Page 58 of Don’t Forget Me

My dark polished limousine had been parked near the fountain. Alfred had been waiting in the driver’s seat, his chin tilted as his thumb slid on his phone screen. I led Lysandra to the back seat door, pulling it open and allowing her entrance.

I tapped twice on the window, signaling Alfred to start the engine.

The limo ride was a bit awkward. Too awkward for my liking. Usually, we always had something to talk about. She looked out the window the entire time as the hills, valleys, gardens, and streetlights blurred past us. I watched her gaze. She’d been examining the scenery outside a bit too much.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay. I just… never imagined my life would be filled with such beautiful views. I’m used to dirty trailer parks, broken windows, smelly streets, and screams of anger.”

I had a horrible father. I lived a life of violence and remorse. But I never struggled in the same way that she did. If anything, she went through the worst of it, and that’s why I never dared to compare my pain to hers.

“That’s all in the past now,” I said. I didn’t know what to say, but I wanted to be helpful. What a sad attempt at trying to console the shadows that accompanied her.

She looked back at me lovingly. As if she was silently thanking me for presenting her a different perspective. But what she didn’t know was that she was the entire shift in my mind, she was the only view I needed for the rest of my life.

It seemed a bit forward, but I was certain of this emotion, this belief, this conviction that she was the one breath I’d been waiting to take.

“So, will you tell me where we are going?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Just wait, woman,” I said with gentleness.

Then, we arrived at the heart of Edinburgh. The streets were lit by yellow lampposts. The cobblestones beneath were coated with droplets of the afternoon rain of the day. People strolled and conversed with one another. There had been laughter echoing into the starry night sky. Being part of this city, being part of the community, living in Scotland, had been the balm to my scars. I felt at home; I didn’t believe the four walls and structure with my family crest was my home. Yet, these streets were.

I reached for the knob, pushing the rear door open and extending my hand out for Lysandra. She took my hand and stepping out of the limo. I bid Alfred farewell. Dismissing him for his break. “I’ll call you when we are ready.”

He nodded once before heading into the road.

“What are we doing here?” she asked tentatively.

“I think it’s time we take a break from all of the books, libraries, and scandals of the academy to enjoy on a joyful evening in the city. What do you think?” I suggested. Putting my hands in my pockets, letting out a breath that was visible under the lampposts.

“Good idea,” she exclaimed. “Lead the way, Van Dorren.”

We headed toward the nearest vendor cart. “Can I get a Scotch pie?”

The lady replied, “Yes. Coming right up.”

“What is a Scotch pie?” Lysandra asked.

“You’ll see in a moment.”

The vendor had given me a plate with a large piece of pie. I looked to Lysandra with a smile, our expressions had been completely opposite. Hers had been twisted in disgust as she eyed the heavy piece of bread that’d been on the plate. “That looks horrifying.”

“It tastes better than it looks, I promise.”

“I’m not eating that. It reminds me of tamales, and I hate tamales.”

“That’s like hating the pizza from New York,” I exasperated. “I happen to have tried tamales before, and they were banging.”

Lysandra’s lips pursed. Her eyes bulged and her cheeks creased, then she burst out laughing, holding her stomach.

“Haha, very funny,” I said, fixing the frames that sat on my nose. I knew that my British accent mixed with Spanish would be terrible, but since I met her, I’d been trying to learn a little more.

“I’m sorry, your Spanish is horrible.”

Ah, yes. We come from a long line of Dutch and British ancestry, mostly British, but I won’t bore you with my family history, that’s not what was important here.

“Don’t be like that,” I laughed. We’d begun to walk deeper into St. Andrew’s Square. The small pond appeared beside us; I looked up and I found the tall monument of Henry Dundas staring back at me with dull, classical eyes. Beneath the trimmed grass, there were whispers of an unforgotten history. “Come on, try it. Here.”