Page 66 of Scotch on the Rocks

Instead of snarling like I anticipated, she laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re scowling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you scowl before.” And then she tried the handle, found it open and strolled inside, kicking her shoes off in the porch like she owned the place. Too busy following her into the living room, I didn’t even have time to enjoy the casualness of it.

“Make yourself at home,” I called, toeing off my own boots.

She ignored me. “I didn’t know you had a rabbit.” On her knees beside the log burner, she hovered over a snoozing Simon. Tucked into the patchwork blanket my mother knitted for him, you could just about see his face.

What are you doing here, Juniper?

I remained on the other side of the sofa, fingers digging into the fabric as I used it as a barrier. “He’s registered for AAT,” I said like that was any kind of explanation.

“What’s that?”

“Animal assisted therapy.”

One of her fingers stroked lightly down his soft back. “So he’s a therapist, not a rabbit?”

I drifted closer, fucking hypnotised by her delicacy. “It’s not as complicated as all that. Animal therapy is a proven aid, not a fix to mental health struggles. We visit the primary school once a week with the school therapist present and a small group of children can pet him and feed him. It creates a relaxing space for them to feel safe to talk.”

She continued to stroke his back. “What do they talk about?”

“Whatever they want, their home life, their friends, school struggles.” I was only there to take care of Simon and observe, but I found myself absorbing every word, so bloody proud of Simon when a kid’s tears turned into a grin by the end of a session. Painfully aware of how desperately my six-year-old self, and Mal, could have benefitted from such a scheme.

“Does Simon enjoy it?”

“Yes, he’s very good at being handled. And I’m always there to remove him from a situation he won’t enjoy.”

She stroked him one final time, a single black-tipped finger tracing from his small head to his tail, and then her attention shifted to the glass of whisky I’d abandoned on the coffee table. The alcohol more compelling than the sleeping rabbit, it seemed, because she took a healthy swig, right where my lips had been, and sat down on the low table.

What the hell are you doing here?

Too much of a coward to ask the question quite so directly, I tossed another piece of wood onto the fire and took a seat on the sofa. “Did you interrupt my evening for a reason or simply to steal my booze?”

The glass hung from her fingertips as she held it out to me. “I came to check on you.”

Taking it, my eyes dragged over our positioning. How close her knees were to mine. A tug of her wrist and we’d be chest to chest. “As you can see … I’m fine.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Yes.“Fuck no. I’m piss-poor company tonight.”

“I’m always piss-poor company.” She stole the glass back, topping it off with the half-empty bottle. “Your dad is worse than Heather suggested.”

“We just agreed not to talk about it.”

She smiled around the glass. “I was being polite. Answer the question.”

“Did you ask one?” The glass slipped from her hand to mine. And the words poured free without me even trying. “The last few months have been a rapid decline, even the doctors didn’t predict it would be so sudden.”

“And you’re keeping it a secret from your siblings?”

“I’m not keeping it a secret, I’m just … not letting them carry the burden. Alistair is halfway across the country, Heather’s already running herself ragged and Mal—” I broke off, not really sure how to explain it. “My dad was a bastard to all of us, but Mal received the worst of it.” My teeth clenched; the fury flamed by my own guilt for not being here to protect him from it. “He owes him nothing.” I’d run myself into the ground before this ever became his problem.

“And you do?”

“I’m the oldest.”

---