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I really had no intention of accompanying him this morning — I was planning to just sit around repeatedly messaging Jack until he either replied to me or blocked me — but I happen to be passing the living room window en route to the sofa when McTavish arrives, so, before I know it, he’s marching me firmly out of the door, telling me it’ll do me good to get some fresh air.
Unfortunately for me, though, there isn’t much in the way of fresh air at the nursing home, which is one of those modern buildings that have been designed to cunningly blend in with the older ones around them, but which succeed only in drawing attention to how bland they are in comparison. It smells like disinfectant and death, and I immediately want to leave. Especially when I remember McTavish’s comment about me dying alone.
We find McTavish’s grandad sitting in a sunny conservatory, having a spirited argument with an elderly lady who looks at us with relief, before shuffling gratefully off.
“Ach, you’re no’ fighting with Daphne again, Grandpa?” says McTavish, leaning over to rearrange the cushion behind the old man’s wispy head. “I thought ye were gettin’ on better these days?”
“She’s a liar and a thief,” says Hamish McTavish fiercely, his blue eyes — which are an almost exact replica of his grandson’s — still bright in his wrinkled face. “And a Commie. Aye, she’s worth the watching, that yin. Sell oor secrets, so she will. Who are you? Are you one o’ them as well?”
He looks at McTavish, his tone suddenly suspicious. McTavish pats him gently on the hand and takes a seat beside him.
“It’s me, Grandpa,” he says gently. “McTavish. Yer grandson.”
“McTavish, is it?” says the old man, surprised. “ButI’mMcTavish. Dinnae you try to trick me. I might be old, but I’m no’ daft. Who’s the ginger lass?”
“Er, hi, Mr. McTavish,” I say, coming forward. “I’m Emerald. Mc… Alfonso’s friend. You probably don’t remember me. It’s okay, I’m quite…forgettable.”
“Alfonso!” says Hamish, his face clearing. “Ye should have said! How are ye, Alfie lad? How’s the farm?”
“The farm’s good, Grandpa,” says McTavish, relieved. “Or it will be soon, thanks to the Laird.”
“Freddie?” says Hamish, looking around as if he’s expecting to see Jack’s grandad sitting in one of the chairs. “Is he here as well?”
McTavish shakes his head, but before he can answer, his grandfather’s eyes light up and he raises a trembling hand to point in the direction of the conservatory door. “Aye,” he says delightedly. “There he is, right enough.”
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see one of the other residents standing there, then freeze on the spot as I recognize the young man with the rumpled dark hair who’s hovering awkwardly in the doorway, looking as if he’s waiting for permission to come in.
NotFreddieBuchanan, but Jack.
Here.
In the very last place I would have expected to see him.
“Is it really you, Freddie?”
Hamish staggers to his feet in excitement, the tartan rug that was covering his knees falling to the floor.
“Itisyou!” the old man exclaims as Jack reluctantly enters the room, looking every bit as enthused by his trip here as I was. “But Freddie, I cannae believe it! Ye havenae changed a bit!”
He lurches forward as if he’s about to run across the room to Jack, and McTavish and I spring forward simultaneously to stop him falling flat on his face.
“Come on, Grandpa,” McTavish says gently. “Let’s get you back to yer seat, will we?”
Hamish allows his grandson to help him back into his chair, his eyes never leaving Jack as McTavish carefully tucks the rug back around him.
“Well, what are ye waitin’ for, Fred? Get yerself over here, and we’ll hae some o’ that whisky o’ yours,” Hamish says jovially. “This is a cause for celebration if ever I seen one. Waitress?” He turns to me. “Go and get us some glasses. There’s a good lass.”
He settles back down in his seat, his face alight with joy. Jack and I eye each other warily.
Jack’s wearing an old pair of jeans and the sweater I bought him for his birthday last year. He looks like he hasn’t shaved, and there are dark shadows under his eyes which, along with the rumpled hair, give him a bit of a “tortured artist” look, which I can’t help but find hot. All he needs is a guitar slung around his shoulder and he’d look exactly like one of the moody rock stars whose posters used to adorn my walls back in high school.
This is very bad news for me.
Although, it’s possibly alsogoodnews; because if he looks like this because he’s been lying awake missing me, then at least there’s still hope of us getting back together.
Isn’t there?
“McTavish.” Jack recovers first, and crosses the room to McTavish, who stands up to shake his hand. Jack looks relieved to find he hasn’t spat into it first. He doesn’t even look at me.
