9. Now
9
NOW
Jack rode in an aging Corolla with Angus—a friendly B&B owner who prided himself on shuttling hikers to the Skye Trail—two Bolivian women also setting out for the trailhead today, and Brooke Sinclair.
He could see the slender curve of her neck through the headrest bars, make out the honey streaks through her hair where her ponytail caught on the seat. Time hadn’t lessened his compulsion to know every little piece of her, but he’d given up the right a long time ago.
“You’ll want to mind the wee bloodthirsty beasties,” Angus said, referring to the midges—the tiny biting flies—that were notorious in this part of Scotland.
Brooke playfully nudged Angus’s shoulder. “That’s a terrible send-off.”
Catalina zipped her purple windbreaker up as if she could sense the incoming swarms already. “We bought bug spray in town,” she said, her accent thick and melodic.
“Oh, aye, if you want to add a bit of seasoning for ’em.”
The truth in Angus’s words was almost enough to pull a chuckle from Jack. He’d spent enough time touring on Skye to know that Portree shops were hawking marked-up bug spray like three-day-old produce at Tesco. “Avon Skin So Soft is the only thing that fends them off.”
“Quite right,” Angus agreed as the red telephone booth in the middle of nowhere—the official start of the trail—came into view.
“Oddly specific,” Natalia said, slipping her hand into Catalina’s, quieting her bouncing knee.
Once upon a time, Jack and Brooke could’ve matched that loving excitement, setting off on a new adventure, but they couldn’t be further from it now. The back seat was suddenly suffocating.
As soon as the car came to a rolling stop, Jack snapped at the door handle.
“Och, the child lock’s on there,” Angus said. He got out of the car and opened the door for Natalia and Catalina. They wriggled in their seats, digging for seat belt buttons, before sliding out.
Brooke got out and closed her door, looked Jack dead in the eye through the window, and walked past without a ghost of a movement toward releasing him. His stomach hardened like she’d turned it to stone with that stare.
He pressed his tongue against his cheek before turning to Catalina. “Hold the—” he said as the car door slammed. Jack dropped his head against the headrest and exhaled through his nose. Off to a bloody perfect start.
He hadn’t dared to hope for Brooke’s forgiveness, but the possibility of her accepting his apology was beginning to feel like absolute delusion.
Angus opened Jack’s door. “Come on, then,” he said, as if Jack was the slow walker who couldn’t keep up. Which might prove accurate as Brooke had already taken off toward the trail. Natalia and Catalina followed her over the rolling hill obscuring the view of the sea he knew was just on the other side.
Jack grabbed his heavy pack from the boot and slung it over his shoulder. “Thanks, Angus.”
When the gray Toyota kicked up dust as it pulled away, Jack raised a hand in farewell. He took a picture of the red phone booth, circling round it to get a rogue sheep in the frame and balance the jewel tones of the green grass and blue sky.
And to give himself a minute to clear his head.
He set off after the women, tapping his palm on the small signpost marking the trail as if it was a start button for a game he wasn’t at all confident he could win.
There were no trees in sight, just rolling hills awash in summer green, as they made their way to Rubha Hunish, the northernmost tip of the peninsula. The trail was easy enough to follow here, a dark brown slash cut into the grasses that clung to the earth like moss. The first blush of blooming heather dappled the countryside and their gentle fragrance wafted in the clean sea air. In the distance, the flat blue of the ocean sparkled in the sunlight.
The scenery was soft here, not like the dramatic mountains they’d climb over the next few days, and his photos might’ve been stunning with the ocean as a background, but the light was too harsh.
A sunny day was so rare on Skye and he couldn’t even fully enjoy it. The contrast he needed for a gallery photo was all wrong with light like this. And nothing that’d be suitable for the memoir, either. Jack pushed away those intrusive thoughts that Mhairi should’ve chosen someone else. That he might not measure up.
Jack jogged to catch up to Brooke, his pack smacking un comfortably against his back with each step, just in time to hear her ask Catalina and Natalia, “Do you want to hike together awhile?”
