“Luckily for me, no one younger than eighty knows what my name means,” I offer. “I’m Rowan.”
“Doesthat mean something?” he asks as he takes the stick and experimentally leans on it, using it to hop forward on his good leg.
“It’s a tree.”
“Well, you did say you love nature. And wildlife.” He grins. “So maybe it’s fitting.”
I smile back, and offer him my arm, which to my surprise he takes. Between the stick and the arm, he seems reasonably able to hobble along, and so carefully we make our way down the track.
The sun is peeking out from behind its habitual clouds, casting light across the loch from end to end, the gentle ripple of the water diffusing the sunbeam into gleaming shells.
“Maybe it is.”
* * *
Ewan, I discover over the course of the morning, is, indeed, twenty, went to university in Bristol, was born in Blackpool but moved to the south coast with his single mum when he was a baby and has rarely left since, loves football and is a firm supporter of Arsenal, thinks all wine tastes like baby’s piss (he does not explain why he knows what baby’s piss tasted like, and I do not ask) and his favourite activity is getting drunk with his friends at the pub, or going on a shit night out (his words, not mine). He is, in short, everything I expect a twenty-year-old man to be, although none of that explains why he is out here – on that matter, he does not elaborate.
I discover all of this because Ewan cannot abide silence.
No matter how much pain he is in, which is clearly quite a lot, or how difficult and rutted with roots and stones the path get as we continue to run parallel to the loch, which is very, Ewan keeps talking.
In some ways, I’m grateful: as long as he speaks, I don’t have to think about what Ethan has done, or how much I wish he was here, even though I know he’d hate every second of it even more than I do, or my sister’s hen do, and how angry she must be that I’m missing it, or whether my mum is worrying about me, or what I’m going to do when the walk is over.
Still, it is with great relief that we finally clear the first hurdle of the morning and cross a bridge over a gushing stream to arrive at a once-grand hotel tucked back from the path, with a picturesque view over the loch.
“Well,” I say, looking at the entrance to the bar with longing, “you coming in for a cuppa?”
Ewan eyes it askance. “I don’t drink tea.”
“Blimey. Alright. Coffee then?”
He shakes his head. “Red Bull or nothing, mate.” And before I can process this, he gestured to his bag. “No worries, though. Brought my own lunch, didn’t I. Cheese and pickle sandwich. Mum made it for me.”
We’re only on day two of the walk, so assuming his mum made it fresh the day he left that seems… acceptable. A part of me wants to know if she’s made him a packed lunch for every day, and, if so, what sort of state those sandwiches will be in after five days of hot and cold and rain, stuffed in a heavy pack, but the rest of me can’t bear to think about them sliding around in their cellophane, and so instead I nod furiously and bare my teeth in what I hope is a convincing impression of a smile as I slip inside the hotel.
A group of older men is emerging as I enter, and one – ruddy faced and grinning – holds the door for me.
“Don’t forget to take your shoes off, love,” he says, pointing at the sign beside his head. “They get right cross if you don’t.”
“Don’t know what’s worse: your muddy shoes, or the smell of your feet, if I’m honest,” says his friend, as they amble away.
Inside, I collapse on a bench in a homey, cozy boot room to remove my shoes and drop my bag before staggering into the warm café where I’m greeted by the smell of freshly baked scones and hot, steaming soup. After a morning of wind and walking, it’s enough to bring a tear to my eyes, and I go all out: ordering a pot of tea, a scone with jam and cream and a bowl of soup with a buttered roll. It’s too much, and I don’t care.
For a moment, I miss Ethan with a fierceness that shocks me. It was the first thing we bonded over: our mutual love of food. Pizza dripping with cheese, and garlic dip, and thick, hand-cut noodles that ooze with oil, and chunky potato wedges that crunch between your teeth.
We had fun, at the beginning. Picnics in the park, lazy Sundays in bed, pastries by the canal. Trying out new restaurants together and pretending to be critics. Movie dates, and evenings in jazz bars listening to music I didn’t understand. Sure, he was always trying to drag me out dancing, when I wanted to curl up at home, and sure, I thought his obsession with fine wine was a little pretentious, and yes, I found his friends annoying, with their cooler-than-thou attitudes, micro-beanies and matching Carhartt jackets, and their long-winded discussions about anarchist politics, and what genre was more interesting to listen to, techno or house (neither, in my opinion, but I’d never tellthemthat). And maybe the sex was never more than adequate, and yes, once I did fall asleep in the middle and he didn’t even notice. And no, there weren’t any fireworks, any sparks, any glowing bubble of warmth in my chest when I looked at him that told meyes,yes,yes.
But wasn’t that what I wanted? Someone stable. Someone safe. A nice, normal bloke, with a nice, normal life, and kind eyes and a contagious laugh.
And maybe he never gave me butterflies, but at least with him, I wouldn’t get hurt.
Or so I’d thought.
As if my thoughts summon him, my phone buzzes in my pack. I check my messages: five from Mum, asking where I am, with an increasingly intense use of exclamation marks, one from Sophie, short and curt, two from Marnie, wishing me luck and sending me a picture of Brian and Rufus dressed up as Mario and Luigi, one from my Aunt Joan, which Ialmostreply to, she being the only member of my family who is unlikely to cry or shout at me, and three from Ethan.
ETHAN:Look, Ro, I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I’m so sorry. Words can’t express how bad I feel about what I did.
ETHAN:You have to know it was a mistake. A horrible mistake. A moment of weakness. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll never do it again.
