I don’t want to stop feeling this way.
I have to tell Ethan that it’s over. That there’s no going back from what he’s done.
Yes, Ethan cheated on me. But it’s more than that. Our relationship was a safety blanket, not a love story. He was a body to keep the loneliness away. And that isn’t fair to either of us.
I don’t love Ethan. I never have.
So I have to tell him. But what then? What will happen then?
Once my belongings are packed up into boxes and sealed with tape, once I’ve divided my life into ‘Books’ and ‘Kitchen Utensils’ and ‘Summer Clothes’ and ‘Hobbies I Won’t Return To Again But Want To Keep Anyway’ and weighed up the total of everything I own and realised it barely takes up one room, what then?
Back to dating. Back to the apps and men who I don’t find attractive but kiss anyway, and repetitive conversations that never go anywhere, until I settle for another relationship I’m only half in?
Back to weekdays spent tap-tapping at a keyboard and pretending to laugh at Mick from Sales’ sexist comments and making another bog-standard Powerpoint to sum up another mid-level box-ticking marketing campaign and weeknights on the sofa with a Chinese and a packet of Pringles, watchingLegally Blondefor the bajillionth time and wondering if this is really what I’m meant to be doing with my life?
Back to the comfortable, safe, uninspiring cocoon that I’ve built, that I’ve wrapped around myself: no risk, no stress, no… excitement?
Around me, the Highlands are buzzing. Birds chirp, bees wriggle in and out of tiny blue flowers, the wind picks up,bringing the smell of grass and loam, and Priya chases a butterfly down the road with a scream of delight.
This – hard as it is – this is life.
Here, I feel awake.
I’m not ready to go back to sleep.
I need to change something. I need to learn how to be brave again. My ideas box is still hidden under the bed: my old designs; sketches of logos and outfits I want to create; businesses I want to start. I haven’t looked at it in years.
Maybe it’s time to fish it back out.
A tear slides down my cheek when I think about it, about the me I used to be. About the person I’ve become. The woman I can be. But there are no clouds here. This isn’t a slide into sadness from which I won’t awake.
No. This tear feels different. Cathartic.
As if I’m finally letting go of a weight I’ve held for far too long.
The road curves, turning to gravel underfoot, and for the first time I catch sight of Ben Nevis, far in the distance. Clouds wreathe its wide top, and my breath catches, staring down the valley at its rising peak. There it is.
I’m really going to do this, I think.I’m really going to finish this.
I’ve left my comfort zone far behind in London.
I’ve walked through rain, and shine, mud and grass. I have blisters on my feet and sores on my hips. My shoulders are a mass of knotted muscles and red, raw skin. My face is windswept and pink, and my hair a rat tail of tangles under my cap. I’m exhausted. Dirty. Sweaty.
But I haven’t given up, no matter how badly I’ve wanted to.
I’m going to finish this.
Not for anyone else.
For me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Angus
The first bite is nothing short of ecstasy. I close my eyes and stifle a guttural moan as I tip a mussel, doused in a rich sauce of white wine and cream, into my mouth. Barely a second passes before I’m tearing off a hunk of crusty bread and using it to mop up even more of the sauce. Then another mussel. Another bite of bread. Each mouthful somehow more delicious than the last.
Around me, the group is silent, absorbed in scoffing their food: Priya is stuffing chips into her mouth two at a time, while Lila doesn’t even bother to scold her, fork deep in a steaming hot lasagna. Ewan, because he is Ewan, has opted for a plain ham sandwich, no mustard, no mayonnaise, but with so many pickles they fall out whenever he takes a bite, while Rowan has picked the same as me.
