I can only see half of his face, reflected in the mirror at the front of the bus, and part of that is obscured by the peak of the black company-branded cap he's wearing. But I can see enough to glean that there's a strong jaw covered in scruff. A wi...
"She was clever about it though," my best friend continues, winking at me. "Took it out from underneath her top so no one got to see the goodies."
I'm relieved to hear that. But still mortified about the whole bra episode from this morning.
"So you live in Fort William then?" I ask Owen, in an attempt to get the topic away from my underwear, and "goodies". He nods, humour sparking in his eyes. He knows exactly what I'm doing.
"Yeah, I've been based there for about five years now."
"And do you live . . . Alone? Or with a flatmate? Or a girlfriend?" Michelle's going fishing. Happily in a relationship with her childhood sweetheart, she's the matchmaker of the group and has the misguided belief that no one is truly happy unless they've found The One.
She's clearly decided that Owen and I are fated to be together. I mean, I suppose I can see why she's came to that conclusion, what with the shared past and the . . . moments she's already witnessed since our reunion. But she doesn't know the full story.
Why, then, does my heart still stutter in my chest, as I wait for his response to her question? Why do I feel like I might struggle to conceal my feelings if it turns out he does have a girlfriend? Or - God forbid - a wife? My gaze drifts to his left hand, noting there's no wedding ring, no white line where one once might have been. I scoop up another fork full of buttery mash, determined to act like I'm more interested in potato than his answer.
Is he really taking an inordinate amount of time to reply, or has my brain just slowed down significantly? I suspect the answer might be yes to both.
"I live alone," he responds finally. "No significant other either. I've been single for . . . Oh, a good few years now."
I stuff the complex carbs in my mouth and eyeball my plate. Why am I struggling not to smile now? And why is it so difficult to stay mad at him?
"Is it hard to maintain a relationship if you're always on the road?" Michelle asks sympathetically.
"I haven't really tried, to be honest. But I'm sure I could make it work if I found someone I really liked."
I'm still having an intimate stare-off with my plate (not sure who's winning) but I can feel his eyes on me again.
"Should we get the bill?" I ask brightly. I'm the queen of evasive tactics today.
We've still got some wine left, but Owen makes his excuses after the money is settled, saying he's going to head to the shop across the road. We agree to meet in reception at 10am the following day. Debbie, a keen walker, has suggested we walk up to the Fyrish Monument, so that's our main plan for the day before we head towards our next hotel, which is a little further north.
But, in the meantime, I have three girls staring at me once again, ready and primed for gossip.
"Okay, that guy really fucking likes you," Nessa states.
"He'd probably really like to fuck you too," Debbie adds baldly. Nessa narrows her eyes at her.
"Seriously though, did you see the way he was looking at you?" She asks me.
I had. But he had looked at me like that once before too. I shake my head. "It doesn't matter. I'm not interested, girls."
"Oh, you so are," Nessa insists. "You're trying to be pissed off with him, but you can't seem to help interacting with him."
"You told me to be polite," I remind her.
"Polite is one thing," Michelle says. "That was something else entirely. It was like the two of you were in your own world sometimes with all the chemistry and the eye contact." She sighs. "I don't understand how something can be both magical and awkward to watch at the same time . . . But you somehow managed it!"
"Why can't you just let go for once?" Debbie asks, cutting to the chase as usual. "Not all guys are going to be like Donnie, you know!"
Sidenote: Donnie was my ex. I'm not ready to get into that disastrous relationship yet.
Anyway, it's not about Donnie.
And it's not about Owen either. Like I said before, I'm not looking for a holiday romance. Or any kind of romance for that matter. The way Owen looked at me, or smiled at me, or made me feel . . . seen tonight? It's totally irrelevant.
I need to protect myself.
Saying I need to catch up on my sleep, I take my turn to excuse myself and head up to my room. I can't get into this anymore tonight.
"Mirren." Owen is behind me as I start to ascend the stairs to the first floor. He bites his lip as I turn to face him, his expression tentative. "Do you think we could talk at some point? I'd really like to explain what happened back then."
"I'm . . . not sure." I'm still not certain I really want to know. So I don't need to look directly at him; I stare instead at the contents of the clear plastic bag he's holding: a bottle of water, a single can of IPA, a Mars Bar and newspaper. I didn't really think anyone actually read those anymore. I shift my gaze back to him, remembering again my vow to Nessa. "I'll think about it."
"Okay. That's as good as I can hope for." He bobs his head up and down, looking relieved. "I know you said I can't rewrite the past, and I get that," he adds softly. "But I'd still like to try and make it up to you, in whatever way I can."
I don't say anything else as he walks away, and I let myself in to my room. But the butterflies are back . . . And this time it seems they've brought extras.
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Hope you're enjoying the story! 💜
In the next chapter, we'll be returning to the past and it will give a bit more information around what happened ten years ago.