“We’d love to,” Natalia said.
Jack’s heart sank. He didn’t mind Catalina and Natalia’s company, but he knew what Brooke was doing—building a buffer, keeping her distance—when he wanted to talk. To fix this. To see if there was anything he could do to help her heal.
Brooke looked up when he approached and then straight down at her maroon boots with light orange laces, purple socks pulled up high.
“Are there any specific photos you were hoping for from this stretch of trail?” he asked.
Her cheeks flushed a deep pink and she kept her eyes on her boots. “You read the memoir, right?”
“I did…” And he hadn’t felt entitled to the vulnerability of a first draft the way he used to be, even if she’d thrust it into his arms. It’d been a painful one-way connection to Brooke. “I figured since we’re walking together, you could show me what you needed.”
“Are you taking photographs for something in particular?” Catalina asked, her voice slow and smooth.
Maybe having Catalina and Natalia along wasn’t the worst thing—a distraction, at least, from Brooke’s hard-edged silence Jack didn’t know how to disarm.
“Aye. We’re helping my aunt with her memoir. Mhairi McCallister. She founded the trail in the nineties. Brooke’s writing and I’m taking photos.” He lifted his camera to demonstrate.
Natalia clapped her hands together. “Fantastic! And what is this memoir about?”
Brooke gave Natalia the first genuine smile he’d seen out of her, that glow she always got when she talked about writing settling around her like a halo. “It follows the formation of the trail, how Mhairi and her friends decided on the route, extending and combining centuries-old footpaths that already existed on the island. They found places where it crosses back into civilization so people can day trip each segment and worked with landowners and local governments to make it official…” She trailed off as Catalina grabbed Natalia’s arm and pointed to a hawk circling high overhead, her glow fading and flickering out.
Brooke readjusted her ponytail and rolled her neck.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Catalina asked.
Brooke shook her head. “Nothing. What brings you to Skye?”
Cat shrugged her pack and resettled it on her shoulders. “We’re backpacking around the world.”
“Until we run out of money,” Natalia added.
“What an adventure,” Jack said, but he couldn’t quite relate. He was so focused on earning enough money, to prove to himself and his parents that photography was a worthwhile endeavor. “Are you following the main route?” he asked.
“We’ll detour to the Bad Step if I can convince Nat.” Catalina shot a hopeful look in her girlfriend’s direction.
Natalia hooked her thumbs into the straps of her pack. “This trail seems difficult enough without adding an overwater rock crossing.”
“Ah, but Loch Coruisk is the fabled home of the Kelpies—the water horses that are said to pull men down to their watery graves.” He recited the story he’d told a hundred times on tours.
“Was that meant to convince me?” Natalia asked with a teasing smile, her accent rolling over the words. “I take it you’re crossing the Bad Step?” she asked Jack.
Photographing the aquamarine waters of Loch Coruisk was a bucket list item for him. “I’d love to…” He cast a glance at Brooke.
“We don’t have time for detours.”
Right. Knowing her—and he was pretty sure he still did—she’d want to finish this trail as quickly as possible because she approached every activity as if it were an Olympic sport, with the added motivation of getting the hell away from him.
Jack gave Catalina a raised eyebrow, well-we-tried look.
“Where were you before this?” he asked.
“We hiked with the llamas on the Colorado Trail.” Natalia’s eyes went wide with wonder. “My dream is to own a llama farm.”
“Really?” Brooke said. “I grew up in Colorado.”
They chatted about the mountains and the big summer sky, cementing an immediate kinship. Jack had seen it before on guiding trips, where people shared their stories, found that initial commonality—that love for travel and adventure—and it bound them together.
He couldn’t help the rush of envy that Brooke had found that connection so effortlessly with strangers when it felt impossible to rekindle with him.
He took photos as they walked, the small details he knew Mhairi loved, like a half-bloomed purple flower or a sheep with blue spray paint on its rump that farmers used as tags.
