But Brigs isn’t picking up on how still I’ve gotten, on how my hands have curled into tight fists, on how Donald and Jessica are sending him warning looks, and Kayla is staring at me with open confusion. He doesn’t pick up on any of that because he’s looking into his glass of beer like it’s telling him what to say.
“We really thought you were gone, Brother. Meth, heroin. Not many can pull themselves off the streets, pull themselves off the drugs, and actually do something with their lives, but you. You. You’ve done everything you set out to do.” Finally he raises his head to look at me, completely earnest, not noticing my wide, wild eyes. “Here’s to you, Brother. I’m glad you’re back. I’m glad you’re here. And I’m glad she’s here too.”
The most awkward silence imaginable blankets the room. Everyone eyes each other then slowly reaches for their glass. I can’t even bother reaching for mine. I’m utterly paralyzed. Not just from humiliation, because when you’ve lived for years on the street, you learn to have no shame. None at all. But it’s the fear that grips me, like a vise around my heart, because Kayla didn’t know any of that, and I wasn’t sure I could ever bring it up with her.
But there it is, out in the open, for her to reflect on, to judge, to fear.
I can’t even look at her. I quickly excuse myself from the table and walk through the kitchen to the bathroom, passing by the fridge where I swiftly grab a bottle of beer and head right on in, locking the door behind me. I lean against the sink, breathing in and out, willing the pain to stop, for the regret to subside, but it doesn’t. So I slam the top of the beer against the sink, the cap snapping off, and down it in five seconds.
I burp. I wait. Wanting it all to go away, for my pulse to stop fighting my veins.
The longer I stay in the bathroom though, the worse it will get. I put the beer in the rubbish bin then head back out to the dining room. I swear, this moment is scarier than any moment I’ve ever had on a rugby pitch.
Thankfully, luckily, they’re all talking about Obama, of all people, so my return to the table isn’t overly noticed.
Except by Kayla, of course, because she notices everything. And there is absolutely no way that I’ll be able to let this sleeping dog lie.
I decide to wrap the evening up early, just after dessert, telling everyone that I have to return home to the dogs, especially Emily who isn’t used to being left alone yet. We say goodbye to everyone, though I know we’ll see Donald and Jessica at the gala. When Brigs hugs me goodbye, he pulls me tight and whispers in my ear.
“If she still loves you, she’s a keeper.”
I want to smash his fucking face in for that and can only mutter an angry syllable in return.
The car ride back to Edinburgh is as choked with silence as one can imagine. I try to concentrate on the road, on the white lines slipping underneath the car, at the black highway rolling toward the headlights. There’s something so dreamy about the moment, that after-dinner, late night drive, but the gravity of the situation brings me back.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I clear my throat, keeping my eyes ahead, my grip stiff on the wheel. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask, voice low and dripping with unease.
It takes her a moment. “About what exactly?”
I really don’t want to spell it out for her, but I will if I must. “About what Brigs said. His toast to me. About the person I used to be.”
She sighs noisily. “Right. The person you used to be. Tell me about him, then.”
“Do you really want to know?” I glance at her to see her nodding, her eyes focused out the window and into the darkness.
“Yes,” she says. “I want to know everything about you. Especially the events that made you who you are.”
“And who am I?” I ask softly, heart pleading. “Who am I to you?”
She turns her face to me, skin lit up by the pale dashboard lights. “You’re Lachlan McGregor. And you’re mine.”