Jane raises a skeptical brow.
— Your mother invited your ex-girlfriend to our wedding ball? Is that another Scottish tradition I wasn’t aware of?
— No, that’s more of an “Isobel McGregor refuses to accept that her son married someone other than the woman she chose for him” tradition, I reply with a grimace.
— I see. Should I be worried about her slipping rat poison into my drink?
— Heather? No. She’s passive-aggressive, not homicidal. She’ll probably ask polite questions about your career while subtly implying that the experimental theater she funds is the only valid form of art.
Jane lets out a small laugh, which only deepens Heather’s glare.
— I can’t wait. After surviving a tyrannical director, a media scandal, and your disapproving look when I put my feet on the coffee table, I can definitely handle a vindictive ex.
— I do not give you a disapproving look when you put your feet on the coffee table, I protest.
— Callum, you purse your lips like you just swallowed a lemon.
— I have never?—
I stop as the orchestra begins tuning. The dance is imminent.
— Oh God, Jane murmurs, following my gaze. This is it. If I die on that dance floor, promise me you’ll write something flattering on my tombstone. Not “She tripped to death.”
— I promise. I’ll write “She waltzed gracefully into the afterlife.”
— It’s not a waltz, it’s a warrior ritual disguised as a ballroom dance, she groans. Who needs to spin eight times while holding only your partner’s pinky?
I laugh again. Stress brings out Jane’s dramatic side—and it’s honestly adorable.
— Ladies and gentlemen, my grandmother announces, stepping into the center of the room, tradition dictates that the newlyweds will now open the ball with the traditional McGregor dance.
Polite applause ripples through the room as Jane shoots me a look that clearly says save me or kill me, but do something. I offer her my arm with what I hope is a reassuring smile.
— Let’s go, I murmur. I’ll guide you.
— That’s what the sadistic old man said too, and he still let me crash to the floor during the jump.
We take our place at the center of the dance floor. I feel Jane trembling slightly and squeeze her hand, trying to steady her.
— Look at me, I say softly. Not at them. Just me.
Her eyes find mine, and suddenly a strange calm settles between us. The music begins, and we move.
The first steps are flawless. Jane has clearly worked hard, and despite her anxiety, she moves with surprising precision. We turn, separate, come back together, following the intricate patterns that tell the story of our clan.
— You’re doing incredibly well, I murmur during a brief close pass.
— Don’t talk, I’m counting in my head, she mutters through her smile.
We reach the most technical section—the one where we hook pinkies and spin quickly. That’s when I notice my mother edgingcloser, her expression unreadable. Jane’s focus wavers for just a second.
— Don’t look away, I whisper. Focus on me.
She does—but I can feel she’s lost her count.
Now comes the jump. The one she’s been dreading.
— Ready? I murmur.
