For a year, I lived in that hole. Growing smaller. Growing more scared.
Becoming less.
Until, step by step, I emerged back into the light. But it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same. And what had illuminated before, burned. And what had excited me, scared me. I’d taken a risk, I’d left the nest, and what had happened? I’d fallen short.
I focused on building a life that was safe. Soft.
A life with no risk.
So that it could never happen again.
What had I done instead?
Nothing good.
Chapter Nine
Angus
Tent up. Sleeping system laid out. Dinner eaten. The sun is beginning to sink when I settle myself on a rock with a hot cup of herbal tea and a book, ready for my night’s plans.
I ease the laces on my boots to let my feet breathe. It’s been a good day. Twenty miles of tramping up and down, up and down, although I took the high road in the morning to avoid too much time by the loch where the ground is trickiest. And because it is usually quieter.
And now my reward: watching the sun set and the stars wake up, one by one. Me, my book, and the silence.
Bliss.
I’ve even climbed a hundred metres out of camp to make sure I won’t be disturbed. The view from here is unmatched: the still waters stretching south; the glinting sun on the lapping waves; the shore lined with trees; the mountains rising behind. Like a fucking postcard.
This, here. This is why I can never leave the Highlands. It is my home, through and through. This land is in my bones, every lash of rain, every gust of wind, every dawn and dusk.
A rustling in the trees behind me. A squirrel, surely. Or a deer. Now that would be something.
Then a head pops out. Hair scraped back in a familiar ponytail. That fucking hat on her fucking head:Zesty. Luminous even in the half-twilight.
Every time. Every single fucking time I manage to get a bit of peace.
I stay very still. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and she’ll not only not notice me, but also be quiet and not ruin this. I don’t have high hopes.
I track her progress over the top of the hillock. She’s come alone, and doesn’t appear to have her phone out. So far, so good. She’s wearing shorts again, lime-green today, but still tight as ever, cut high enough that I can see every inch of her long, shapely legs.
Her face sparkles in the slowly dying light.
I do a double take.
Oh. She is… Shit. She’s crying.
Crying women are not my strong suit. I hate it when people cry. I would do anything – and I really mean anything – to make it stop, but most of the time my attempts at comfort resulted in more tears and someone else storming up to say something along the lines of “Angus, why are you always so insensitive?”
To which I have no answer. I just am.
Rowan slumps down a few metres away. She still hasn’t made a noise, but even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way they shudder up and down. Holding her knees tight, as though she’s tamping something down. Locking it in.
I know a thing or two about that.
I have to say something. If I try to leave, she’ll notice me. And if I stay here in silence… then I’m the creep who watched her cry. Fuck it. Here I go.
“Nice view, isn’t it?”
