Page 106 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I have no choice but to leave my morbid thoughts behind and get pulled into the whirl of her excitement as she drags me over to a picnic table in the middle of the park.

“This should be a good spot,” she mutters, seemingly to herself, as she motions for me to sit down and cranes her neck around to survey the park.

“So...are we going to sit here and wait for nightfall?” I ask. “I’m assuming you’ve organized an elaborate fireworks display that’s going to launch off Parliament Hill.”

I nod over at the green-roofed section of Canada’s parliament buildings that are visible past the tree line at the far edge of the park.

“Damn.” Moira smacks her palm to her forehead in an adorable gesture of feigned regret. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

She takes a seat beside me, sliding in close enough that our thighs are almost touching. My hand is braced on the bench between us, and she inches the tips of her fingers over her leg until they brush mine.

“Do you want to...?”

“Hold hands?” I finish for her.

She nods and drops her gaze to the ground. Her nervous smile is so cute I want to pull her down in the grass and make out in a way that would not be appropriate considering the number of families in the park today.

Hand holding seems like a good place to start.

“I’d love to.”

I twine my fingers with hers and inch my body closer, until her thigh brushes up against mine. I pull both our hands into my lap and stroke my thumb over her knuckles. The warm sun beats down on my shoulders, and I tip my face to the sky as I let my eyes fall closed.

Spring is here to stay, and so am I.

No matter what happens, I’m keeping my promises to her. I’m keeping my promises to myself.

When I tilt my chin back down, I find Moira drinking the sight of me in like I’m sunlight itself. Her lips are parted, and her green eyes glitter like gemstones in the light.

I start leaning in towards her, my lips parting too.

Then the wail of a set of bagpipes rings out, the piercing sound loud enough to fill the whole park. Startled, I rear back from Moira and glance around to find the source of the noise.

Way down at the far end of the park, I spot a piper in full Scottish regalia making her way towards us in a slow procession up the grass. Her red and green kilt flaps around her knees, her fingers a flurry of precise movement and her cheeks puffing out to fill the bag with air.

I look back at Moira, whose face is stretched in an excited grin now. I can feel her leg bouncing against mine as she drums her heels on the ground.

“Is that Georgie?” I ask. She’s still a little too far to be sure, but I’m pretty sure I recognize one of the regular pipers from SDOO events.

Moira shrugs, still beaming. “Maaaybe.”

I turn back to watch Georgie come even closer. People from all around the park are paying attention now, some of them smiling in appreciation and some of them grimacing in annoyance.

Bagpipes always have a pretty polarizing effect.

When Georgie is only a few metres away, the pipes still droning out the familiar tune of a Fling, I spot a group of people pointing at something behind our table while they chatter and clap.

I look over my shoulder and see a brunette kid in a bright red kilt and jacket has appeared out of nowhere and is now flying through the first step of the Highland Fling from her spot on one of the paths winding through the park.

Before I can turn back to ask Moira what’s going on, two more dancers step out from behind a wide tree trunk. They giggle and rush over to join the first girl, jumping into the dance and falling into perfect rhythm with one another. The contrasting colours of their jewel-tone outfits draw every eye in the park as their legs shoot out with mesmerizing precision.

“Moira, how—”

I don’t get the rest of my question out; when I finally pull my eyes away from the dancers, I realize more and more are appearing all over the park, standing up from their spots on blankets or running out from behind trees. A few of the older kids even get up on picnic tables to make the crowd gasp as they whirl through their turns on the wooden boards.

As I continue to stare, my mouth hanging open and my neck swivelling to take the whole scene in, I realize I recognize most of the dancers.

They’re RSA students. They’re my students.

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