Page 60 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I don’t get a yes, but after a moment of silence, she nods and says, “I guess we’re going somewhere special.”

CHAPTER 14

KENZIE

As soon as the sign for the Murray School of Highland Dance comes into view up the street, I turn my head and squint at Moira where we’re sitting in the back of an Uber. She shrugs and spreads her hands in a ‘you’ll see’ gesture before setting them back down on the worn grey fabric of the seat.

Her fingertips land only a few inches from mine, and I fight the urge to reach for her hand and twine our fingers together.

It’s the same urge that’s made me blurt out truths I should keep to myself, the same one that made me kiss her in that hallway, the same one that keeps drawing me to her again and again when everything she represents should be a big red warning sign threatening enough to keep me away.

That sign should have been enough to keep me from coming on this date in the first place. I don’t do dates. I don’t do distractions or complications. My whole life hangs in a constant state of shifting imbalance, and one puff of an unpredictable wind could send me hurtling into the deep, dark hole I dream about tumbling down most nights.

The last time I dated was at the end of high school, and it only lasted a few months before we both realized I didn’t have the time or even the will to make it work.

It still hurt when she left me. I knew it was coming. I was on the verge of doing it myself, but the pain still dug into me like a knife pressing on old scars. She was leaving, just like my dad, just like Chris’s dad, just like Chris himself when he started showing up less and less.

That pain has been just another reason to stay away from relationships all through university.

Somehow, I’m here anyway. I’m in this car, my hand just inches from Moira’s. When I glance at her profile silhouetted by the glow of the streetlights we drive past, I don’t see an old rival or even a new threat to the only thing that might keep me in school next year.

I only see a girl I want more of—more of her words, more of her laugh, more of her mouth on mine and her body pressed to me.

I shiver even though the heat is blasting and I’m huddled in my coat. Moira notices and opens her mouth to say something just as the driver pulls up to an empty spot on the curb and asks if we’re close enough.

“This is great,” Moira answers. “Thanks for the ride.”

We climb out of the car and scale the mini mountain range of snow pushed up against the curb by the latest round of plows. The studio is only a few metres up the sidewalk. Moira fishes around in her purse for her keys while I take in the sight of the brick building.

“I’ve never been here,” I murmur.

I recognize the Murray School’s tartan-themed logo featuring a little illustrated pair of ghillies. The bicycle shop they share the building with seems to take up the street-facing side of the first floor, with big glass windows looking into a dark interior filled with racks of bikes. The Murray School has its own entrance around the side, right near a narrow parking lot, and Moira glances back at me as she leads us over.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the Stewie school either.”

“Stewie?” I repeat as she fits her key in the lock.

“Oh, whoops, yeah.” She keeps her back to me, and I hear the note of embarrassment in her voice. “That’s kind of what I call anyone who goes to the Rebecca Stewart Academy.”

I have to laugh at that one. “You call us Stewies?”

“Hey, be grateful I didn’t come up with something insulting.”

She pulls the glass door open, and we both step into a dark entryway with salt-stained mats on the floor.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say Stewie is particularly flattering.”

Instead of giving me a comeback, Moira steps ahead of me and reaches for a light switch. A few overhead panel lights flicker on, revealing a front desk still festooned with Scottish-themed Christmas decorations and a couple sets of string lights. Beyond it, there’s a short, narrow hallway lined with a few doors and a staircase at the end. The walls are painted a creamy yellow colour, and there’s a striped red and yellow runner covering the old wooden floors of the hall.

“Well this is adorable,” I blurt.

“Ha ha. We’ve all been too busy to take the decorations down.”

“No, no,” I protest while Moira starts pulling her boots off. “I mean it. It’s really sweet in here. I bet the kids love it.”

We’ve spent our lives mocking and challenging so many parts of each other, but I can tell Moira meant it when she said this was a special place for her. I feel it myself. I see it in the way she looks so protective and yet so vulnerable as she glances around the room.

Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t make fun of this place.

---