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She pushes her glasses up and glances at me, her lips curling ever so slightly. “More complicated, but also more fun, no? Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the things we got up to. When I asked you to put a glow-in-the-dark condom on your dick, you barely even hesitated.”

Her bluntness takes me by surprise, but I drop my gaze and chuckle, rubbing the back of my neck. “Aye, those were definitely fun times. You always had the . . . brightest ideas about how to spice things up.”

This earns a small laugh from Iona. “Good one.” She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. “You know, Richard was such a sweet guy, but he never was a fan of a dick joke. And frankly, if you can’t laugh at a penis, you’re taking life too seriously.”

“Hmm, was it Confucius or Aristotle who said that? I always get the ancient philosophers mixed up.”

“Neither. That bit of wisdom is an Iona Stewart original.”

“Wow, really? You should be printing that on inspirational posters. I reckon the Otter’s Holt would stock them.”

Jenny, the owner of Bannock’s gift shop, typically sells much classier items. That being said, although my suggestion isn’t serious, I could see her carrying a few of those for a touch of cheeky charm.

“You must have been living by that motto for a while now,” I add. “The first time you clapped eyes on my penis, you laughed. A lot.”

Given our history, I don’t know if this is a brave or stupid thing to mention. Then again, it was Iona who brought up the glow-in-the-dark condom. I’m just trying to keep the giggles coming.

“Aye, well . . .” She holds her thumb and index finger a few millimetres apart.

“Bollocks! You never had any complaints about my size. You were in stitches because it looked like I’d dipped my cock in radioactive goo.”

Another peal of laughter escapes Iona. Man, it feels good to make her laugh—even if my dick is the punchline. But I suppose, back when we were together, it always was, wasn’t it? When it wasn’t giving her pleasure, she was playing games with it.

“It really did look radioactive!” she agrees. “Ha, I can still picture it. And then I made you dance, and you shook it all about.”

She giggles some more, and I chuckle along. I didn’t expect for us to get onto this topic—and certainly not so quickly—but reliving the incident doesn’t bother me. As Iona said, if you can’t laugh at a penis, you’re taking life too seriously.

“So . . .” Iona repositions herself, turning her body to face me. “Did you invite me here just to talk about dicks or was there another reason?”

“Another reason,” I assure her. “In fact, discussing dicks wasn’t on the agenda at all—consider that a bonus. I thought we could maybe talk about . . . things. In general. I, er, was sorry to hear about you and Richard.”

“I bet you were devastated,” Iona says drily.

I give a nervous grin then say, “Richard actually came to speak to me yesterday. He said he wants you to be happy, and . . . that’s what I want too.”

“Is it? That’s funny coming from the man who shattered my heart into tiny little pieces.”

And with these words, the mood changes. A palpable tension creeps between us, and it’s really pretty uncomfortable—but that’s okay. We need to talk about this if we’re ever going to move past it.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I think we should discuss what happened that day.”

“You mean when you broke up with me by text message then fucked another woman just a few hours later? An incident that hurt me so badly I gave up my plans to return to the Highlands after uni and stayed in Glasgow instead. You want to talk about that?”

It’s impossible not to wince at the venom that’s crept into her voice, even though she’s perfectly entitled to speak this way.

“Aye, I do,” I say quietly.

“All right. Whatever you’ve got to say is coming six years too late, but I’ll listen to it. I’ll give you my time, although I’m not sure you deserve it.”

It’s hard to believe we were laughing at dick jokes just a few minutes ago. This is already painful, and it’s only going to get worse, but we have to do it.

“First, I want to be clear that I’ll never try to justify what I did. It’s beyond justification—I’m fully aware of that. And like I say, I don’t expect you to forgive me. But maybe I can make you understand some of what was going through my head at the time.”

Iona picks up a stone and traces its contours with her thumb. “I know you were grieving, Lewis. I’ve always sympathised with your loss, but it isn’t an excuse.”

I hang my head. “Aye, I know. But . . . can I talk about it anyway?”

She gives a curt nod.