The Highland Fling(88)

“What kind of yogurt?”

“Vanilla,” I call out just as my phone rings in my jeans pocket. I pull it out and see my maw’s name flash across the screen. “Hello?”

“Rowan, good morning.”

“Good morning, Maw,” I say, already on edge from the weary tone in her voice. “Everything okay?”

Bonnie comes into the room, looking concerned.

“I have your da here with me. Say hello, Stuart.”

“Hello,” my da’s gruff voice sounds through the phone.

“Morning, Da.”

“Do you have a moment to chat?” Maw asks. “We need to talk to you about something important.”

“Er, something important,” I say, glancing at Bonnie. She motions to the door, and I shake my head. “Hold on, Maw.” I put the phone on mute and say, “Can you give me a few minutes? Don’t leave. This won’t take long.”

“Sure, I’ll go for a quick walk and be back. I’m going to need to see those yogurt parfait skills.”

I wink. “You got it.” She slips her sandals on and then lets herself out of the cottage. Taking the phone off mute, I say, “Okay, sorry about that. Is this about some of the expenses on the credit card for the shop?” I had a wee feeling they might question those. Maw encouraged Dakota and Bonnie to make some changes if they saw fit, but I can understand if they’re concerned.

“Nay,” Maw says. “It’s about your da.”

The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I take a seat at my dining table. Silence falls on the other end of the line as well, and an uncertain feeling of impending bad news creeps into my stomach.

“Everything okay, Da?” I ask, swallowing hard.

“We hate to do this over the phone, but we won’t see you in person for a few more months, and we’ve been told you need to know.”

My hands start to shake, my lungs tighten, and that uncertain feeling turns into pure fear. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a pregnant pause, and the only thing I can hear is my own heartbeat, pounding desperately for good news but knowing that’s not going to be the case.

“Your da’s sick, Rowan.”

Fuck.

I knew something was going on. I fucking knew it.

My hand goes to my hair, and I pull on the short strands. “How sick?”

“It started a few months ago, right before he retired from the coffee shop. He wasn’t feeling himself, and we assumed it was his arthritis kicking in, making daily tasks around the shop harder. We have plenty saved for retirement, so we figured it would be okay—that was, until we went to the doctor. We were devastated to find out he, er . . . he has bone cancer.”

“What?” I whisper, my heart pounding so hard I think for a moment that I misheard her. “Bone cancer?”

“Aye,” Maw confirms. “To be truthful, we aren’t really on holibags right now. We’re in London, talking with a specialist and going through treatments.”

What the fucking shite?

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

“Watch your tone,” Da says, and even though his voice is weakened, it still packs a heavy punch.

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Maw speaks up. “We weren’t quite sure about the severity of your da’s cancer. We thought that if we shielded you from the truth, maybe we wouldn’t have to worry you at all. We heard Dr. Irvine was very good at coming up with a treatment plan, but we knew he was expensive, since it’s a private treatment. That’s why I ran the advert for the coffee shop, hopefully to create some fun buzz, hire two strangers who might want to take on a project, bring it back to life so there’s something to support us when we get back to Corsekelly.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

“But things haven’t gone as we’d hoped here. Your da has quite a few tumors. Dr. Irvine took biopsies of all of them, and some are treatable, but there’s one on his hip that is quite large and has spread to other parts of his body. Dr. Irvine . . . he . . .” Maw’s voice breaks.

Her quiet weeping chokes me up as my mind whirls with confusion.

“I’m dying,” Da finishes for her as she lets out a sob.

Dying.

My heart shatters into a million pieces.

Bone cancer.

Tumors.

Dying.

I can’t seem to wrap my head around the actual facts; all I can focus on is why I’m just finding out about this now.

“You should have told me sooner,” I choke out.

“It wasn’t your right to know. We knew what we were doing,” Da says, and that sets the spark that lights the raging fire inside me.

“To hell it’s not!” I shout, standing now. “You’re my goddamn father, and it’s not only my right but my responsibility to know when you’re sick, when you need help . . . when you’re fucking dying!” I roar into the phone as every emotion I’ve ever had about my da bubbles up and pours out of me.

“Rowan,” Da snaps, but I don’t care—I keep pushing forward.

“You’ve known you’ve had cancer for the past few months and didn’t tell me. When I asked you if you were sick before you left, you lied to my face.”