Page 83 of Blindsided By You

“Oh, luv.” Recognition dawns behind her wireframe glasses. She stands in the doorway, casting me a sympathetic look. She makes no move to let me in, leaving me exposed on the street with my painful past on display for anyone to see.

“It’s a bonnie dress, right enough.” Fran reaches out a hand, lifting the hem to look at it more closely. “Worth a pretty penny, I’d say.” She casts an appraising eye over the glistening satin. “But, as much as we could use the money for the shop, this isn’t the place for it, Jenna. Folk don’t come to Cluanie to shop for wedding dresses, I’m afraid.”

“Please—“ I start to protest. I need to get rid of this thing. Now. Today. It’s not that I’ll change my mind—I just want it gone.

“I know what you could do, though,” she says thoughtfully.

Five minutes later, I’m on the familiar winding road past MacFarlane’s Distillery. Nathan’s driveway comes next, and the house where I’ve spent so much time these past weeks. Geordie may not return here after discharge, but I’m not sure he’ll retreat to his parents’ place. His mother would eagerly play nurse, but I imagine Geordie would prefer somewhere beyond his father’s venom.

Nathan’s unassuming house holds precious memories of afternoons making love in the sunlit lounge and quiet nights upstairs. I wonder if we’ll ever get them back. Leaving the hospital yesterday, I felt we’d resolved things, but in the dark of my own bed, replaying every word and every look, doubt crept back in. What if Geordie can’t forgive me for hiding him away, a guilty secret, simply because I was afraid to let my scarred heart hope and dream?

The third driveway leads to Buchanan House, an imposing eighteenth century tower house. Its burnished gold stone walls rise four storeys against the crisp morning sky. The unruly dress stays in the car. Better to confirm this is its final destination before attempting to wrangle it in front of gawping hotel staff and guests. I take a slow, calming breath, exhaling my nervousness as I head for the entrance.

Heather Buchanan stands in reception, laughing with a couple checking out. I hover behind them, and as she notices there’s a momentary frown before her mouth flickers back into a welcoming smile. She leaves the receptionist to handle checkout, and rounds the heavy oak counter. Our last meeting—discussing party menus at Dad’s insistence—seems a lifetime ago. Before rugby season. Before Geordie. Before Brandon.

She must wonder why I’m here, after the weekend’s events, but she doesn’t ask, simply scoops me into a hug. A soothing warmth radiates from her, and against my usual instincts, I lean into her. I need a hug today, especially one of Heather’s.

“I heard,” she murmurs against my hair. She steps back, placing steadying hands on my upper arms and fixing me with sympathetic eyes. “Tell your dad if there’s anything we can do… You must all be devastated.”

“It’s hard to believe it’s real.”

What I’m going to ask of her seems wildly inappropriate right now. Perhaps I need to back off. But if anything good has come out of this weekend, it’s the realisation I need to put the past behind me. I think I love Geordie, and he might just love me too, if I let him. Ridding myself of everything that’s held me back seems crucial, the damn wedding dress a tangible symbol of letting go.

“Heather,” I say, my heart pulsing warily, “this is going to seem really odd, I know, but Fran MacMillan said you’re doing something with a wedding charity?”

Her brows fly up to her hairline. Not the question she was expecting.

“Yes,” she says. “Wedding Wishes. We’re doing our first gifted wedding for them next month. The groom hasn’t been well, cancer.”

She stops short, and I see an awkward flush of pink rise in her cheeks. Knowing how cancer came knocking on my family’s door less than a year ago, Heather’s revelation doesn’t jar against my still raw edges, but rather feels like another sign that what I’m doing is absolutely the right thing: a gift to this unknown couple’s future as well as my own.

“Does the bride have a dress?” The words tumble out. “I have one, you see. It’s beautiful. Expensive. Unworn.”

There’s a brief flash of sympathy in Heather Buchanan’s eyes, a glimmer, only for a moment, before she brushes it away, her mouth tipping up in a pleased smile as she assures me some grateful bride will treasure my dress, whether it’s this one or another.

When I climb back into the car, part of me longs to drop the top and floor it, celebrating my release from those white satin shackles. But the thought of where I’m headed sobers me. It feels wrong to indulge in such blissful freedom when someone I care about is drowning in grief.

I find Skylar, a tiny hunched figure swallowed up by a massive wicker chair on her back terrace. Her mother delivers tea, hovering protectively for a moment, until the doorbell rings and draws her away. We barely speak during my half hour there, just clutch each other’s hands and cry. Once again, I find myself doubting theexistence of a god. If there is one, he’s a cruel bastard, snatching away the beautiful future of two young people.

When I rise to leave, Skylar clutches at my hand. Her blotchy, tear-swollen face turns upwards, a question in the red-rimmed blue eyes. As hard as it would be to stay, I will if she asks.

“Could I ask you for something?”

“Anything you need, sweetie, it’s yours.” I’d do anything to take her away her pain, but I can’t turn back time. Still, whatever she needs, big or small, I’ll do my best.

“Would you bring Andy over? I miss him,” she hiccups out over a sob.

“Of course I will. He misses you too,” I promise through tears, my voice shaky. There’s a twinge of gratitude for the strange bond our grumpy little dog has forged with this sweet, broken young woman, and the comfort he offers.

After delivering a delighted Andy to Skylar’s arms, I return home. It’s just past noon. As I point my remote at the garage door, it rises to reveal an empty space, my father’s Range Rover still not there.

It’s no surprise Dad’s been gone all morning. There’s no manual on how to deal with a tragedy like this in a small community. In my former world of professional sport, crisis management follows protocols—press releases, controlled narratives, damage control. Now, I find myself grateful that those same skills might actually matter here, where there are no PR departments or media liaisons to shield grieving families and shell-shocked teammates. My expertise feels both valuable and woefully inadequate. The playbook I’ve mastered doesn’t account for when your hands shake because the statement you’re crafting is about people you’ve known your whole life. Still, I’ll do my best this afternoon to step up for the club and Connor.

I park in my space and head inside to grab some lunch before facing the unpleasant task. As I step into the hallway, piano notes drift towards me, and my heart leaps. I know who’s here.

In the sunlit studio, Geordie sits at the piano, crutches propped against the sofa, a large duffel resting beside him. He turns his head at the click of my heels on tiles, offering me a small smile but playing on without missing a beat.

I stand behind him, hands on his shoulders, feeling their solid bulk beneath my fingers. His body moves with the ebb and the flow of the music, and I lean into the piece with him. Tears well up as the melancholy beauty of ‘Unchained Melody’ washes over me. This song always affects me—I’ve sniffled my way throughGhostdozens of times—but today I sob.

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