,” I tell him, nodding at the dogs. “You got a new one?”
“Aye,” he says, glancing down at the grey one. “This is Petunia.”
I can’t help but grin. “Petunia?”
Lachlan gives me a wry smile, his eyes going up to his flat. “Kayla named her. She’s new to the shelter and we’ve been giving her some extra love. She’s been abused pretty badly and no one has given her a chance yet, so we thought we’d bring her home.”
Lachlan McGregor is not only the tattoo-covered coach for Edinburgh Rugby and a star player in his own right, he’s also a dog lover who runs his own animal shelter, Ruff Love. He tries to save all dogs, but specifically the controversial pit bull who has a terrible reputation in this country, thanks to the media. Even though most are sweet as pie— at least the ones I’ve met—they all have to wear muzzles according to the law. Most are put down right away. Lachlan’s life goal is to change all of that.
Now Lachlan is giving me the eye. “Ever think of getting a dog?”
I have to laugh. Lachlan is very persuasive. He convinced his brother Brigs to get a dog as well and I’ve heard it’s giving him nothing but hell.
“I think I need to get my shit together first before I can even think about it,” I tell him.
He shrugs. “Hey, I thought the same way once. Turns out that dogs get your shit together for you.” He pauses and eyes Petunia. “Or they just shit in general. Maybe next to the fireplace.”
Petunia looks up at him as if to say, “what’s it to you?”
“Where are you off to anyway?” he asks. “Did you want to come inside?”
“I was just taking the long way back,” I tell him. “I’m good though, it’s late.”
“We’re night owls. Honestly, you’re my cousin and you live a block away from me. My home is your home.”
“Unfortunately it doesn’t work the other way.”
“Yeah,” he says, running his hand over his jaw. “Miss Shipley would plant me face down in her rose garden.” He jerks his head at his flat. “Come on. I can’t offer you beer but there’s plenty of tea.”
“I’ve drunk enough of it anyway,” I tell him and follow him and the dogs to the building, grateful that I’ve put off being alone for a little bit longer. Some nights I’m at the mercy of my brain and the terro
r of my dreams, and I can tell this night is shaping up to be the same way.
I honestly don’t know Lachlan all that well. With some families, cousins are really close. People who understand you because you’re all connected to this crazy family. But in the case of my cousins, we only grew up together as children, and even then it was just at the holidays. I grew up in Glasgow with my parents, my brother Mal, and my sister Maisie. As I’d told Jessica, we grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. My father was a stern, cold, authoritative man who loved gambling above all else. We lived in the slums most of the time, whatever money he made at his factory job being siphoned into the horses or poker machines, or anything he had a chance of winning at, even when the chances were slim.
They were always slim.
While Lachlan had a rough childhood, he was adopted into his family in Edinburgh. My aunt and uncle and my cousin Brigs are all lovely people but come from privilege, a taste of life I never got to experience. Even Lachlan now has money, self-made, thanks to his career.
Then there is my other aunt and uncle. They aren’t as lovely and have a ridiculous amount of wealth. Their two sons, Bram and Linden, both live in the States now, in California.
My family ended up being the black sheep, and I was okay with it. I didn’t have much to do with them; instead we just stayed around people who understood us. Thankfully, despite growing up in the rough part of Glasgow (which says a lot), we were able to rise above it in the end. Maisie does charity work in Africa and Mal is a successful photographer.
Then there’s me. I still don’t know what I am, let alone who I am.
But I’m lucky. When I found myself in Edinburgh, mainly because of Jessica, I called up Lachlan (Brigs is working as a professor in London), and made a point to try and connect with my family again. I knew Lachlan would at least understand me, even if he doesn’t know the whole story.
He knew of Miss Tabitha Shipley who lived the next lane over since she is such a huge rugby fan and brought him flowers weekly. When she mentioned that her renter was moving out and Lachlan knew I needed a place to live, he was able to make it happen almost instantaneously.