Scot and Bothered

31. Now

31

NOW

Stony peaks in the distance became bright green , reaching the valley floor and stretching out toward the lazy sea. The simple stone bothy stood alone in the windswept glen of Camasunary Bay, a solitary white building capped with slate gray shingles.

As Brooke and Jack followed the path, their arms brushing, electricity zinging in her veins, she let herself imagine, just for a minute, that Cat and Nat were more than ten minutes behind them. That she and Jack had crossed the Bad Step, trekked across the glen, and found themselves in this isolated bothy—a roof over their heads, somewhere dry. With room to maneuver.

Brooke opened the door and the impassioned conversation inside paused, replaced with a raucous cacophony of welcomes. Five people sat around the two wooden community tables, topographical maps pinned to the white drywall behind them. Gear was spread out on every surface, packs tipped against corners, boxers hanging from the one framed picture.

There was no reason for the disappointment cratering through Brooke. But she’d wanted those ten minutes alone with Jack before Cat and Nat arrived. Wanted the feel of his weight as he backed her against the wall, the relief of the press of his lips, the flick of his tongue.

Jack raised a hand in greeting. “Hello.”

“Join us,” said a man with an Irish accent, graying hair and bright blue eyes as he waved them over.

“We’d love to. We’ll just settle in first.” Jack put a hand on Brooke’s hip and steered her toward the sleeping room to claim a bed. Good thinking.

Bunks were built into the wall of the sleeping room, wooden planks suspended with two by fours, but it looked heavenly to Brooke. Benches ringed the other walls—wide enough to sleep but narrow enough to make it precarious. Shirts and long johns hung over the railing to dry and sleeping bags were spread out on the bunks.

“Does this work?” Jack asked, gesturing to the empty bottom bunk. If Cat and Nat took the unoccupied top, there was no other space unless Brooke wanted to cuddle up next to a stranger.

“Yeah.” The thought of snuggling with Jack sent a flutter through her belly.

He placed his pack on the ground and pulled out his sleeping bag, laying it out and smoothing his hands over the blue material, probably checking for wet spots.

While he pulled out damp clothes and hung them from the hooks on the wall, Brooke climbed into the bunk and spread her orange sleeping bag out next to Jack’s.

When she climbed out, Jack stepped in front of her. He reached one arm out to block her path, his hand catching the top bunk by her head with a faint thud. Brooke sucked in a breath at the possessive move, at the thrill of being caged by his arm.

Jack’s hair curled at the top, wavy from the wind, his cheeks pink, his jaw stubbled. He dragged the flats of his fingers across his jaw looking at her with fire in his eyes that warmed her whole body.

“You almost kissed me back there,” he said, the low intensity in his words pinning her in place. Jack was almost never like this—confident, forward. It made Brooke weak-kneed and lightheaded.

She’d wanted to kiss him then, and she wanted to kiss him now. “I did.”

His other hand cupped her hip and they both watched his fingers spreading out slowly over her waist. Brooke’s pulse picked up like it could race across her body to meet Jack’s touch. His tongue rolled across his bottom lip, snagging all her attention.

“Caught up in the moment?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

She looked up into his dark eyes, full of barely leashed desire. He used to look at her with a distant longing, but this was more potent, more forceful. She shook her head. “The hard part was always not kissing you, Jack.”

He stepped closer, his thigh slipping between hers, their hips flush. The wooden bunk pressed against her shoulders and her calves, and her heart beat in time with a heavy echo between her legs.

“And now?” he asked.

“Nearly impossible,” she whispered, looking over Jack’s shoulder. “But there’s a room full of people out there.”

Jack made a low sound of disappointment as Cat and Nat bustled into the room. He dropped his hand and Brooke’s body tensed with the strain of not falling into him as he stepped back.

“Oh, this is cozy,” Nat said, and Brooke didn’t have enough brain space available to tell if she was being suggestive or liked the bunks.

Cat and Nat tossed down packs and stripped off layers but Jack’s eyes clung to Brooke’s as he shook his head and mouthed, “For fuck’s sake,” at their interruption.

A grin tugged at Brooke’s lips, quieting her racing heart. She’d waited this long for Jack; she could be patient. Probably.

They finished organizing their things while there was still daylight before settling at the community table. Nat started her camp stove boiling and Cat snuggled in next to a black-and-white border collie.

“Her name’s Willa,” a young Scottish man with a tuft of ginger beard on his chin said. “And I’m Oliver.”

“I’m Anya.” A woman in an orange thermal and pigtail braids waved. “And my husband, Duncan.” She leaned back against his chest. “We’re from Australia.”

“Murray,” the Irish guy said, opening a tin of Heroes the size of a hat box, and pushing it into the middle of the table.

Brooke grabbed a Dairy Milk Caramel from the purple tin. “Ooh, thank you.”

Her accent must’ve given her away because Duncan leaned over his forearm and said, “Are you American? Fucking Los Angeles. Worst place I’ve ever been.”

“Won’t argue with that. I’m an expat,” Brooke said with a laugh.

