Page 1 of Blindsided
“Crikey, I want a pony,” I blubber and blow my nose loudly into a tissue while staring wistfully at the telly as the ending credits ofHeartlandfill the screen. “Even after watching Jack Bartlett put his beloved horse, Paint, to eternal sleep, Istillwant a pony. Who knew a wholesome family drama that centres around the highs and lows of life on a ranch would change the core of my soul so deeply? I considered myself a proper city girl before watching this show. Yes, I grew up in a small village outside of Cornwall, but as soon as I was old enough to leave, it was big city life for me full stop. And London is arguably the greatest city in the world. I mean, there is nowhere else you can go to buy a cake and pet a kitten at the exact same time. But after falling in love with this Canadian program, I dream about having a simple life on a ranch with a pony and a grandfather who has a caterpillar mustache and bends his eyes in a way that makes me feel like every moment with him is a life lesson.” I exhale heavily, realising I forgot to breathe during that last bit, and a light-headedness overwhelms me.
“You know I’m still here, right?” a deep Scottish voice asks from beside me.
I turn my gaze from the television and shake my head to focus on Maclay Logan—a professional footballer for Bethnal Green F.C. and, against all odds, my friend. I scrunch my nose and swipe away my lingering tears. “Of course I know you’re still here.”
A knowing smile lifts his face. “Well, you just went on a bit of a monologue there with a variety of run-on sentences without leaving any room for me to reply, so I figured you either forgot I was here or you were having another one of your outbursts.”
My eyes narrow when he finger quotes the word “outbursts”. “What are you talking about? I don’t haveoutbursts.” I repeat the word back in his rough and permanently sore-throated-sounding Scottish accent, rolling theRthe way he does.
Mac’s lips twitch with barely concealed amusement that makes me want to thump him. He always looks like he’s laughing about something. It’s maddening, really. I mean, what kind of human is constantly happy? It’s just not right.
I should be the one having a laugh at the sight of him—a grinning, goofy giant sitting on doll furniture in my tiny one-bedroom East London flat. His large, muscular body is stretched out on my purple velvet sofa while his thick, tattoo-covered arms are wrapped tightly around one of my furry white throw pillows. It’s like he’s strangling a baby polar bear.
Mac glares at me while maintaining his smile. “Just last week, you had an entire conversation with your salad about how if you could take a pill that made the lettuce taste like crisps, the two of you could actually be mates.”
“That was a conversation between me and the romaine,” I quip, hating the way he mimicked my Cornish accent. No matter how hard I try to ditch it, that West Country twang slips out. “And you shouldn’t have been earwigging.”
“You invited me over for dinner!” he bellows, the motion of his body causing his wavy red bangs to flop over his forehead. “Typically when one invites a guest over for a meal, the hostess is expected to provide conversation with someone other than the lettuce.”
“You’re just being dramatic now,” I state, rolling my eyes and reaching out to sweep his strawberry blond hair back off his forehead. His hair curls at the ends and never seems to stay put. “Besides, I have a special connection with food, just like I do with ponies…and caterpillar-mustached grandfathers.”
Mac remains silent as he smiles at me like I’m his nan with Alzheimer’s and it’s better to go with my narrative than to try to correct me.
“You seriously need to cut your hair again,” I state when I can’t get it to stay where it belongs.
“I thought you said it looks better shaggy,” he replies, replacing my hand with his and forcing his locks back. “You said it makes me look more husky than Labrador, and huskies are more exotic.”
“Indeed, but now we’re venturing into the Old English sheepdog category.”
Mac huffs out a laugh. “Does that mean you’ll give me a treat if I do a trick?”
With a smirk, I reach toward the sofa table for my package of wine gums. Without pause, I toss one in the air, and he catches it in his mouth with the deft ease of the seasoned athlete he is.
“Good dog.”
He smiles proudly while he chews, and I can’t help but shake my head at the view of him. Even with shaggy-dog hair, Mac’s red locks are ten times nicer than mine. My shade of red is more in the Ronald McDonald family. And when I don’t style it in my signature smooth, wavy curls, I look like those Chinese crested dogs that are always getting meme’d on the internet with something cruel. Poor dears.
I turn back towards the telly and grab the remote to queue up the next episode. Lately, Mac and I watch at least three episodes ofHeartlandwhen he comes over. And the fact that him coming over has become the norm in my life has completely blindsided me.
If someone had told me a year ago that I’d be plopped on a sofa eating wine gums and watching telly with a famous footballer, I’d have told them they were higher than a kitten that overdosed on catnip. But my job as a clothing tailor for a popular fashion boutique in East London brings all sorts of interesting people into my life, including Mac. The big ox walked into the shop with his PR rep and happened to catch an obscure television reference I made under my breath.
As a seamstress, I’m used to being invisible to ninety-nine percent of our clients, but I wasn’t to darling Mac here. We argued over our favourite Netflix programs and became fast friends. Then I introduced him toHeartland,and he latched onto me like a stray puppy that found its new home. Thank goodness this puppy is potty-trained.
That’s a Scot for you. They’re overbearing, loud-mouthed, no boundary-having, spirited animals who are sweet, cosy cuddlers one minute and beating the fuck out of someone who looks at them sideways the next. Or perhaps that’s just Mac?
“You are aware that some people may think what we do together is called Netflix and chill, right?” Mac asks, a knowing tone in his voice that I don’t altogether like.
My brows pinch as I look over at him. “So? What of it?”
Mac hits me with a sardonic stare. “Don’t you know what Netflix and chill means, woman?”
“Of course I know! It means watching telly and relaxing on the sofa.”
Mac bites his lip to stop himself from laughing. It makes me want to strangle him. And hug him. How does he make me love him and hate him every minute of the day?
Mac clears his throat and angles toward me. His green eyes sparkle with mischief. “You got the Netflix part right, but the chill part is where you’re wrong. The youngsters have a secret meaning for the word.”
“Youngsters? What are you going on about? I’m young!” I pop another sweet into my mouth.
