Page 59 of Blindsided By You

Geordie’s phone never leaves his side. What I once considered a vice in myself, I’ve learned to accept in him. Though work claims most of his calls, I understand the deeper truth: he needs to be there for his mum, haunted by what he considers his years of neglect. How could I fault him for that?

He moves to take it from me, but stops as the thunk of the car door closing echoes from below.

“Oh, fuck. No,” he says.

“Fucking hell,” I chime in. There are no other words for it.

Rachel MacDonald, the unmistakable curly golden mane tumbling down her back, stands hands on hips, glaring at my car, a frown on her heart-shaped face, and muttering to herself. From what I know about my friend of nearly thirty years, I don’t need to lipread—she’ll be saying “Fucking hell” too.

In our shock, Geordie and I jostle at the curtain and the movement catches her eye. The security light spotlights Rachel’s upturned face, knotted brows, narrowed lips, and incredulous expression. She looks as if she’s just discovered the Lord Chief Justice skinny dipping in the Thames.

Geordie lets the curtain fall as she strides towards the front steps. “I’ll go,” he says. “I’ll deal with this.”

As the hammering on the door begins, I imagine Rachel’s fists, clenched tight, fingers heavy with gold jewellery rapping on the old wood, demanding entry. I slump on the bed, watching Geordie retrieve his boxer briefs from beneath it.

“No, we both lied to her. We should both be there.”

It’s the last thing I want to do, but I don’t have a choice. I’ve talked to Rachel five times in the past two weeks—five chances to come clean. Even when she brought up the trip to Edinburgh and Geordie, I didn’t bite. Maybe my silence threw her off the scent. But now she’s here, and this is so much worse than if I’d just spat it out.

“Seriously,” he says. “Leave her to me Jenna. At least give me a few minutes with her first. You jump in the shower.”

Nausea rises in my throat, the sour taste of deceit. I might just throw up.

Geordie drags on a set of sweatpants. They slouch low over his hips. He doesn’t bother with a shirt, which is probably unwise. Confronting Rachel with evidence of his recent undress isn’t going to help matters—but we’re in so much shit, it’s probably not worth trying to hide it.

“I’m coming,” he yells, over the pounding on the door. Geordie’s expression isn’t fearful, more pissed off as he charges down the stairs to meet her. I’m glad one of us is feeling brave.

I slip into the tiny ensuite bathroom and turn the shower on full, hoping to drown out what’s happening below. The normally soothing staccato of hot water on my skin does nothing to damp down my worries. I rehearse opening lines for the conversation ahead, but for the first time in my life, words fail me. Ironic—I can polish anyone else’s crisis to a shine, yet fumble in the dark with my own.

Chapter 31

GEORDIE

Rachelbangssohardon the door, that when I rip it open she tumbles through, crashing into me.

“What the fuck, Rachel?” I glare into my sister’s eyes, for once grateful for the towering heels that make her as tall as me, letting her see exactly how pissed off I am.

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” she snaps as she brings both hands to my chest, pushes herself roughly off me, and straightens into a more dignified pose. She tosses back her hair with an angry flick of each hand. “God knows I’ve got the right to ask a few questions,” she spits. “Given you obviously didn’t take any notice of what I told you two weeks ago. What part of ‘don’t hit on my friend’ did you not get Geordie? I thought that should have been fairly easy to understand. Even for you.”

With a slip of the tongue, she tosses out the sort of casual putdown that dogged me for the first eighteen years of my life. Her words slam into me like a prop’s rogue elbow to the throat. My lungs seize, trapping the words inside. When I finally find my voice, regretis already painted on Rachel’s face, but I’m not letting her off just because she’s about to plead guilty.

I’ve always been the amiable one in the family, letting slights slide off my back, but tonight, that changes. I’m going to stand up for myself, for who I am and for what I want, and to hell with her and the rest of them.

“Well, that’s a fucking low blow, Rachel. Even for you,” I bite back.

She flinches a little, but Rachel’s thick-skinned. She doesn’t show when words hurt, and she never backs down. Forged in the same dysfunctional family, we chose different ways of dealing with our father: fight or flight.

I chose flight. That’s why I spent most of my childhood roaming around town on a bike, and why I got myself out of Cluanie as soon as I could.

Until she was eighteen and left this place behind, too, Rachel always fought. She honed her skills against the best, arguing with our father almost daily, never letting him think he’d gotten to her—though I often heard her crying in her room through the bedroom wall. Outside of that room, Rachel never conceded victory, and the old bastard admired her for it, though he wouldn’t let it show. It’s why she’s a kick-arse lawyer earning the big bucks in a top London firm; why she’s got this amazing track record for winning cases.

She’s not going to win tonight. Rachel won’t wear me down with her tough talking. Who the hell does she think she is, storming in here like some damned avenging angel?

I turn my back on her in disgust and walk through to the lounge, seating myself in the enormous armchair that Nathan boughthimself to sit in and watch telly. It dominates the space. If I’m going into battle with my sister, I’m grabbing the high ground.

Her heels click on the wooden floor of the hallway. Trust Rachel to be wearing flash shoes on a weekend visit with the family. She follows me into the room and perches on the tiny couch. She clasps hands dripping with too much jewellery in her lap, sitting with long legs tucked neatly to one side, like she’s the fucking newly crowned Princess of Wales. I love my sister, but right now I don’t like her; and right now everything about her—her clothes, her carefully made-up face, even the way her eyes suggest she’s about to apologise—irritates me.

She opens her mouth to speak, and I cut her off.

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