About a mile in, they came upon the old Lookout bothy. The rectangular building had no running water or amenities but provided shelter for any hiker passing through, like others scattering the countryside of Scotland. A ladder lay against one side and a mossy green film crept up the walls. The sign under the window read Strictly No Fires Please.
There was something about finding an empty house in the middle of nowhere that made Jack want to look inside. Brooke seemed overcome by the same curiosity as she pushed through the royal blue door. Natalia and Catalina were making their way to the edge of the overlook and Jack followed Brooke up the crumbling cement stairs.
Inside, the walls and ceiling were made of wooden planks. One side was painted in royal blue with a large wooden bench and a bunk bed bolted into the wall. Across the miniature hallway he could barely squeeze through with his pack, the room was whitewashed, a small table and chair taking up most of the space.
Jack snapped a couple of photos of a corner shelf full of seashells, a crystal vase with sprigs of dried heather, beer bottles, and binoculars. A framed poster of whales in this area reflected the sun in white streaks.
Brooke signed her name in the guest book before she crossed to the large wraparound windows overlooking the sea and Jack signed on the same line, some asinine desire to see their names together like they were carving initials into a tree.
She splayed her hands on the glass before they settled on the wide wooden shelf below the window frame. An image flooded his mind of Brooke in the university library, late one night where all she could see was her own reflection, and the way she’d turned to him then, sitting on the ledge, a look in her eye that’d started a series of dominoes he hadn’t even tried to stop.
She turned with that same flowing grace and met his gaze, the wide expanse of the ocean through the windowpanes behind her matching the startling blue of her eyes. “What?”
“You look just the same,” he said, glancing down at his boots. “Like that night in the library.”
He looked up at the pained breath Brooke huffed out, her eyes watery. “I can’t do memory lane with you, Jack. I’m having a debilitating go of it all by myself.”
“Brooke—” He reached for her as she walked past, but she hugged her waist.
“Please don’t.” She pushed past him, the wind slapping the door shut with a finality that sounded just like their future. He could boke from the guilt swirling in his gut. Christ , he’d been so stupid, so careless, listening to everyone but himself. Everyone but her . Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses usually sat.
He wasn’t sure which was heavier, his pack or his sinking heart.
Claustrophobic, he walked outside and made his way to the edge of the plateau, away from the three women. The land reached into the water to a point, jagged at the ends like an old key. A small island broke the surface of the blue sea, the only discernible horizon with the bright light merging the water and the sky.
He’d never felt so trapped in such a wide, open space. He pulled in a deep breath of the salt-laden air that failed to settle him.
Past the grassy yard near the lookout, the cliff face dropped dramatically to the churning sea below. Jack cut across the field, tall grasses brushing his hands as he walked to the end of the land.
This wasn’t part of the official trail, but he could imagine his aunt’s excitement standing in this spot, embarking on this journey. He tried to soak in that feeling, to imagine the thrill of adventure in his veins.
Out in the distance, waves crashed against the sides of a large black rock and seabirds chattered and pushed each other into the water.
Jack took out his phone camera, turned it on himself, and hit Record. “Hi, Auntie. I’m at Rubha Hunish, just starting out. I don’t know if you’ve been out this way, but I imagine you have—you always loved a diversion.” He flipped the camera around, zooming in on the sea stacks below. “It feels like the end of the earth out here, or maybe going back in time. That’s what I always loved about Skye—it distills you down to your essence. Ah, well, before I go and get too poetic, here’s another view for you.”
He panned across the ocean, the sun shining on the waves like a million broken mirrors, and shut it off. This vlog he’d make for Mhairi wasn’t nearly enough but it was the only parting gift he knew how to give.
His heart ached for what was to come. Given the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, there was no more combatting. The wind ruffled Jack’s hair, the sun shone warm on his face, but there was no peace to be had here.
He picked up fallen slabs of rock and balanced the cool, lichen-covered stones one atop the other—an old Celtic custom meant to honor the dead, mark a trail, or as a reminder of things lost.
