“I saw an Alpine Lady’s-mantle and a Melancholy Thistle. Don’t you love that name? It’s so poetic.” Her head whips around as she catches sight of something in the distance. “Oh my god. A b—”
And then she’s haring down the path, leaving the rest of us to follow.
“Thought you weren’t much for walking in company.” I can’t help but poke at Angus.
“Little girl didn’t give me much choice,” he replies, watching Priya dance ahead. “She’s… forceful. And Ewan here looked like he needed a hand.” He pauses. “I’ll stay until lunch, but then I’ll need to make my own way for a bit. Didn’t sign up for a crowd.”
I look around. “Has the definition of crowd changed since last I checked? Because I only see four people here.”
“Feels crowded to me,” Angus grumbles.
“‘Hell is other people’.” Priya skips past us, stopping to pluck a dandelion from beside the path and tuck it behind one of her ears.
“Did that little girl quote Satre at me?” Angus stares after her.
“You know who Satre is?”
“Do you think because I don’t live in the big city that I’m illiterate?”
“No. God. Sorry. I know you’re not. I saw you reading in the pub.”
His dark eyes catch mine. “Watching me, were you, London?”
“I— No. I…”
“Pubs. Lochs. Sunsets. Campsites. How’s a man meant to get an inch of privacy when you’re around?”
“For the love of god, can you stop flirting when you’re meant to be helping me?” Ewan interjects with a squawk, as his ankle slips to the side and he falls into Angus’ sturdy arm. “Get a bloody room.”
“I am not flirting with him—”
“We are not flirting—”
We speak over each other, locking eyes before looking away quickly.
“Uh huh.” Ewan rolls his own eyes. “Just wait until I’m not stuck between you next time, alright?”
I duck my head. I’m not flirting with Angus. I can’t be. I’m mid-break up, mid-walk, mid-one of the most physically painful experiences of my life. So I can’t be flirting. Can I?
I try to focus on something else, anything to distract myself from the pile of muscle on the other side of Ewan, whose limp is growing more pronounced with every mile.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but your ankle still seems painful. Shouldn’t you be resting it, instead of carrying on?” I tuck his arm tighter around my shoulder to try to help him keep the weight off. “I’m sure there’s a bus near here, or we can find someone to take you back to Glasgow.”
He shakes his head, limping on another few steps. “I can’t.”
“No offence, lad, but you’re injured. If you keep walking on it, you could really damage yourself,” Angus agrees with me.
“No. I’m fine. It’s only another couple of days. I can do this.”
I empathise. I do. I feel it too: the need to get through this. That this is something I have to do, something I have to prove, even though every second of it feels like being dragged over hot,screaming coals. But Ewan is injured. A holiday doesn’t seem worth the agony he’s causing himself.
“I’m sorry,” I try, “but it really doesn’t seem sensible—”
“Shut up.” Ewan says it quietly, but there is steel in his voice, a low, rumbling anger. He keeps going, the volume rising, until he’s practically spitting the words at me. “Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up,SHUT UP!”
The silence is thick and heavy.
I drop his arm. A hot flush runs through me, shimmering tension lancing into my skin. I hate being shouted at. Hate the prickling shame of having done something wrong. I can’t help the physical feeling of fear that shoots through me: he might be injured, he might be young, but Ewan is still a man, and my body, like every other woman’s, knows exactly what it means when a man turns his rage on you.
