She watches as Fraser’s shoulders relax, then re-tighten.
‘Dad’s getting really bad.’
Heather pulls her hand back, her heart lurching. It was her father’s inflexibility and inhumanity that had driven her away all those years ago, but he’s still her dad. She still loves him.
‘How bad?’ Her voice wobbles.
‘He called me Stuart.’
‘Shit.’
Her father’s brother Stuart had died in his early thirties. Neither Heather nor Fraser ever met him.
‘Mum wants you to see him.’
Heather stiffens. The thought of walking through that door and pretending the past twenty years never happened makes her head swim. Her right hand moves to her chest. She looks up at the ceiling and inhales deeply. Perhaps this is unavoidable? Perhaps this is something the new version of Heather might do? The Heather who wild water swims and creates beautiful mementos for families. Perhaps this is all part of her mid-life reincarnation? She lowers her head and turns to look at Fraser.
‘So, what do you reckon? Next weekend?’ he says, clearly picking up on her hesitation.
Heather glances around the room. ‘I’ve got so much to do.’ She gestures at the pile of paperwork littering her table and the carrier bag of unprocessed receipts shoved in the corner.
He nods. ‘Okay. The weekend after next. Sunday? I’ve got a group hike in the Cairngorms on the Saturday.’
Was Fraser this tenacious as a child?
‘Is it really…?’
‘Necessary? Yes. Sorry, sis.’
Heather knows defeat when she sees it.
‘Next Sunday it is, I suppose,’ she says. Will Fraser warn her parents in advance, or will he present her as a surprise interloper into their Sunday lunch? She doesn’t have the energy to ask.
Heather foregoes the mountain of work for the early afternoon and settles onto the couch with Fraser and a gigantic bag of popcorn. They binge watch their favourite American sitcom from when they were kids and laugh at the familiar jokes, baulking at the now-inappropriate references in today’s more inclusive society. It’s like a little shot of oxytocin, being snuggled up under a blanket with her brother, eating snacks and reminiscing about what they were doing when the programme first aired in the UK.
‘You kept trying that hairstyle,’ Fraser mocked at one point.
‘Yeah. And I seem to remember you using that pickup line and being the laughing stock of the whole pub,’ retorts Heather.
A hammering on the door shakes them both from their reverie. Fraser’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline in question. Heather’s shoulders jerk towards her ears in response. She leaves Fraser on the couch as she goes to answer the door.
‘Scott,’ Heather blurts out when she opens the door. Her heart soars at the sight of him, but this – turning up unannounced – is not Scott’s style. Has he come to break up with her? A chill runs through her body at the very thought. But Scott’s smile is broad. He extends his hands like a kid doing peek-a-boo:Ta Dah.
‘I just kept going,’ he says. ‘I was heading to Loch Lomond, but I found myself re-routing and coming here.’ A bike helmet hangs from his forearm, and his flattened hair shines against his crown. His face glistens with sweat. Three telltale diamonds of perspiration leak through the chest and underarms of his lycra cycling gear.
‘You cycled here from Loch Lomond?’ Her eyes bulge.
‘Glasgow. I wanted to see you. There’s stuff I need to say.’ His voice shakes.
Heather doesn’t know what to make of this information. They talk most days.
‘I thought you were pulling back,’ she says, slowly.
He stoops to kiss her. Here, in the hallway, with her brother in the next room.
‘It seems not,’ he replies through tiny micro kisses that tingle her cheeks and cause her heart to race.
‘Scott … I …’
