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“I guess we’ll see,” was all he said. I had so many other questions to ask — like whether the wedding was still on, for one thing — but I’d been too scared to ask, so I’d just turned and left, my long walk home giving me ample opportunity to think of all the things Ishouldhave said, that would have led to a different ending. Or at least allowed me to look back on our conversation with even the smallest shred of dignity.
“It’s that Kathryn that’s to blame,” says Mum, fiercely. “I knew she couldnae be trusted as soon as I laid eyes on her. I bet she’s been in Jack’s ear, making up all sorts o’ lies. Well, when I get my hands on her—”
“It’s nothing to do with Kathryn, Mum,” I tell her firmly. “This is all on me. I’m the one who messed up here. Just like I always do. So it’s no wonder Jack can hardly even bear to look at me right now. I wouldn’t want to marry me either.”
“Now, Emerald,” Mum begins, but I shake my head, stopping her. I don’t want to talk any more about this. I can’t. I just want to go to bed and wake up to find out that none of this ever happened. Like when Pam Ewing realized Bobby wasn’t dead after all. It’s possible I’ve spent too much time listening to McTavish talking about his favorite soap opera plots though, because there’s absolutely no way that’s going to happen.
I give it a go anyway, retreating to my room and spending a satisfying couple of hours bawling my eyes out, before finally falling asleep in my clothes, dehydrated from all the tears. When I wake up, though, it’s still the same day, only later. Jack and I are still on a break, as confirmed by the lack of messages from him on my phone, which I give a quick shake, anyway, just in case it’s been holding out on me.
My head throbs and my tongue feels furry. I should probably have brushed my teeth before I fell asleep, but attending to personal hygiene when my world is ending would’ve made me feel like the bandleader on the Titanic — which is also why my eyes are almost glued shut with mascara right now.
I wonder in a detached kind of way if it’s possible to actually die of a broken heart, and if I would mind very much if that happened to me. I don’t think I would. I wonder if Jack will come to the funeral and throw himself on the casket shouting, “I should have tried harder”, or if he’ll just shake his head sadly and feel like he’s had a lucky escape.
I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that, so I roll over and try to go back to sleep; which is harder than I’d like it to be, given that I’ve already had a few hours, and now my brain’s determined to keep me awake so I can lie there and regret all of my life choices, including (but not limited to) those specific choices that led me to my current, unfortunate situation. There’s nothing else to do to pass the time though, and sleep seems like the least painful way to deal with the misery that wells up inside me when I think about that, so I determinedly close my eyes, and when I open them again, it’s a new day.
Thank God for that.I stagger downstairs and into the kitchen, where Mum and Dad both jump guiltily, as if they’ve been talking about me.
“How are ye, love?” asks Mum anxiously, pulling out a seat for me and passing me a mug of scalding hot coffee. “Have ye heard anything from Jack?”
I shake my head, already feeling exhausted, even though I must have had at least 12 hours of sleep by this point. I’m probably the best rested I’ve been in my life, actually.
“No,” I tell her sadly, wondering if I should borrow her phone and call myself with it, just to make sure mine is still working. “Nothing. He probably wants to give me some space.”
“Aye,” says Mum doubtfully. “Aye, that’ll be it. Why don’t ye go and have a seat in the living room, and I’ll bring ye something to eat?”
I obediently get up and shuffle through to the living room, where I collapse onto the sofa, waving Mum away when she arrives a few minutes later with a plate heaped with food, which I don’t have the energy to eat.
With a bit of luck, I’ll waste away, like the heroine in a tragic novel. Or at the very least lose a few pounds through sheer misery, and not have to go to Brian’s gym any more.
As I’m thinking this, the doorbell rings, and I hastily arrange myself on the sofa in what I imagine to be the pose of a tragic heroine — beautiful yet fragile — just in case it’s Jack. But it’s just McTavish, who takes a seat opposite me, cheerfully accepting the plate of bacon and eggs I’ve just refused, which Mum is delighted to find a taker for.
“Have ye had an allergic reaction to something?” he asks through a mouthful of toast. “It’s just, yer face is all puffy and yer eyes are like wee raisins.”
He raises his phone to snap a quick photo (“Frankie’ll want to see this,” he says), and I swing my legs off the sofa and sit upright, glaring at him through my tiny, raisin-like eyes.
“I wish itwasjust an allergic reaction,” I say mournfully. “It’s much worse than that, though.”
I start to tell him what happened after we left the farm yesterday — omitting the bit where Jack accused him of having a “thing” for me, obviously — but McTavish holds up a hand to stop me.
“I’ve heard all about it from Shona,” he says sympathetically. “Although, I must say, ye look much worse than she said ye did.”
“Thanks,” I mutter under my breath. “You really know how to make a girl to feel good about herself.”
“Ach, ye’ll be back together in no time,” says McTavish, briskly. “It’s like I was telling ye the other day: you and Jack were made for each other.”
“I don’t think he sees it like that,” I say, sadly, hoping he’ll expand a bit on this subject, seeing as he seems so sure about it. “I apologized over and over, McTavish, and he just didn’t seem to care. Nothing I said made a difference. Now I don’t know what to do.”
“Ye can come to the nursing home with me,” says McTavish unexpectedly.
“The nursing home? I don’t think I’m quite ready for anursing home,” I protest, wondering if I’ve overdone the “wan heroine” bit. “It’s my heart that’s broken, not my mind.”
McTavish looks like he’s about to argue with this, but wisely thinks better of it.
“Dinnae worry,” he says, polishing off the last of his eggs. “I’m no’ planning on checking ye in. I was going to visit my grandad, to tell him about what happened yesterday, with Ja… er, with the farm being saved, and all that. I ken he didnae even know the place was about to be sold, but still: I’ve been meaning to go and visit him. I thought ye could come with me.”
“Me?” I look up from my phone, which I’ve been checking yet again for messages. “You want me to come and visit your grandad?”
This is awkward. I barely even know McTavish’s grandad, who seems to have been in his dotage for as long as I can remember. He’s so old that when I was a kid, I once asked if he was God. Also, I have a full day of feeling sorry for myself planned, and I’d ideally like to do it from the comfort of this sofa, if at all possible.
