Page 72 of The Breakup Bookshop

‘I spent a bit more time on these,’ he nods. ‘As the house got quieter, I found myself painting more. It made it feel less empty.’

I nod, gazing up at his artwork, landscape paintings with the vibrant colours and intricate details that have become so familiar to me. If I didn’t know it before, it’s obvious that Rory is a true artist. His paintings are at home here, surrounded by all this decadence. This is what he is supposed to be doing with his life. The Toolbox is great, as a family business, but Rory should be selling paintings to people who admire his work.

‘You’re so talented, Rory,’ I tell him. ‘You need to make more time for your artwork.’

‘Ah, shucks. You’re making me blush.’

‘Seriously, though,’ I say, following him through the hallway into an enormous open-plan kitchen. ‘And I can’t believe you live here all by yourself.’

‘Well, I do just now,’ he says. ‘Sit down and I’ll rustle up some dinner. I prepped it this morning, so it shouldn’t take long.’

But I can’t sit down. As Rory sets to work, throwing vegetables in the pan to make a stir-fry, I take the chance to explore the vast space. I am particularly drawn to the family pictures that adorn every wall in the kitchen and dining spaces, from his parents’ wedding pictures to graduation photographs, family shots and holiday snaps.

‘Where are you?’ I ask, peering up at the wall. ‘I can’t pick you out at all.’

‘It’s a bit like Where’s Wally, isn’t it?’

I peer more closely at a picture of the family of ten, where Rory is presumably the baby on his mum’s knee.

‘Aww, so cute!’ I tease him, walking up to grab his face. ‘There’s Wally. You’ve got such chubby cheeks!’

He leans down and pops a kiss on my forehead. ‘Don’t tease me when I’m working with a hot stove.’

I grin, walking back to the photos, and frown at the picture that features a group of young people down at the seafront on a gorgeous, sunny day. I spot Finlay’s bright red hair straight away. He’s younger, sixteen or seventeen. The age he was when he was the love of Donna’s life. A tall, lanky, awkward-looking teenager stands beside him, wearing thick-rimmed glasses. His brown hair is long, down to his chin, and he glares at the camera.

‘Mackie!’ I exclaim, pointing at the picture.

Rory’s head shoots up. ‘What did you say?’

‘That’s Mackie! I used to see him in the summer when I visited my granny. I don’t remember seeing Finlay, but I remember Mackie. We used to skim rocks into the sea together. What’s he doing here?’

Rory switches off the pan. His eyes dance between me and the floor. Several seconds pass. I wonder what I’ve said. He looks up, gazing at me over the long kitchen island.

‘You remember that?’

‘Yes, of course. We used to have these amazing conversations about life and travel. I told him how much I wanted to live in Ullapool, then my plans to move to London and study marketing, while he would talk about wanting to go backpacking. Wait, he’s not one of your brothers, is he?’

Rory stops, completely still for a moment, a flash of something crossing his face. I’m not sure what’s happening here. Who is Mackie to Rory? Why does he seem so thrown that I know him?

‘Ava, that was me. I’m Mackie,’ he says finally.

He looks crestfallen as I frown, confused. ‘No. Wait, what?’

‘We had a handshake one year,’ he says. ‘Do you remember? We used to practise it down by the sea the first day you came back.’

‘Oh my God,’ I gasp. ‘How can you be Mackie?’

‘Short for MacGregor,’ he says, his face turning pink. ‘It’s what my friends called me when I was younger.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Wait, do you remember me from back then?’

His cheeks flame as he starts to pile the food on the plates, avoiding eye contact with me. ‘Of course I do.’

I walk towards Rory and put my hand on his arm. He flinches. And suddenly I see him, I see Mackie. In the concerned crease of Rory’s brow, in the vulnerability in his eyes, I see the boy I spent my summers with.

‘Why didn’t yousayanything?’

He doesn’t look up.