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“Talk shite. I need a minute.”
“Things are kicking off now. I’m getting all the shite ready for next year. Countdown’s on to prepare for the gathering. Fourth cousins twice removed coming out of the woodworks and angling for an invitation…”
“Ìosa, it’s getting real, eh?”
“Fuck, I know. Mum’s banging on about sorting committee members and all sorts. And eh…” He eyed Ruairidh. “I’m also popping over to Edinburgh tomorrow to see Vivi—we’ve got some plans cooking.”
“Yeah, Jenn mentioned that…”
Ally cocked a brow. “So, you two are actually talking then? Or is that a sore subject?”
Ruairidh took another few glugs, exhaling. “Kind of.”
“That’s it? Kind of?”
“What d’you want me to say?” Ruairidh rubbed at the condensation on his glass. “She’s busy. I’ve been working more shifts. We’ve not had much… time to talk.”
Not the whole truth.
They’d had time together—plenty—but lately it was all heat and skin, frantic and wordless. Like if they stopped to breathe, they might have to face what neither of them was naming. Every time he saw her, there was a flicker in her eyes—like she was already halfway gone. And every time he touched her, he tried to pull her back without saying the words.
Ally tilted his head. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Moira at Hells Bells, would it?”
Ruairidh’s head snapped up. “Why?”
“Donnie said he saw her talking to Jenn at one point.”
Ruairidh’s jaw tightened. “He mentioned that, yeah. But he got dragged away before he heard anything.”
“Fucking Moira,” Ally muttered under his breath, taking a sip of his beer. “She could cut glass with that tongue of hers.”
“But what could she have said that Jenn wouldn’t tell me? She hasn’t said anything to Màiri or Lizzie either…”
“Unless they’re not telling you?”
“Nah. Even they seem worried about her. She’s shut everyone out.”
Ally leaned back, giving him a level look. “So, what’s eating you more—wondering what Moira said to her, or worrying she’s packing her bags?”
Ruairidh took another pull of his pint. His heart clenched. “That’s what I’m worried about. But the thing is…”
Ally just watched him, steady and unhurried, nursing his pint like they were talking about flight schedules instead of Ruairidh coming apart at the seams.
Around them, the bar surged with life—accordions cutting through the roar of voices, feet drumming the floorboards, the yeasty tang of beer in the air. Ruairidh stared into the amber swirl in his glass, the wood sticky beneath his fingers. He could shut it down, keep the lid on tight—keep it safe—but the thought of walking away without her knowing? Ìosa. That would finish him.
Ruairidh let out a dry laugh. “I can’t switch her off, mate. She’s in my head. Always. I’ll be working and suddenly I’m thinking about how she laughs, or the way she looks at me like—”
He stopped, jaw clenching. “Fuck. I’m screwed.”
“Uh-huh.” Ally took a sip, waiting.
“I keep trying not to say it,” Ruairidh went on, quieter now, the noise of the bar blurring around him.
“Like if I don’t name it, I can hold it together. But I can’t. I love her. Ìosa, I fucking love her.”
There. Out.
Ìosa. It felt good and shite all at once.
