‘You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.’
‘Ah, a slippery one!’ Also, imagine that for a minute. Mac Adams, slippery with sweat. He’s so fit. He must work out, which means I might get to see him—
‘You all right there?’ he asks.
‘Yes, totally. I zoned out for a minute. My question,’ I add quickly. ‘What’s the arrangement with his mum?’
‘Arrangement?’
‘I’m assuming you have custody, and that this is a new thing?’
The muscles flex and tense as he brings the glass to his mouth again. ‘What brings you to that conclusion?’
‘Little things,’ I say with a shrug. A shrug that’s not cutting it with him. ‘The toys don’t have a basket,’ I say, throwing my arm out in their direction of the new storage. ‘There’s no potty step in the bathroom, no Disney cups in the cupboard; that sort of stuff.’
‘So not because he’s sad,’ Mac says, his eyes on the contents of his glass. ‘Not because he’s wary of me.’ He turns the delicate stem in his large fingers, the light from a table lamp making the pale contents glow.
‘No, not at all. He was just having an off day yesterday.’
His gaze rises then, those big brown eyes like bittersweet chocolate. And pained.
‘Oh, God.’ I bring my hand to my mouth, my fingers covering my lips. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Louis’s mother . . . she died?’ Tears sting the back of my eyes. ‘I know what it feels like to lose your mother. I lost mine as a teenager. I don’t think it matters how old you are when it happens; the weight of pain is always the same.’
‘It can’t be easy.’
I shake my head, unable to answer him. Six years on and the loss still hurts like nothing else. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ I eventually manage. Losing a mother is tough. But losing your partner? I can only imagine. As I offer my condolences, it’s hard to make sense of the ripple of emotions that cross Mac’s face.
‘Save your sympathy for Louis, hen. The loss was his.’
‘Oh.’ I often wonder how two people can create a life, subsequently split up, and lose every ounce of love for one another. I think I’m looking at the result of this.
‘Actually, that’s no’ right,’ he says, shifting in his seat. ‘I lost out, but not in her death. You see, I only found out I had a son last month. After she died.’
I don’t move my fingers. Don’t reply—not now. What could I say? What would be appropriate? This is a bloody minefield!
‘See, I’m only just getting to know him, and it terrifies me. Fuck,’ he says, standing suddenly. ‘I’m gonna need something a bit stronger for this can of worms. Want a wee dram?’ he asks as he passes.
I nod, not sure what exactly a wee dram is. I hope it’s not Scottish for a wrap of coke or anything like that. God, I’m such a square. Besides, he doesn’t look the type. He’s more my body is a temple.
And I’m definitely one of its supplicants.
Or the virgin sacrifice.
10
Mac
Louis called me daddy, and I’ve her to thank for that.
I hand her a lowball as I pass, less than two fingers of amber liquid in hers and considerably more in my own. Ordinarily, at this point in the evening, I’d hand a woman curled on my sofa a crass joke along with her glass. Can she handle two fingers? While showing her the size of my shovel-like hands. But tonight, that would be inappropriate, and I just about manage to snatch back the words.
Don’t do it. Not after the chasm she’s filled for us both.
‘You were about to say something,’ she says, pulling the band from her ponytail. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves. Only, dark doesn’t accurately describe the strands lying across her shirt. Reds, ambers, chestnut browns—is there a colour to describe it? Anyway, I don’t think it’s a conscious motion, and she doesn’t seem aware of how sexy she looks as she raises her hands, rubbing her fingers against her scalp and pushing those full tits out.
I tip my head backward as though contemplating the ceiling. For the love of God. We’re only one day in, and I can’nae censor my thoughts?
‘Do y-you want to be left alone?’ Aye, maybe with a bottle of lotion. I won’t even need porn, just the thoughts of your arse. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
She makes to stand when I find myself muttering, ‘Sit your arse down.’
In hindsight, that was more of a growl. A growl that has her doing exactly that, a small rush of air and a squeak hitting the air. My first instinct is to apologise. My second tells me I’m going soft. In the head, maybe. ’Cause I’m no’ so soft anyplace else just now.