“I didn’t see any signs to direct guests when I was driving in.”
“Going up now. What do you think I am? An amateur?”
“The cake?”
“Jonathan is putting the finish touches to it.”
“It’s like you don’t need me.”
Stuart laughs and sips his beer. “To plan a wedding? No. If it makes you feel better, you did provide the location. And what a stunner she is.”
“You helped with that too.” Without Stuart, neither of us would be sitting here. And no matter how many times he says he’s happy to do it, that he needed a new project, that the money was sitting there, my gratitude knows no end.
“Then let’s say it’s lucky you’re pretty.” Stuart laughs. “Now. Angus. My favourite crabby, emotionally stunted friend. I’ve known you for how many years? So please take this the way it’s intended, and with all the love in my heart, but seriously. What the fuck?”
I sit down beside him, finally swigging my own beer.
“Nothing? You’re giving me nothing?”
“I figured you’d have more to say. You usually do.”
“Touche. And you’re right. I do have more to say. But fucking hell, Angus. First you disappear the week before the wedding – which, yes, I did basically force you into, you miserable sod. But then you go MIA for three days. You stop answering your phone. Which was really stressful by the way. And then I get a call from Ross telling me that he’s found you in bed with the bride’s sister.” Stuart shakes his head. “Is this a joke to you?”
“It’s not a joke.” I want to be angry. That he can think that, knowing everything he does. But I can’t let myself feel that. I can’t let myself feel anything. “Of course not. It’s… Rowan. She’s—”
Stuart watches me, eyes wide. “Oh, man.”
“What?”
“You’ve got it bad. You’ve got it real bad.”
A restless itching has begun beneath my skin. They’re kissing. I’m sure of it. He’s pushing her hair back from her face, and she’s biting her lower lip, and— I get back off the bed and rummage on the clothes rail for my formal clothes. I pull out my kilt: dark green and blue tartan, with faint yellow lines across the weave. Short single-breasted black jacket, worn over a waistcoat. White shirt, bow tie, low-hanging sporran. Silver cufflinks in the shape of holly leaves, in honour of the farm, given to me by my grandad on my eighteenth birthday.
In it, I know I look good. Sharp. In control.
I need that right now.
Stuart sighs. “Oh, good. Emotionally unavailable Angus is back. Hello? Knucklehead? Still there?”
I don’t know what to say. I think of Rowan: Rowan muddy; Rowan wet, hair plastered over her face; Rowan’s freckles lit by the sun; Rowan after sex, half-asleep and sated; Rowan’s eyes, blue as summer sky; Rowan in the bar, eyes lidded as she bobs to the music; Rowan’s slow, sly smile as she considers her next joke.
Rowan sitting next to her ex later. Rowan laughing at his jokes. Rowan half-closing her eyes as he hand-feeds her a piece of cake.
Fuck. Stuart is right. I do have it bad.
“What do you want me to say?” I exchange my towel for the kilt, wrapping it around my waist. “Yeah, I’m an arsehole. I should have called. I don’t know why I didn’t. I guess it felt good not to think about anything – the farm, this bloody event, any of it. I’m sorry. I really am.” I tug on the kilt’s buckles, securing it in place. “And Rowan… Fuck. Aye, I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have done it. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know that. She’s just— I just—”
Want to. Like I haven’t wanted anything in a long time. Like we are two magnets being pulled together by an irresistible force.
Stuart blinks. “Are you alright? Did you hit your head on the hike?”
“No. Why?”
“That’s the most words you’veeversaid to me about your feelings. Jesus, Angus. Get a grip.”
I turn on him, exasperated. The fucking nerve. Always harping on at me to open up, and when I bloody do he—
Stuart’s eyes are sparkling with laughter.
