27. Now
27
NOW
Jack and Brooke set out from their campsite toward the Sligachan Hotel with its whitewashed walls and slate gray turreted roofline. Jack had been to this part of Skye with a thousand tour groups and he pointed Cat and Nat in the direction of coffee, but he went on ahead. He wasn’t in the mood for a pick-me-up this morning. He didn’t deserve one.
Brooke’s admission that she hadn’t written her own stories since everything fell apart hung heavy around his shoulders. He’d fucked up so very much back then, so unsure of his direction, of who knew what was best for him. He’d listened to so many voices, but never his own. And she’d lost her voice as a consequence.
The soft morning light lit up the famous Sligachan Bridge, casting the three arches in shadow and turning the rocks in the river a matte bronze. The water mirrored the light blue sky. In the background, the Cuillin Mountains rose from the valley floor to formidable peaks, the tops shrouded in wispy white clouds.
Jack walked across the mottled stone bridge and leaned over the edge on his forearms. The first time he’d come here had been that summer with Mhairi. They’d hiked and bird-watched. He hadn’t even given in to his teenage surliness pretending to hate it because he’d been here with Mhairi and no one could sulk with Mhairi about. It’d been the best summer of his life, a break from his parents and their expectations.
He was already nursing a dark mood this morning, and thoughts of Mhairi tugged him deeper. His heart ached wondering if that’d been the last time they’d be here together. If they could find time to fit in another trip.
It was one thing to live each day like it might be the last—he didn’t have to suffer the consequences of his own absence. But living like it might be someone else’s last day was excruciating. Hoarding the time and the memories, knowing he’d need them later.
He tipped his head down until his forehead pressed against the cold, smooth stone of the bridge.
How many more tattie dinners did they have, watching the Hibs play footie on the telly? How many more Saturday family lunches? How many more phone calls and hugs and I love you s?
A hand wrapped around his forearm and he raised his head to find Brooke slotted up against him, her eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
Jack wanted to tell her the depth of what he was feeling. They could hold on to their memories together; Brooke could shoulder his grief and he could shoulder hers. They’d get through it together.
But there was time for that later; he wouldn’t break Mhairi’s confidence or destroy this optimistic glow Brooke had had around her since last night. Like she was reclaiming what he’d stolen from her all those years ago. They’d be back in Edinburgh in another three days and Mhairi could tell Brooke in her own way. “I’m fine.”
“This is Mhairi’s favorite place and even I know the light ing is fantastic this morning. You’d be double fisting cameras if you were fine.”
Jack blew out a long breath; he never wanted to hide his feelings from Brooke. So he told her the true parts he could share. “Mhairi brought me to Sligachan that summer I spent on Skye. We stood right here and she told me about the igneous rocks of the Black Cuillin and the granite of the Red, the folklore of the archers.” Jack rolled his neck. “And then she was almost tentative in this way that made me really listen. She said, ‘It’s alright to not know what you want, but when you do, don’t let it go. Give it everything you have, or you won’t stand a chance of ever being happy.’”
Mhairi had known even then that Jack didn’t quite fit in with the family. That he wanted so badly to be something he wasn’t. But he wondered now if she’d been talking about having the courage to follow an entirely different path. Maybe he’d misunderstood her wisdom and thrown himself into guiding and then grad school instead. Into this pursuit of gallery recognition.
Brooke hummed in agreement, turned her searching eyes on him. “She’s told me some variation of that, too.”
He hated that Brooke had ever needed that advice. She’d been the most driven person he’d ever known. Even now, even if she couldn’t see it anymore, she still was. She was out here taking chances—sharing her secrets and vulnerabilities and about to cross the Bad Step—even though he knew it scared her. It felt more important than ever to support her. To help her reclaim that fearless side of herself she thought she’d lost but he could still see so clearly.
He stared down at the glassy water rippling below the bridge.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said in that tourist shop with the prints. And wondering if I’m still hedging. If I’m still wrapped up in some idea of grandeur—” If he was still listening to everyone else but himself.
“Jack, I didn’t mean to question you. I think it’s amazing you’re following your dream.”
“But is it the right one? The real one? I’ve been so focused on getting into galleries, so intent on justifying this to my family.” He wrapped his fingers around the curved, cool stone.
“So, what do you want?” There was that question she’d asked him before, that cut right to the heart of him.
You.
It’d always been Brooke. Jack had never felt surer of anything, back then and now. And all he could do was support her on this trail—encourage her, tell her stories about Mhairi, listen.
A couple crossed the bridge behind them and pulled Brooke’s attention. Whatever he’d been about to say out loud, he swallowed down.
He scratched at the grout between the rocks, the sandy feel of it rough on his fingers. “I don’t know.” He still didn’t know. He’d been so sure that he’d grown up, that he’d finally found what he wanted and gone after it. “I want to capture magical moments and share them with people who understand, who see the beauty in a darkened cobblestone lane or—” he waved his hand “—a leaf in the wind.”
Brooke laughed and his lips tipped up.
He wanted to share Scotland with anyone who loved the landscapes of the moors and the hills and the particular green he was sure couldn’t be replicated anywhere else on earth. “I want to create something that marks that I was here. That I existed. Something lasting. Something mine .”
The lighting was perfect this morning. It cast Brooke’s smile in a golden glow. “It sounds like you do know what you want, then.”
She unzipped the pouch at Jack’s waist and pulled out his camera, holding it out to him. He just had to be brave enough to reach for it.
He gripped the lens, feeling its weight. Brooke looped the strap over his neck, flattening it against his chest with both palms. The look in her eyes was nurturing and soft. “Come on, then.”
He followed her across the bridge and down the square-cut boulders holding back the riverbank.
Jack took pictures of the shallow water, the tumbled rocks, and the pyramidal mountain in the distance. He settled into the assurance he always felt with a camera in his hands. He could capture life right now. Hold on to it. He could still share it with Mhairi.
Brooke hopped across the tan rocks to get closer to the water and the arch of the bridge. Jack raised his camera to his eye. The top of the bridge was a straight line balancing the blue of the sky and the gray of the stones. Through the bridge, the river was a reflective white, the far bank a deep green. Brooke was framed perfectly inside the stone arch, the orange of her jacket bright against the natural tones of the river.
“Brooke,” he called.
Balanced on two wide rocks, she turned to the sound of his voice. When she noticed his camera, she gave him a smile that stretched across her whole face. It was the same bright-eyed one as that first picture he’d taken of her on a dark and magical night, the sparkling city lights behind her, when he hadn’t wholly understood that yearning he’d felt in his chest.
For the feel of a camera in his hands. For the love of a woman who made him feel like he mattered.
And a hope he hadn’t dared reach for stirred in his heart.