My stomach growls.
I can’t remember the last time I ate.
I launch myself in that direction and step into the pub, my muscles relaxing at the sound of chattering voices and wood crackling in the fireplace. The room is full, tables covered in plates and pints of beer, with people gathered all around them.
Through a gap in the crowd, I spy an empty stool at the bar and quickly claim it. I settle on top of it and roll my suitcase out of the way, trying to keep it close to the seat.
I run my hands over my wet, stringy hair, and the young woman behind the bar takes one look at me, fishes something out of her pocket, and tosses it in my direction.
My hands lift, instinctively catching it.
“You look like you could use this,” she says with a smile, and I laugh.
I wrap the dish towel around my hair and start wringing it out.
“It’s clean,” she says a second later. “I should have mentioned that before.”
I grin. “I’m clearly not in any position to be picky,” I say. “But thank you.”
At the sound of my voice, she raises a pierced eyebrow. “American?”
“Yeah,” I say, turning my head the other way, towel-drying my hair some more. “Just visiting for a little bit. Are you from around here?”
“No, I grew up closer to Glasgow, but I moved to Aberdeen for uni and I’ve stayed put ever since.”
My mind, as it often does when I meet someone new, fills with questions, but I’ve learned to filter through them. To voice only the important ones.
“What’s your Wi-Fi password?” I say, instead of asking if she’s still in school, or what she studied, or what it is about Aberdeen that made her want to stay.
That would make my father want to stay.
She rattles off the password, and I type it in, relieved when my map reappears, showing that my hotel is no more than a five-minute drive from here.
My stomach rumbles again, loudly, but before I can ask for a menu, or even ask for her name, someone down the bar calls for her, and she takes off in their direction.
“Hungry?”
I turn to the man seated to my left. He’s got dark-brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his pale nose and cheekbones. He looks young, at least a few years younger than me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Guess you heard that?”
“Everyone around here would have heard that,” he says, his accent light and lilting.
I lift a shoulder, not a bit embarrassed. “Whoops.”
His toothy smile grows. “Not that anyone would mind. We don’t often get beautiful Americans wandering in, looking for a bit of scran.”
My eyebrows lift. I’ve been hit on by strangers before, but it’s been a long time since someone was this direct. It’s flattering, but I’m not sure yet whether it’s something I want to encourage, so instead, I deflect.
“Scran?” I ask.
“Food,” he replies. “What people back in your home country might call ‘grub.’ ”
I laugh. “I don’t know anyone who would call it ‘grub.’ ”
His blue eyes twinkle. “Well, if you’re interested in finding something to eat, I could recommend a place for you.” He turns his body toward mine, leaning forward.
I shift back a bit. “I was thinking I’d just order something here.”
