The Highland Fling(89)
“We didn’t want to worry you,” Maw repeats, always trying to play the peacemaker. Well, which is it? I didn’t deserve to know, or they didn’t want to worry me? It’s always like this with them—Maw trying to smooth things over while Da and I light up the room with our anger.
“Ever care to think that I could have helped you? That’s what family is for. And if you needed help with the coffee shop, Maw, I could have helped. I’ve already been helping—”
“You made it quite clear you wanted nothing to do with the shop,” Da says, the stubborn arsehole throwing that in my face once again.
“People change,” I say with a clenched jaw. “But you’re too stubborn to see that. You can’t possibly look past the history that clogs your wee brain and see that people change. People try to make their lives better, to make something of themselves.”
“How’s that going for you?” Da asks. “Haven’t seen that pottery for sale anywhere. Haven’t seen you live out the dream you wanted, that you threw your family away for.”
What?
Where the hell did that come from?
“I didn’t throw you away,” I say, knowing we shouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Da has cancer, a realization I’m sure he’s having a hard time accepting. And knowing him, he’s twisting and turning that confusion and fear into anger. He did the same thing when Callum passed—he directed all his anger at me. “I’m still here, taking care of the town’s business like you wanted me to. Isn’t that enough?”
“Not when you disrespect the MacGregor clan. We might be simple, but we’re good people.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“You don’t show it.”
Jesus fucking Christ. I don’t think I’ve been this angry in my entire life. It feels like my soul is physically being stolen from my body with every passing breath, replaced with a darkness that’s spreading through every limb, every muscle, every goddamn bone.
None of this matters—none of the history between my da and me matters right now, not when he’s dying. He might want to continue our age-old argument, but I don’t have time for that.
“Where are you?”
“Rowan, you don’t need—”
“I swear to God, if you don’t tell me, I’ll track you down. I can look at your credit card statements. I can figure it out, so make it easy on both of us and tell me where the fuck you are.”
Maw rattles off an address that I write down on a piece of paper. She tells me they still have another conversation with the doctor and not to worry, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing they say will matter at this point. My mind is made up.
“We don’t need you to come here,” Da barks into the phone.
“Seems like you’d rather die than admit it, but you need me more than you think.”
I hang up and toss my phone on the table. My knuckles turn white as I grip my dining table, and before I can even register what I’m doing, I pick it up and chuck it against the wall. Wood splinters from the crash as I roar, “Fuck!” and then dig my hands through my hair.
He’s dying.
My da is dying and—
My gaze strays to the window, and I narrow my eyes. The doors to my pottery shed are wide open, and I catch a lock of blonde hair floating out of the entrance.
What the actual fuck?
Fury blazes inside me. I can feel my face turn red as I rage through the cottage, fling the door open, and stomp to the open shed.
Sure enough, Bonnie is standing inside, holding up a recently fired mug.
“What the hell are you doing in here?”
A frightened yelp escapes her lips as she jumps. The mug slips from her hands and shatters to the ground.
She turns toward me, and those crystal eyes widen, feigning innocence. “You see—”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, Bonnie.” She goes quiet, her shoulders sagging. I could see it before she even started talking: the telltale sign of her coming up with some elaborate explanation for invading my privacy.
“Well . . . ?” I press, folding my arms over my chest.
“Honestly”—she fidgets—“I wanted to see if this was where you kept your power washer. I thought maybe I would steal it and clean some of the algae off the cottage. But, oh my God, Rowan, you’re a potter. How come you didn’t—?”
“You had no right coming in here!” I yell, pointing at the shed.
Her body shifts backward from the power of my voice, and her eyes grow wider, more frightened. “I didn’t . . .” She swallows hard. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I’m sorry, but Rowan, you’re really good. You could sell this—”
“Out.”
“Rowan, please, let me—”
“I said, fucking out!” I scream, my chest vibrating, my hands shaking, emotions surging through me. A breakdown is imminent.
Bonnie startles and hurries out of the shed. Once she’s outside, I slam the doors shut and then spin on her. “Don’t fucking go in there, do you hear me?”
She nods, tears brimming in her eyes.
“I . . . I’m sorry.”
When I see the tears roll down her cheek, a wee voice in the back of my head tells me I need to apologize, but it’s quickly drowned out by the uncontrollable rage that’s piercing through me.