Not that she ever could, ever would, see all. But just to have someone scratch the surface—to want to see me for more than me, is enough.
Scary as fuck. But enough.
Then there’s the fact that she’s this gorgeous wild little thing. Those eyes that implore me to tell her all my secrets, that beg me to have my way with her. Those eyes that promise I’ll never forget her, if I just give her a second, give her a chance.
I gave her a chance last night.
But I didn’t do it for her.
I did it for me.
Because I fucking needed it. I needed that touch, that comfort.
Hope. Somewhere in there was hope.
I felt it when I put my arm around her, like I was containing it against me.
Hope before death.
It’s tattooed on my side.
I got that a few years after Charlie, to remind me of why I cleaned up and how I moved on.
Or, at least, tried to.
Kayla felt like that hope, even though I know how foolish it is to even think like that over a girl I barely know. But just for that moment, it felt good to have even a glimpse of it.
Of course, when that damn song came on, it threw me back into reality. Of who I was and the parts that made me. The events. The battles. The ugly fucking truth.
That didn’t mesh very well with the here and now.
I panicked. I got up and left—to escape the song, escape the past that liked to show itself on lonely nights. Which is every night. But it had no place right then, not with her there.
I had no idea she would follow me, and when I first heard her call my name, my stomach did a backflip. And then she was there, by my side, her hair messy from running through the crowds, face beautifully flushed.
She came after me.
She worried about me.
I can’t remember the last time someone worried about me. Everyone by now knows not to bother, knows not to ask. Lachlan is a lone soldier, they say. He’s survived. He’ll be fine.
But this girl, this woman with the smiling eyes and the teasing lips, she knew I wasn’t fine.
And when she wanted to come with me, after the dogs, into the dark woods, well fuck. She wasn’t afraid of anything. We share the same tenacity.
And with that same resolve, I could have kissed her all night. Her lips, her mouth, the warmth of her tongue—we fit together like a lock and key. I wanted nothing more than to lay her on her back in the dirt and leaves, explore her body with my hands, my teeth, my tongue, and feel all of her in the dark. Her body promised to take me far away. I wanted to fuck the war out of me.
I had to admit that I wanted Kayla more than anything.
Naturally that didn’t happen. I can’t say I’m disappointed, because in the end I saved the dogs. And I almost got the girl. The peace. And there’s still time. Less than a week now until I’m flying back to Edinburgh, ready to jump into training, ready to shift my whole life to rugby.
There’s still time.
Isn’t there?
By the time the dogs stir, I’ve cleaned up their piss and shit and put defrosted ground beef down for them. I have some collars in my dresser —I know Kayla thought it was strange to be so prepared, but I’ve never not found a stray—so I put them on the dogs and make leashes out of rope.
We go for a quick walk. The pit bull is still headstrong under the leash and seems to shy away from loud noises and quick movements. But with some love and obedience training, he’ll be a good pet for someone. I can tell by the eyes. A dog’s eyes don’t lie. A dog doesn’t lie. If you see the good in them, there is good in them. Last night when I was cleaning his paw, finding the debris imbedded in a cut, the cause of the limping, he looked at me with thanks. I felt that deep, deep inside.
The smaller mutt, the terrier mix, is more fragile. She clings to the pit bull’s side and still doesn’t trust me too much. She may in time, but I have a feeling she’ll be coming back to Edinbugh with me. I’ve seen so many dogs like her, which are dogs like me. She needs someone like Lionel to bring her back around. Lionel will show her the ropes; he always does.
I put them back in the flat and then head out to the nearest pet store. It’s strangely chilly today, the weather here even worse than Scotland’s in the summer, and I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, turning up my collar and keeping my shoulders hunched against the fog as I move through rough neighborhoods.
I never feel fear, or disgust, or pity for these people—the homeless, the addicted, the forgotten. I was them. I know what it’s like. I know too well. All I feel is hope and hopelessness, a stunning combination. Hope that they’ll one day come to that point, that road, that branch, and decide for themselves to get up, to grow, to live.
But the hopelessness, that lies in myself. Because there’s nothing I can do for them. Every decision to better your life has to come from within, not from anyone else.
And then there’s that bitter, hard truth that grows in you, in your darkness, like mold. The truth that you’ll never be free. You’ll never forget that sweet song that pulled you under and brought you to your knees. That once you’ve seen how far you can sink, you know exactly how far you can fall. That truth tethers you. It lurks behind every thought, every action.
Sometimes, the slide backward into who you once were seems inevitable.
When I return back home, arms crammed with dog food, treats, and leashes, I look up a local vet and make an appointment for them tomorrow. The pit bull needs his paw properly looked at—he’s also not neutered, and I’m unsure if the terrier is spayed. Both of those things need to happen before they’re given homes.
I settle down on the ground and spend a good hour at their level, just observing them, until my phone rings. I roll the Kong toy I bought them back toward them, the pit going for it with gusto, then I get up to answer it.
It’s Bram.
“Aye?” I say into the phone.
“What the hell happened to you last night?” Bram asks. “You just took off and we couldn’t find you. We couldn’t find Kayla either.”
“I went for a walk.”
“You’re always going for a walk,” he says. He’s right about that. Jessica—my adopted mother and Bram’s aunt—always say I have too much troubled energy and I need to keep walking it off.
“Has Nicola spoken to Kayla?” I ask. I haven’t texted her yet. I’ve been debating it all morning.
“Yes, she’s texted her. Kayla said you found some dogs and took them home?”
“Aye. I’m looking at them right now.” I clear my throat. “Look, sorry, I left my phone at home and hers died so we couldn’t get in contact.”
Bram sighs. “Okay. Well…you missed the end of a great concert.”
I suppose that was a jab over the VIP ticket. “The day was fantastic. Thank you, mate.”
“Don’t take this wrong way, Lachlan,” he says, “but…”
I exhale heavily. “What?”
“I worry about you. When you do stuff like that. When you just leave.”
My jaw tenses at that admission. “What are you worried about, exactly?”
He pauses. “You know,” he says quietly. “I feel responsible for you while you’re here.”
I grip the phone tightly, feeling a burst of anger radiate through me, molten and hot. “I’m fucking thirty-two years old, Bram. I’m here to help your arse, not to be babysat. You might think you bloody know me, but you don’t.”
“I know, I know,” he says quickly. “Sorry. Okay? Sorry.”
“That’s fine,” I mutter. “I better go.”
“Wait,” he says. “Just reminding you about tonight.”
I frown. “Tonight?”
“With Justine.”
“Oh, Jesus fucking hell.” I press my fist into my forehead. “That’s tonight?”
“It’s Monday, and it’s the only chance we have, Lachlan. Please do not back out. There’s no way that Nicola will let me take your place and I’m pretty sure Justine won’t want me there either. It’s all you.”