Anya grinned and shook her head. “Can’t go to a hostel in Europe without encountering Australians rolling cigarettes and talking shit about Americans. Especially if you bring this one.” She hooked a thumb in her husband’s direction.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” Brooke said.

The group settled into more small talk while Jack boiled water for coffee, mouthing, “Want some?” from across the table. Brooke nodded. The bothy was warm and cozy but the air still held a chill from the incoming rain.

“I thought I was going into Loch Coruisk today,” Nat said. “If Jack hadn’t scared me about the Kelpies, I might have found it a more enjoyable way to get to the other side.”

The group chuckled and Murray launched into a story about the last time he’d hiked this trail with his late wife and the pil grimage he was on to remember and to let go. “We crossed the Bad Step and I didn’t know my wife knew so very many curses, let alone that she could say them with such vigor.” He smiled at the memory and chuckled when Jack hooked a thumb in Nat’s direction and shot his eyebrows up.

Nat shoved Jack’s shoulder and he held up his hands. “I was impressed.” He turned those smiling eyes on Brooke and that little flutter she used to feel in the lecture hall flickered under her breastbone.

Willa let out a yawn and settled her face on the table. Oliver made kissing faces at her. “Willa hurt her paw yesterday. I couldn’t just fucking carry on with her limping and hopping along on three legs so I managed to get her and her pack strapped to mine.”

“Did you come over the Bad Step?” Anya asked, her eyebrows up to her hairline.

“Och, no, we came in from the South. I did her up draped over my shoulders, but then all the extra weight was fucking unstable. Fairly destroyed my back.” Murray pulled the collar of his shirt to the side to show off where the straps had cut into him, purple bruises rimming his shoulders. “So I had to put everything in the pack and rig up my fleece like a baby harness to carry on the front. She’s like fifteen kilos.”

Brooke cupped her hands around the coffee mug Jack passed her, heat seeping into her fingers. The bothy was full of good vibes and the friendly effervescence of being with kindred spirits. Everyone bonded effortlessly over their love for the outdoors and the trials of the trail, like high-speed summer camp connections she rarely encountered as an adult.

The plaque on one wall read, “Remembering a lost brother, Neil. We enter as strangers, we leave as friends,” and Brooke could see that magic stitching them together just the same.

This was what Mhairi had meant all those years ago when she’d told the class they might find inspiration anywhere, even in a pub. As Brooke listened to the hikers’ stories—stories she never would’ve encountered without every step that led to this moment—that creative glow warmed Brooke from the inside.

She itched to write down every detail of Murray’s bright, crinkly smile and Oliver’s wispy ginger beard. The gentle way Cat stroked her thumb over Natalia’s neck, leaned in to kiss her on the temple. Jack’s booming laugh and the way his eyes kept coming back to meet hers.

The inspiration to write flooded Brooke’s senses from the overwhelming contentment and camaraderie in the air.

Anya asked, “What’s your story, Brooke?”

Brooke was used to being the one asking that question; it felt good to be on the other end of it. She leaned forward on her elbows. She always answered, I’m a ghostwriter , but this time she said, “I’m an author.”

Across the table, Jack’s eyes sparkled, his smile as wide as she’d ever seen.

That pride on his face made her heart brim over and made her realize she was proud of herself. She was doing this.

“What are you working on?”

Brooke could kiss Anya for the question instead of asking, “Anything I’ve heard of?”

“We’re helping Mhairi McCallister finish her memoir about founding the Skye Trail. I’m writing. Jack’s taking pictures.”

Anya said, “That’s incredible. What an honor.”

“Mhairi McCallister!” Murray shouted in surprise, his palm coming down on the table while he leaned back.

“Do you know her?” Jack asked. “She’s my aunt.”

“She picked us up hitchhiking on a trip through Skye near on thirty years ago. She told us if we tried anything funny she had a knife in her boot and knew how to use it. And then she taught us the song ‘Roamin’ in the Gloaming.’” He started in on the chorus with an upbeat old-timey vibe and Jack joined in with a low harmony, overrolling his r ’s and drumming his fingers on the table.

Brooke laughed and met Jack’s eyes, a happy buzz passing between them.

“We’ve been making a vlog for her,” Jack said, pulling his video camera out of his small hip bag. “Care to say hullo?”

Murray shoved across the bench seat, squishing the people in his way. “Damn right, I do.”

“Hi, Auntie. There are some people here who want to meet you.”

The group took turns sliding across the bench to be in front of the camera, to tell Mhairi a story about their journey or their appreciation that this magical place existed, away from civilization.

It hit Brooke all at once that Mhairi’s impact was even bigger than she’d realized. And her story was more than the beauty of the land and the sense of achievement that came from finishing the trail. It was about struggles and setbacks, persistence and courage. About people coming together in support of something that mattered to them.

Murray talked about the transformation he’d felt on the trail. Brooke felt it, too, freer. Like the raw power of nature Mhairi had talked about had been hard at work on Brooke’s soul. She felt like her old self, adventurous and bold, but also different. Brand-new.

She’d blamed Jack for where her career had ended up. But that wasn’t fair. She’d made a lot of decisions along the way to hold back, to not risk putting her work out there in case it wasn’t good enough. She’d gotten slapped down and she hadn’t wanted to feel that desolation again. It’d been hard enough trying to pick herself up once.

