Page 90 of The Devil Wears Tartan

Half a lifetime of working to prove myself in this place, and here I am, reeking of vodka and stumbling through the lobby hours after I was supposed to arrive.

I take a few faltering steps towards the glass front doors, where a gorgeous April day is beaming its sunny light into the room in complete mockery of my life. I stop when my stomach does another few somersaults and I’m hit with the urge to gag.

I don’t think I’m making it out of here without throwing up.

I cross my arms over my stomach and fumble my way over to the nearest door as my eyes begin to water. Instead of a hallway with a bathroom like I was hoping for, I end up in a stairwell. I curse under my breath and flail for the banister, the metal cool and smooth beneath my hand. I trip over the metal-lipped edge of the third step, my palms slapping the hard tiles as I catch myself before I manage to bash my shins. I roll sideways until I land in a seat on one of the steps and hunch forward to drop my head between my knees.

If I’m going to puke, it’s just going to have to be here.

As I sit hunched in the brace position, a sharp ringing builds in my ears and then subsides a few seconds later. Some of the nausea slips away along with it. The sweat on the back of my neck starts to get cold. My bent knees begin shaking, but I don’t risk sitting up.

Resting here in the silent stairwell with the world gone still around me, I can almost pretend I’m somewhere else. I can almost pretend none of this ever happened, that I’m back at the September competition, that in a few seconds I’ll stand up and chase after that runaway student of Moira’s and then come face to face with Moira herself for the first time in two years.

Maybe I’d kiss her right then.

Maybe I wouldn’t speak to her at all.

I don’t know which would be worse.

The creak of the stairwell door makes me lift my head, as quickly as I can without making my vision spin.

“Kenzie!” Moira stands with her hand braced against the push bar, her eyes round and wide. A few locks of hair have escaped her high bun and are curling around her ears. “Oh my god, Kenzie!”

The nausea hits all over again, wracking my body so hard I have to drop my head again and take sharp huffs of air in through my nose. I hear her jog over and then feel the rush of air as she climbs the steps and lowers herself to sit down beside me.

My limbs go cold, and my lips start to tremble. When she lays a hand against my back, I flinch and lean away.

“S-sorry,” she mumbles. “I...I...are you...are you sick?”

I can’t find my voice to answer. My face starts to burn the same way it did when I realized what she was about to say up on stage. I blink my eyes open, and my vision narrows to hone in on the step in front of me as I start shaking.

“Kenzie...”

Her voice is cracked, and I feel the flutter of her fingertips on my back again. She pulls them away a half second later, before I can tell her not to touch me.

I don’t want her here. I don’t want any of this. She as good as told the entire auditorium I’m a charity case who needs handouts I don’t deserve.

I can hear the crashing roar of everything I’ve spent years building as it collapses around me. Nothing is stable. Nothing is perfect. Everything is a heap of cracked illusions and vain efforts to hide the fact that I’m not the girl I’m trying to be.

The bottom of the staircase falls away, cracking and shifting before it drops, drops, drops into the gaping nothingness below—the same nothingness I’ve been walking the edge of all my life.

“Kenzie, I should have asked.”

I blink a few times, the doomsday vision fading. I can hear my heart thump in my ears, each beat of my blood pumping a vile mix of shame, regret, fury, and an aching loneliness through my whole body.

“I shouldn’t have said that in front of everyone,” Moira continues. “I should have asked if it’s what you wanted. I thought...I thought...”

I take a shuddering breath, trailing my thumbs up the seams on the ankles of my leggings to help ground me.

“What exactly did you think, Moira? That I wanted a handout? Really? You don’t know much about me, but I thought you at least knew enough to realize that’s the exact fucking opposite of what I want. How could you say that about me in front of everyone?”

I don’t have to look up to know she’s flinched. I hear her breath catch and feel the sting of the words as they leave my mouth. She does know about me. She knows a lot about me, more than I’ve let anyone see in years, and I’m acting like none of it mattered.

I wish none of it mattered. I wish I could banish the stupid urge to lean over and put my head in her lap, to let her wrap her arms around me and rock me until nothing hurts anymore. I wish I could make my heart as cold as my words.

I force myself to sit up. I wobble a little and wrap my hand around the base of the banister, taking a shuddering breath before I turn my head to look at her.

She’s in her Aboyne, her skirts flared out on the steps and her tight velvet vest putting the curves of her chest on display. She looks like she did that day we kissed in the hallway, only now her expression is warped with despair and her eyes look like they’re on the verge of spilling tears.

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