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“Why are you here?” Evie blurted, her blank expression hijacked by the incredulous glare she could no longer tame. She hugged her waist, her icy glower unforgiving, giving him nothing.
With a hard blink, Nick withdrew, fixating on the crisp cuff of his sleeve, which he straightened needlessly. “I’m, uh…doing a favor for a friend.”
“I’m surprised you still have any.”
Sunita snickered, but Nick didn’t flinch.
“He was desperate.”
“Must’ve been,” said Evie.
His intense gaze returned with a conciliatory grin. All fidgeting stopped. “It’s really good to see you.”
Just…don’t! Looking downward, she imagined his face on a cracked piece of mug and slowly crushed it beneath her shoe. “Well, now that you have…you can go fuck yourself.”
Unease flickered in his brown eyes. “Evie, I…” He paused for a beat.
She scowled, exasperated. “What do you want, Nick?!”
“To tell you I’ll be here for a bit and we might bump into each other.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“I think it would help if we could be civil to one another,” said Nick.
Evie shook her head. “We’ve gone this long—why change now?”
“I’m working here this summer. The Tomlinson TV series?”
The catering job. Shit! Evie felt sick.
“You’re kidding?!” Sunita jumped in. “You’re acting?”
“Producing. I’m one of the executive producers. I’ll be on set daily, sharing my Orkney—”
Sunita burst out laughing. “Expertise? Yeah, right!”
Ignoring her, Nick continued. “I know our production manager hired the Marwick’s catering team, so—”
“So your production will receive two meals a day and a craft services table of the highest quality six days a week.” Evie whisked perspiration off her brow. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a shop to secure.”
FIVE
EVIE
Then, Monday, December 25, seventeen years ago
Stood out of harm’s way on the packed steps of the cathedral, Evie swayed back and forth, studying the testosterone-fueled street battle below. Part football, part rugby, the Ba’ was a centuries-old Christmas Day free-for-all with a homemade cork-filled leather ball (the ba’) and a huge scrum consisting of two male teams (the Uppies and the Doonies). With no rules or referees, no timeouts or ticking clock, the game’s aim was simple: the first team to score wins. However, doing so was anything but easy. The Uppies had to push through the Doonies and touch a specific wall in the southern part of town, while dunking the ba’ in the harbor—in the opposite direction—was the Doonies’ goal. Amidst the scrimmage, bones were occasionally broken and tempers often flared, but a code of non-violent conduct kept fisticuffs at bay. Besides, year-long bragging rights were up for grabs. Their appeal, along with the thrill of competition, made the bruises and aching muscles more than worth it, according to Evie’s dad, Graham, a Ba’ participant since the tender age of eight.
Burying her mitten-swamped hands under the armpits of her coat for warmth, Evie craned her neck, fervently combing the growing crowd of spectators for Nick. Always looking, always hoping, she always ended up disappointed.
“Seen him yet?” Sunita’s voice petered out as she slouched free from her overstuffed backpack.
Rising up on her toes, Evie skimmed the fray below, not for Nick this time, but for Sunita’s latest crush, a fifteen-year-old ‘Uppie’ she’d snogged at the Auction Mart’s holiday dance. The boys’ Ba’ for kids fifteen and under was the opening act for the men’s afternoon game, and a sparse sprinkling of Christmas Day snow made their struggle extra slippery. A half-hour into the festivities, the boys hadn’t budged beyond their starting point below the Mercat Cross. Evie shook her head. “You sure he’s playing?”
“Definitely.” Sunita blinked away from the horde of sweaty boys and lowered her backpack carefully between her trainers. “Look for a guy with reddish-brown hair in a wine-colored football top.” Hunching over, she gave the zipper a commanding tug and its plastic teeth gave way.
“Needle—haystack,” Evie muttered.