He wasn’t sure of his precise reasons—perhaps all three.
Stacking the stones soothed him like the click of the shutter snap. In a world where every encounter, every risk, every love, was fleeting, the permanence in capturing a moment he could only linger in but never keep was the only thing to bring him any relief.
Jack took his Nikon from the pack at his waist, aimed it at the tan cairn, the green grass in the foreground, the light blue of the water in the distance.
At the edge of the cliff, the ancient rock fractured in large geometric blocks, hanging above the sea. Maybe some desperation drove him to get a shot he knew Mhairi would love when he was failing at everything else, and he crouched on the square ledge, his knees protesting. He winced at the familiar sensation and pushed the doubts of physically finishing this trail from his mind.
Jack braced his front foot out wide, but he’d taken riskier photos and knew his limits by now. A red boat coasted in the distance and he snapped a photo. Bringing the camera to his eye, he adjusted the lens, zooming in on the birds and the sea spray fanning out from the rocks.
A shimmery gray form breached the surface of the water, leaping up and arching down with a splash. Jack’s breath caught and he lowered his camera to watch. A second form coasted along the waves. Minke whales.
“Jack!” a voice yelled, sending his heart into overdrive. He whipped around, his weight shifting back. Throwing his arms out, his camera slammed against his chest, but he rocked forward and caught his balance. Standing, he stepped away from the edge of the water, his heart pounding. Brooke stood with a hand to her throat, pink in her cheeks. “Get away from there. Are you serious right now?” She was furious.
A wild emotion swept through him that he immediately tamped down. She cared enough that she didn’t want him to die. Which was an extremely low bar.
Jack pointed over his shoulder to the sea. “There’re whales.”
Her lips tipped up in the faintest smile and her eyes darted to the water. She came closer, stopping next to him.
Spray spouted into the air when their sleek bodies broke the surface. If he listened hard enough, he thought he could hear the rush.
“Whales,” Brooke whispered. He turned to her and his breath caught. There was nothing better than the look of awe on Brooke’s face. The way her eyes lit and her posture relaxed. His finger itched to capture that look like he’d done so many times before.
She turned to him with a soft smile that reminded him of Sunday mornings they’d spent reading in his bed and it seared through his heart. He’d do anything to keep that happiness on her face.
The only thing that felt safe was Mhairi. The only thing they had in common anymore.
“I stayed with Mhairi on Skye one summer.”
“I remember,” Brooke said, still looking out at the waves, but it was the first time she’d acknowledged their past and it sent a giddy hope through him.
“Dolphins swam in the wake of the ship we took to see puffins. I remember her saying people are so far from nature now, seeing something wild makes us feel alive.”
Brooke hummed, a breathy little sound.
He was addicted to it, needed more. “She said it makes us remember that kind of freedom on a visceral level.”
Brooke stiffened instead of softening, turned to him, her eyes dark and serious. “That kind of freedom was dangerous,” she said and walked away. Jack closed his eyes against the onslaught of regret.
The freedom they’d shared had been dangerous. They’d both been drunk on it, aware of the consequences but not caring because it’d felt so damn good to be reckless.
Jack gave one last lingering glance at the whales before snapping a picture. Capturing that sense of freedom since he hadn’t managed to find it for himself again.
He followed Brooke up the steep trail, the tiers of colored rock exposed from ancient times, matching the sea stacks out in the ocean. The past hung in layers all around them—but none so heavy as theirs.
Natalia and Catalina waited for them back by the lookout, lounging on the lawn in front, their faces tipped toward the sun. They tugged their packs on as Brooke approached. “Was it worth it?” Catalina asked.
Brooke glanced over her shoulder, holding his gaze. “No.”
Her answer gutted him. He knew what she was really answering and it wasn’t about the merits of Rubha Hunish.
She rapped her knuckles on the side of the bothy as she walked past and said, “You should take a picture of this,” before setting off to the main trail. She didn’t even look at him.