But how long was she going to hold on to the past? How long would she let it affect her? How much did it get to define her?

Natalia gave Jack a discreet nod and he leaned back, pulling the video camera with him and flipping it toward her. Brooke felt a flutter of anticipation at the secret signal.

“Catalina,” Nat said, her eyes already starting to well up.

Even though Brooke wasn’t exactly sure what was coming, her eyes welled up, too, hoping.

“You are fearless. And you make me fearless, too. I know our life will be full of adventure and I’d follow you anywhere, even across the Bad Step again. Although, please do not make me,” she said through her tears while the group chuckled. Nat pulled the grass ring she’d woven by the beach yesterday morning from her pocket and tears leaked from Brooke’s eyes.

“Catalina, will you marry me?”

Cat was full-on bawling, wrapping Natalia in an embrace and saying “Si” over and over through kisses. The bothy erupted in clapping and hoots that echoed off the walls. In a simple structure far from civilization, these were the moments that defined a life well-lived.

Brooke looked across the table and found Jack’s camera on Cat and Nat but his gaze locked on her. Heat zinged through her at the open want on his face—like they could have a happy ending one day, too. A matching yearning bubbled up inside Brooke and she was sure her heart shone out of her eyes.

After the tea and biscuits ran out and the stories turned straight to tall tales, the hikers started dispersing to their nightly routines and claiming sleeping places.

After a hilarious romp through the rain to pee with Cat, Nat, and Anya, Brooke came back into the bothy, laughing and hanging up her rain jacket on the hooks, scrunching the water out of her hair.

Everyone got ready for bed, but Brooke wasn’t tired. The night was still awash in a rosy glow inside her, expanding with a need to come out in words.

She pulled her notebook from her pack and turned into Jack’s beaming smile.

“I know that look,” he said with so much pride in his eyes, she felt downright giddy. Like that girl who couldn’t go to bed because she wasn’t done with her story, Jack asleep next to her while she wrote by a book light. Inspired and creative and free.

He brushed his thumb across her neck with a little squeeze before disappearing into the sleeping room. “Happy writing.”

Brooke sat at the community table with a small lantern and her pen for company. She wrote about the feelings of being on this trail. Of how it could change someone fundamentally. How Mhairi would have wanted people to experience it. Brooke took notes on where she’d make changes, new outlines with Jack’s stories and Murray’s memory and her own details.

Everyone shuffled around in the other room, until Anya called, “Lights out,” and the shaft of light disappeared. Willa made a whining noise and her nails clicked on the wooden floor until she jumped up.

“Oof,” Oliver grunted.

The room eventually fell quiet, but Brooke wouldn’t have noticed either way. Somewhere, she’d turned a page and the story was no longer Mhairi’s—it was Brooke’s. She wrote in a way she hadn’t in years. About the Bad Step and the friends she’d made, about the bothies in Scotland and the way Highland hospitality still reigned.

Brooke had long ago lost feeling in her right leg from sitting in a cramped position on the hard wooden bench. She shifted, sitting cross-legged and rolling her shoulders. She kept going.

Writing again, even if no one would ever read it, even if it was only for her, made Brooke feel alive. She didn’t want to hold back out of fear anymore.

When her eyes ached from writing in the low light and no amount of flexing her hand could tug out the cramps, Brooke crept into the sleeping room. Jack lay on his back, arm flung over her sleeping bag.

She rested one hand and one knee on the plywood and tried to move over him. He startled, making a strangled sound before whispering, “Brooke?”

“Sorry.” She climbed up and slid into her open sleeping bag.

“Don’t be.” He rolled toward her.

“Something magical is happening here.”

“They are inspiring bunk beds.”

She smiled in the dark. “I started writing something new. Something for me .”

“That’s incredible.”

That warmth in her chest swelled to an unmanageable heat like sitting too close to an open fire. “I feel like I found my voice again.”

Jack cupped her head, his thumb slotting into that sensitive spot behind her ear. “I never doubted you, B.”

His assurance cradled her heart. She doubted herself all the time—but not now. Not anymore. Not about this.

Brooke scooted closer to Jack, her sleeping bag falling open around her hips. She didn’t want to hold back with Jack anymore, either.

She wet her lips, her heart fluttering. She slid her fingers over the curve of his chest and tipped her head, her mouth close to his. “Is this okay?”

“There’s a room full of people,” he whispered, repeating her concern from earlier.

“I can never seem to follow the rules when it comes to you.”

With a low hum, his hand went to her hair and he brought their mouths together, a soft press of his lips, a slow slide of his tongue. A familiarity that felt like a homecoming and a brand-new adventure all rolled into one.

Fused with heat and need, Jack rolled them until she was on top. Brooke made a small sound and he pulled back, touched the tip of his nose against hers and shook his head in a warning at the noise.

He kissed her again, his hand slipping below her shirt, slid ing up her back, fingers spread wide like he wanted to touch as much of her skin as possible.

If the bothy had been empty, if the weather hadn’t been too wet to justify a tent, Brooke wouldn’t have stopped this time.