And there I go again, tears trickling down my cheeks like someone has turned on the tap.
The idea of going home. Looking at the bed again. Reliving the moment.
I can’t bear it.
Marnie’s voice goes soft. “You leave it with me. I got you. You focus on surviving this walk!” She hesitates. “Sophie’s going to be really upset, Ro. You know that, right?”
“She won’t be that upset.” My voice goes sharp. “We barely talk.”
“You’re her maid of honour.”
“Only because Mum made her!” I take a breath. “I- I need to do this. For me.”
I can’t think about my sister. The hen do I’ll miss. The wedding preparation I won’t turn up for. But I’m not wrong. We don’t talk. She’ll probably be grateful I’m not there, that she can spend the week with her real friends, instead of her loser sister, who always messes everything up.
“Well, we’re on the other end of the phone if anything goes wrong. Love you, Ro. Take care of yourself.”
We end the call, and I let my phone fall on the table as I flop my head down on my arms.
“Tissue, love?” The woman who’s been glaring at me proffers a pack.
I sniff again and take one, preparing to be eternally grateful for her kindness in my hour of need.
“There you go. And if you could keep the yapping to a minimum from now on, that would be appreciated.” She taps a sign next to her head. “This is the quiet carriage.”
My phone buzzes again, earning me another disapproving look. I flip it over.
ETHAN:Ro, I’m sorry.
ETHAN:Please. Can you let me know you’re safe?
ETHAN:Can we talk?
I leave them unread.
Chapter Two
Rowan
Five minutes into the hike, I feel confident. Good, even.
I set my alarm to go off before sunrise, and for once I didn’t snooze it. By the time the little town of Milngavie was waking up, I was dressed and ready to go. I stopped to admire my outfit: orange workout shorts to match the tangerine cap I designed – back when I did things like that – which readZestyon the front, turquoise vest that reminded me rather wishfully of a Mediterranean Sea, fuchsia socks with little cats reading teeny-tiny books emblazoned at the ankle. The borrowed hiking boots were, sadly, brown, but the rest of my clothes made up for it, bringing a smile to my face.
I looked ready. I looked confident, competent.
I looked like someone who could walk a hundred miles.
The town slipped away quickly, once I found the path beside the looming, grey obelisk, and supplied myself with a cheeky sausage roll from Gregg’s for my first hiking breakfast. Soon, I’d left civilisation behind for a wooded path, walking through the dappled morning light in the crisp morning air.
Not so bad, I thought.
One hour later, my feet are sweaty and painful in my borrowed hiking boots. My thighs chafe where they rub togetherwith every step. The bag’s weight has settled on me like a yoke and there’s a knot between my shoulder blades that no amount of lifting or stretching will shake.
One hour later, it’s clear that I am not someone who can walk one hundred miles. I am barely someone who can walk two miles.
Despite the internet promising me that this is neither a particularly technical nor a particularly difficult hike, I’ve already managed to skin one knee, while a bruise is forming on my other shin where I bashed it against a branch. I’m hot and sweaty and tired, and I still have eighteen miles to go.
And that’s only today.
