But still there’s a hollow ache inside of me. And the clouds keep rolling in.
What am I going to do?
Where am I going to go?
I think of how alive I’ve felt this last week: the wind sharp on my skin, my hair tangled in its braids, the ache and pain and agony of my legs. How exhausted and how exhilarated and how aware of every single passing second of time. How it felt to open myself up: to the torment of the walk, to new friendships,to Angus. How it felt to kiss him for the first time, the pins and needles excitement of it.
That feeling is gone.
No matter what Joan says, the world feels like it has been leeched of colour. Of possibility. Of hope.
I keep hearing Angus’ voice echo in my head.
Nothing.
And still the train rolls on.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Angus
“And then you saidwhat?”
“I asked her why she was still here.”
“And then she left?”
I lift the bottle of wine to my lips and take a long swig. It tastes like regret.
Stuart shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. Jonathan is pushing a piece of the wedding cake around a small plate.
“I hate to say this, Angus, because I love you, but you might be the stupidest arsehole I have ever met.” Stuart looks meaningfully at Ross and Mason, who are flinging another open bottle of wine across the table, seeing who can slide it furthest before it spills. “Which is saying something.”
I almost spit out the wine. “You were the one who warned me off her!”
Stuart sniffs. “I’m your best friend. I didn’t want you to get hurt. Seems like you did that well enough on your own. Two days, Angus! I told you to keep it in your pants for two days, not send her running for the border.” Stuart exchanges a look with Jonathan. “Are all straight men this stupid?”
On the other side of the table, Ross miscalculates the slide of the bottle and we watch in horror as it catches on a knot of wood,spins, and upends over Mason. Both of my brothers still, and then erupt into laughter, the bottle dropping into Mason’s now-drenched lap.
“Yes.” Jonathan slides his tongue along the tines of his fork, mopping up the last of the cake. He looks at it mournfully. “This is my finest creation. And now no one will ever appreciate it.”
“We’re appreciating it, honey.” Stuart pats his hand. “A masterpiece.”
Mason stabs a fork into his own piece, which is now drenched in wine, and stuffs it into his mouth. “Delicious.”
Jonathan buries his head in his hands.
“So what now?” Ross asks the question on everyone’s mind.
“Do you mean practically or existentially?” Stuart asks. “Practically, we sulk for the rest of the day and get drunk on the happy couple’s non-refundable wine. Then tomorrow we undo all our hard work and put the place back to rights. And then, I guess, we start again.” He stares into his own wine; in a glass, not a bottle.
“Have you got any other bookings?” Mason asks.
“One, next month. And then… nothing.” I sigh. “Sophie said she’d still give us a good review. Tell her friends. Although I’m not sure how enticing a failed wedding venue can really be.”
I feel heavy. Numb.
Everyone has worked so hard. For the farm. For me. And now we’re back where we started, staring down the back of another difficult year, another season of insecurity and stress, hoping clients and bookings will come in, watching the farm drain us of money and life.
