Scot and Bothered

39. Now

39

NOW

The journey back to Edinburgh required approximately forty-seven modes of transportation. Brooke had kept it together relatively well on the bus from Broadford to Portree, but she and Jack sulked by the harbor, eating fries they had to tuck inside their rain jackets to keep away from greedy seagulls.

The sky was a dark gray that matched the color of the water and Brooke’s mood. Even the pastel-painted waterfront shops couldn’t save her from herself and this brewing grief that seemed to knock into her heart like waves.

She’d wondered before if knowing death was coming was better than the shock of it, but the knowledge was its own kind of torture, creating a war inside her between wanting to commission a private jet to get to Mhairi’s side as quickly as possible and the desire to pretend it wasn’t real if she didn’t have to see it with her own eyes.

They took another bus to Inverness, the capital of the Highlands, but the last train back to Edinburgh had already departed. After they checked into a hotel for the night, Brooke got in the shower and sobbed under the hot spray, trying to purge enough of her grief so she could be strong for Jack.

They shared a mince pie but only managed to eat half before climbing into bed and holding each other. Jack wrapped his arms around Brooke and it made tears well up in her eyes even though his touch was all she wanted. She pressed her nose into that spot in the center of his chest that always felt like an assurance that things would be okay, even though she wasn’t sure they would ever be okay again. She breathed in his scent—fresh soap and safety.

When Jack started to shake with held-in grief, she slid up the bed and tucked an arm under him. He didn’t resist, resting his head over her heart and pulling her closer. Wet tears fell against her chest and she hooked her leg over him, trying to wrap him up, shelter him from the pain.

“I can’t fathom a world where she’s not in it,” he said, his voice cracking.

Brooke’s heart broke entirely and she clung to him, tunneled her fingers into his hair. He tipped his head up, pressed his lips to hers in soft, sweet, salty kisses.

He settled back over her heart and she ran her fingers through his hair, under the sleeve of his T-shirt, over his shoulders. And when his breathing settled, heavy and deep, his eyelashes quiet against his cheeks, she cried for herself.

* * *

Brooke’s mind couldn’t quiet, couldn’t stop running through memories of her and Mhairi hiking Arthur’s Seat, or brainstorming on the quad where Brooke had first taken her class, or the nights they’d stayed up drinking tea with papers spread out all around them. As gently as she could, she extricated herself from Jack’s sleeping form.

The only thing to do was to write down her thoughts and empty her brain or she’d never sleep, just continue down and down into this spiral.

Brooke pulled her notebook out of her pack and went into the bathroom, sitting on the floor in the light from the shower. The tile was hard and cold, but it felt good to have her body feel some fraction of the pain her heart did.

She wrote everything swirling in her mind, things she might want to include in the memoir, ways to honor Mhairi’s memory now that Brooke knew what was really at stake. How important this story was.

She wrote about landscapes that felt so vast they made her feel larger than life, too. People so authentically themselves it was impossible not to forge an immediate and deep connection. Self-rediscovery, of being distilled down to her essence by the wind and the rain, perseverance and inspiration. Recapturing her voice. And for a flicker of a moment, the confidence to pursue her dreams again.

Brooke suddenly felt lightheaded, like she needed to sit down, even though she already was. She yanked the hair tie out of her bun and twisted it back up, pulling her hair out of her face, trying to work off the shaky energy coursing through her, the fear that she wasn’t on the trail anymore; she was back to real life and real stakes, and everything was out of her control. What if she couldn’t live up to Mhairi’s expectations, couldn’t do this story justice? Especially not if she had to do this alone.

And writing for herself again? She absolutely couldn’t do that now. Not when Mhairi wouldn’t be there to spitball ideas to jump-start Brooke’s brain. Wouldn’t be there to read Brooke’s drafts or encourage her or challenge her. How could she write in a colorless world without this woman who brought so much adventure and excitement to hers?

Brooke crept back into the room and found her phone on the bedside table. Jack breathed deeply, lying on his back, one arm thrown over his face. She pushed down the worry that he’d be disappointed in her, that he’d stop believing in her. But she couldn’t do this on her own.

Pulling up her email, Brooke typed out a message to Charlotte—the only safe path forward.