Page 89 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I tense and gasp like the wind has been knocked out of me as I watch one of the doors inch open to reveal a sliver of light from the lobby.

The gap widens, and my heart soars as Kenzie steps through. Her hair is loose, and she’s wrapped up in her pea coat. She hovers by the doors, and I stare at her like I can bore my thoughts straight into her mind.

What are you doing? What’s wrong?

Something is wrong. Even from here, I can tell she looks pale. Her hair is limp instead of hanging over her shoulders in all its shiny glory. She takes a few faltering steps down the aisle and braces her hand against an empty chair.

Then her eyes lock on mine.

I stop breathing again.

Despite everything between us, despite everything said and unsaid, despite how sick and haggard she looks, she smiles.

She smiles like it’s all going to be okay.

“And the winner of the scholarship issss...the one, the only....MOIRA MURRAY!”

The middle-aged volunteer doing the announcements makes more noise than she seems like she should be capable of, and the crowd bursts into a roar of applause. Someone grabs my hand and pumps my fist in the air, but my arm is limp in their grasp.

I’m still looking at Kenzie. Her smile falters for a moment before shifting into a mix of emotions I can’t read.

“You all know her. You all love her. Moira is a—”

“Wait.”

The announcer pauses at the sound of my voice, which rings out with an urgent authority.

“Wait,” I repeat, softer this time, as I rip my eyes away from Kenzie and hold my hand out for the microphone. “I have something I want to say.”

I’m going to make this okay. I’m going to take whatever that smile was as a sign to show up and be there for Kenzie in a way no one’s been there for her before.

The microphone is cool in my grasp. I clear my throat before bringing it up to my mouth.

“This is an honor,” I begin, somehow sounding much calmer than I feel. “Really. I’m not just being cheesy.”

A few light laughs drift up from the crowd. I’ve moved to the middle of the stage, and the lights have me partially blinded, but I still stare at the place I know Kenzie is standing.

“I can’t accept it, though. There should be someone else up on this stage with us. She’s been through way more than me to get here, way more than any of us. This money should go to the person who could use it the most, and so I’d like to give the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa’s first scholarship to Kenzie Andrianakis.”

A chorus of murmurs fills the room, and I even hear a few people say ‘Awww!’ before someone lets out a whistle and yet more applause takes over.

One of the volunteers pats me on the back, but I just step to the edge of the stage until I can get a clear look at Kenzie.

My stomach drops as soon as I do.

The grimace of betrayal twisting her face tells me I’ve just done something very, very wrong.

CHAPTER 21

KENZIE

The floor feels like it’s rolling under me. I brace my palm against the cool wall of the empty lobby as my stomach lurches.

Closing my eyes, I make myself take a deep breath and then pinch the fold of skin between my thumb and pointer finger with my opposite hand. Some article I read told me that’s supposed to help when you’re feeling nauseous. I don’t know if it’s true, but at the very least, I avoid puking up the half slice of toast I forced down on my way here.

I straighten up and push away the lock of hair that’s slipped into my eyes. I don’t know when I lost my ponytail holder. I don’t even know if I actually grabbed one before I dragged my ass downstairs to my mom’s car.

If the urge to empty my stomach weren’t enough proof, my sweat-slicked skin and the dull throbbing reverberating through my skull would leave me no choice but to acknowledge it: I’m hungover.

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