Page 79 of Her Pucking Devils

I thought we missed the years where you’d have boys sneak out.

Surprise?

I can’t help but laugh as I put my phone away and finish going down the stairs. Zayn meets me at the door with my refilled bottle, and we walk out to the car.

He’s bringing his tablet so I’ll know where we’re going today, and I listen as he tells me all about how pretty the view is where we’ll be drawing. I can’t believe how big he is and how large the cognitive jump between five and six seems to be.

I can’t let myself get weepy though. He’s planned a big day for us and I don’t want to miss a second.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

ARRAN

I’ve been checking my phone on my breaks more often than I normally do. Isla has been texting me photos of her and Zayn creating art with charcoal near a cliff at the beach, her floppy hat shading her eyes from the sun as she gazes back at the camera. Zayn’s smile is wide as he draws, and I have to say his drawing isn’t half bad.

I notice Isla is careful not to show what she’s working on, and I hope that one day she’ll allow me to see more of her art. I’m not going to push her though, because a part of me can tell it’s a bigger secret than she lets on.

There are a lot of things her family doesn’t say, and I have to admit that I’m pretty chill about being kept in the dark. We haven’t been dating for long, and while I confessed my feelings for her this morning, I don’t expect Isla to drop her every secret at my feet. I gave her family mine to keep to show I’m not a threat to Isla and to allow me time to get to know her.

It’s clear her family needs reassurance and I don’t have any issues giving it.

My lips twitch as I think about the way that Zayn planned everything for his mom for today, and I’m amazed he’s so self aware. I don’t spend much time with children outside of him, but I didn’t think they were so attentive to the needs or wants of their parents. He had his grandfather make a lunch reservation for them after their excursion to the cliffs, and I’m about to meet them for dinner soon.

I was slammed with appointments, and Isla said she wants to plan out a tattoo soon for herself. She’s not sure if she wants to do something smaller to begin with to gauge how she’ll react to the drop afterward due to her POTS, and I’ve started doing some research for myself to see what I need to do to support her.

It’s frustrating how little information there is about real world experiences for those with POTS. I end up having to dig through reels to watch how others discuss their issues with POTS, because otherwise there wouldn’t be much information on it. Some would say, this is how people “complain”, but I call it raising awareness.

How else am I supposed to walk a mile in my girlfriend’s shoes or figure out how I can help? Isla will only talk about what she needs if she thinks it’ll impact me in some way. I am finding that the lengths I would go to help her are scary, because she makes it easy to love her.

Picking up my keys, I lock up the shop as everyone else is also done for the day. My eyes move over the street on autopilot as I begin walking toward where I’m meeting Isla. I hope that I might be able to steal Isla for a birthday ride later. She’s been on short rides with me before, but the sky is clear and it’s going to be a beautiful night.

Isla said dinner will be at a Middle Eastern restaurant a few blocks away from us, and my legs are happy for the opportunity to stretch as I head over. There are people doing errands with their kids, going to Saturday afternoon bingo in the park, and chatting as they go about their day.

I nod in the direction of those I recognize, my gaze falling on three, large men sitting together at a patio table. They seem to be drinking water, their eyes watching the street slowly. They have an athletic build, and look vaguely familiar.

“Arran.”

I turn to face Mrs. Ferguson, a polite smile struggling to form on my lips.

“Ugh. You look constipated, boy. Don’t pretend with me.”

“What can I do for you?” I ask, chuckling.

“Not a darn thing. Why are you empty handed? Isn’t it Isla’s birthday?”

“I… yes.” Isla isn’t very vocal about it being her birthday, but I’m sure there would have been signs. “I should get her flowers from the market before it closes, but I don’t know what she likes.”

Pulling out my phone, I wince at having to show weakness to her family. I have a couple of their numbers in case of emergencies.

I want to buy Isla flowers. Does she have a favorite?

Please don’t bite my head off, Emil.