Page 86 of Blindsided By You

Kyle ambles around the car, his police officer’s eyes filled with admiration rather than suspicion. “I can see myself having to get out my wee book very soon.” He glances between Geordie and me, grinning. “Perhaps we should have a bet, lads. Who’s going to get the first ticket, him or her?”

“Got to catch us first, Kyle,” I say with a challenging smile, but there’s no real heat in it. My little red sports car and I have mellowed now we’re not racing up to Nathan’s every day.

I watch as the guys gather round Geordie. Their big eyes, wide mouths, the envious gazes of the younger ones, and backslaps of congratulations from his mates—it all sets my heart pounding in a wild, joyful dance. So many people around here, who think they know Geordie, are suddenly discovering they really don’t.

His father would put him down openly, even in public. People in this town thought him a bit slow, one of the kids who’d never amount to much. Which is ridiculous. You only have to listen to Geordie speak to know otherwise.

Just the words that come out of his mouth show this is an intelligent man. Like Rachel, he cultivated an extensive vocabulary at the family dinner table. Their father insisted on nightly verbal sparring and critical debate, honing skills that would serve both children well. Rachel became an exceptional lawyer, while Geordie developed a command of language that transcended his dyslexia.

Yes, while he may not enjoy reading print books—audiobooks play in his ear most days on the job—and he avoids writing when possible, preferring dictated texts and voice notes, Geordie isundeniably smart. Not only with words like me and Rachel, but in a dozen ways we’ll never be.

However, in a place like Cluanie, money talks. They only understand tangible success. Tonight Geordie’s shown the lot of them and I’m glad this over-the-top car will shut them up.

I spend much of the practice alongside Dad. He’s quiet with me, thoughtful, but not in his sometimes sad way. He’ll never get over Mum, and that’s how it should be. Tonight there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—a guarded excitement. With the final only two weeks away, and Cluanie lining up against Duncraig as predicted, how could he not be? He’s moulded a skilled and disciplined team, their talent shaped by his coaching expertise, their bonds cemented by tragedy.There’s no doubt in his mind he’s going to add the County Cup to his list of triumphs. I have a feeling it may be his favourite victory yet.

As practice wraps up, I plant a kiss on his leathery cheek before leaving him to head to Grant and Laura’s. Geordie and I have our own plans. I’ve made a rich meaty lasagne for dinner. That, a glass of red wine and Geordie across the table is all I need for a perfect evening.

We rumble out of the car park and through the town, passing the pub where players are rolling in from rugby practice, keen for a pint and a pizza. No doubt some of Dad’s team will show up soon. He knows. He’s always known, but he sees his anti-booze stance as a tactic to keep them from going too far. It would be hypocritical to deny them a beer, when he’s off to the Darby’s to knock back a dram with Grant—though Laura’s cooking may be the real attraction.

The engine’s low throaty burble echoes off the stone buildings along Cluanie’s main street, all dark now except for the bright lights of the pub.

“Not going for a drink?”

“Nah,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

“This isn’t the way home.” I shift in my seat. Home is two miles in the opposite direction.

“Yes it is,” he says, with an enigmatic grin, his white teeth and eyes sparkling in the car’s gloomy interior.

“Oh, I get it.” I roll my eyes and sigh, feigning weary resignation. “We’re taking the long way home, so you can spend more time in this damn car.”

I don’t really mind. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Geordie this happy—like a little boy on Christmas morning when Santa’s brought him everything he asked for, practically vibrating with excitement over his new toy.

“You’ll see,” he says, the grin morphing into a mysterious smugness. I settle back into the seat, as comfortable as a warm hug and with that new leather smell. I close my eyes, letting satisfaction about where I am—and who I’m with—settle over me like a blanket.

Geordie drives slowly, the car moving effortlessly through the gear changes as we twist and turn through the streets. Soon I’m no longer sure where I am or where we’re headed, half-dozing as the sound of Stellar Riot playing low through a speaker lulls me.

The car stopping jerks me fully awake. We’re in a driveway, but we don’t seem to have travelled far enough to be home. For a moment, I’m disoriented.

We’re parked in front of my old home, the modest semi-detached where I grew up, where our family lived until a year ago. That’s whenMum went into palliative care and Dad’s response was to buy the monstrosity we live in now.

People have approached Dad about renting this house, a couple of offers to buy even. It’s not surprising. He spared no expense on it, far more than anyone would spend on a simple house in a small Scottish town. He made it as perfect as he could for Mum—the beautiful interior, the garden beds she tended with love, and the music studio out back where her baby grand piano, Dad’s ultimate indulgence, once took pride of place.

With light spilling from the downstairs windows, I almost believe I could walk inside this house now and find Dad sitting in his armchair watching sport on telly, Mum in her own chair with a romance novel—like the ones I read—in her lap. Whyarethe lights on? The thought hits me hard, the jolt back into reality sudden and forceful.

“Come on.” Geordie climbs out of the car, his expression unfathomable. He comes around to my side, his long fingers stretching out to clasp mine. Together, we walk up the small paved path to the familiar front door.

“Why are we here? Why didn’t we go home?”

“We did,” he says. “This is home. I’ve been chipping away at your old man for weeks. It’s yours.”

“What?” I don’t get it.

“I finally convinced him to sell it to me,” he says, his voice swelling with modest pride. “But it’ll be in your name. All you have to do is call in to my father’s office and sign the papers.”

I turn to him, mouth gaping.

“But what about Dad? I can’t leave him alone in that vast house.”

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