Page 37 of The Devil Wears Tartan

“And like, really Scottish,” she adds.

I chuckle. “You know, it all just kind of blends in for me at this point, but you’re right.”

The huge framed photos of Ben Nevis and the Isle of Skye might have something to do with that, as might the overdramatic ironwork Murray crest above the fireplace, which is festooned with a length of Murray clan tartan and has two swords crossed behind it.

“You can sit on the couch, and move anything you need to,” I tell her as I head for the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island lined with wooden stools. I drape my jacket over one of them and ask her if she’d like any tea.

“Tea would be great, actually,” she answers.

I steal glances at her as I get the water boiling and pull out some mugs. She’s sitting on the very edge of her couch cushion with her hands in her lap, like she’s scared to relax and sit all the way back. She keeps gawking at the room as if she’s never seen anything like it.

I ask how she takes her tea, expecting her to ask for it black or with only a splash of some kind of dairy substitute we don’t have, but she hesitates and then tells me she’ll take it with milk and double sugar.

The same way I take mine.

I pour the water and milk over the tea bags and then pop a few sugar cubes into each. My mum uses only cubed sugar for coffee and tea. It’s basically a Murray household law to always have sugar cubes in stock.

When I bring the mugs into the living room, I find Kenzie hunched over to peer at a dance photo propped under the lamp on one of the couch’s side tables.

“Is this you or your sister?” she asks once I’ve set the tea down and claimed an armchair.

Even on the sprawling couch, sitting down next to her feels too risky, like it will make me face how weird this day has gotten and how much weirder it could possibly get.

Weird would definitely be one way to describe accidentally leaning in to kiss Kenzie on my family’s couch.

“Come on, you really can’t tell?” I ask.

I know the photo well enough I don’t have to look. It’s eight-year-old me in a kilt and vest, caught mid-air in a leap with my legs in a perfect straddle. My first ever highland trophy is set up on the floor in front of me alongside a display of ribbons and medals.

“You two look very similar,” Kenzie protests.

She’s not wrong; my older sister Anna and I have the same hair and eyes. We’d get mistaken for each other offstage all the time, but onstage, people knew I was always at least a slightly better dancer—a saving grace for my middle child syndrome, which really flared up when Anna graduated with a half dozen scholarships and went to business school in Toronto to continue building her already established social media manager business.

She is a perfect example of the ‘dream big’ ethos my parents are so proud of, the one I don’t seem to have.

“Look at that leap!” I insist. “The control! The grace! The power!”

Kenzie chuckles. “Okay, so it is you.”

“Of course it’s me,” I say, which makes her laugh even more.

She has a beautiful laugh—when she’s not using it to accentuate a jab at me. When she laughs like this, open and honest, the sound is as rich and sweet as syrup.

“Where do you want to film this thing?” she asks as she reaches for her mug.

“We have a little sunroom upstairs. I was thinking that might work well. There’s lots of light, and less...visual stimulus.” I wave my hand around to indicate the general state of the living room.

Kenzie chuckles again and nods. “And what do we do about the questions?”

I feel a crack of tension snap through the room, and I know we’re both thinking about how our last go at this ended.

“Ah, yes. The questions.”

I blow on my tea to fill the silence.

“To be honest, I liked your idea of just going for it,” Kenzie says. “We can cut whatever doesn’t work, but we should probably just get on with it and film what we’ve come up with.”

I keep blowing on the tea as I nod, using the action to cover up how shocked I am to hear the phrase ‘I liked your idea’ leaving Kenzie’s mouth.

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