Afterafullafternoontaking in the sights of Inverness city centre, the music drifting from the open door of a pub draws me in for supper. I remember the name of the place from a list of restaurants I found when researching gluten-free food in the city, so when I’m handed my menu, I’m pleased to find everything clearly marked.
It’s not until I’ve ordered my bangers and mash (the gravy is gluten-free!) that I look up toward the music. A solitary man sits on a raised platform in the corner. He’s sitting on a stool with one foot on the floor, and the other on the rung of the stool, as he supports his guitar. The man looks completely at ease as he sings what must be a traditional Scottish song.
He’s singing something about Scotland being home, buthonestly, I’m having trouble focusing on the words. His mesmerizing voice is deep, with just a hint of a rasp. And, of course, his lovely Scottish accent comes through the music.
I’m sitting at a table maybe fifteen feet from the man, so it’s no surprise when his eyes meet mine. The surprise is in the length and intensity of the connection. He looks at me for so long that many other patrons of the pub look my way, as if to see what the handsome man’s girl looks like.
I take a sip of my Irn-Bru and feel red inch up my neck as I glance around at them.It’s not me. I’m not his girl.
I look back at the musician and find a small smile on his face. One that he definitely means for me. Or for my obvious embarrassment, anyway. It’s a relief when the server arrives with my food. I take a photo of my meal and send it to my mom. She wants me checking in often, so my meal will be my proof of life for tonight.
As I cut into the sausage, I make two vows to myself: One, I will not look up from my food toward the man. And two, I will not make a face if I hate this. I mean, I’m sure I’ll like the potatoes, but the sausage? Who knows?
As far as I know, people, including the musician, have taken their attention off me, so I enjoy my food in peace. I’m taking a final bite of the delicious meal when I notice the music has stopped. I look up at the stage, and find the man is no longer sitting there.
My phone pings with a response from my mom. It’s a GIF that I’m a hundred percent sure she doesn’t realize is very inappropriate.
Makes me laugh, though.
A smooth, deep voice calls to me from above. “May I sit here for a moment, lass?”
I’m so startled that all I can do is nod. I wipe my mouth and toss the napkin on my plate as he sits.
“I’m Malcolm.” He smiles, awaiting my response, but I stare at him like a lunatic. I’ve never had anyone, much less anyone who looks like him, come up to me with interest like this. While I think I’m pretty enough, I’m not a petite woman with a gorgeous face.
As it often does, my ex’s voice fills my mind.
You’re getting a little soft around the middle. Are you sure you don’t want to join that gym?
“Do you no speak English?” he asks, genuinely.
I clear my throat. “I do.” Look at me go with all those words.
“Ah good. I thought I’d come over and scared you by not speaking your language.” He studies my face. “Though, maybe Iamscaring you.”
I give a nervous laugh. “No. You haven’t scared me.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” There’s something like disappointment in his eyes, but quick as a blink it’s gone. “It seems you aren’t from around here.”
“What gave me away?” I smile, feeling more normal, and I’m rewarded with a movie star caliber grin in return.
“For starters, you aren’t waving a Scottish flag. Locals always have flags to wave.”
“Is that so?” I put my elbows on the table and lean toward him. His shaggy red hair looks richer up close, out of the light of the stage, leaning more toward auburn than orange.
“Oh, aye. And you’ve not any tartan on you.”
I laugh. “That you can see.” My face flames hot. What am I doing?
He lifts his eyebrows at me and laughs good-naturedly. “Fair point.”
“I’m from Georgia,” I add, hoping to change the subject. “The state, not the country.”
“Thank you for that clarification, though I think I could have worked that out.” His smile is so kind, and there’s something about him that I already feel like I can trust. Like, I could leave my non-existent baby, my phone, and all my money with him, and everything would be entirely safe and sound when I got back. Not that I need to trust this man I’ll see tonight and never again.
“You have a beautiful voice. And your guitar playing too. You’ve clearly been doing this a while.”
“Och, I’m not as good as many, but Ihavebeen at this a wee while. I taught myself guitar as a teenager, then began playin’ inpublic”—he pauses, clearly thinking—“oh probably ten years ago.”
