Page 243 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
Repainting this clinic means admitting I’m staying.
Admitting I’m putting down roots.
Admitting I’m done running and finally ready to claim my place here.
The first stroke of paint across the freshly prepped wall is ridiculously satisfying.
The blue-gray slowly erases the McKinnon years.
A second stroke.
A third.
It’s physical.
Almost cathartic.
Every movement wipes something away.
McKinnon.
Edinburgh.
The belief that I don’t deserve to be here.
I hear the clinic door open behind me.
I turn and find Nate standing in the doorway looking surprised to see me.
“I thought we were starting tomorrow.”
“I couldn’t wait.”
His eyes scan the renovation mess.
The stacked photos.
The open paint cans.
Me covered in blue-gray paint up to my elbows.
“Okay. Have you slept at all in the last few days?”
“No.”
“Finn…”
“I know.”
Nate shrugs off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.
“Fine. Hand me a roller.”
We work in silence for a while.
Him on the left wall.
Me on the right.
