Chapter 16
44 hours until the wedding
When we finally reach Edinburgh, the sun is breaking through the wall of steely gray clouds overhead, sending beams of light like spotlights on a stage.
After we drop off the car at Mrs. Poyevich’s brother’s place and store our luggage in pay-by-the-hour lockers for backpackers, Jack and I waste no time exploring Edinburgh.
We start with high tea at the Balmoral Hotel on Princess Street, where we eat overpriced scones and tiny sandwiches while dodging disapproving looks from hotel staff for being painfully out of dress code. After we’re stuffed with enough clotted cream and cake to make Marie Antoinette proud, we wander the narrow passages and cobblestone alleyways of Old Town leading up to Edinburgh Castle under the watchful eye of stone turrets and stained-glass windows and centuries of history.
As we climb the steep passages, I push all thoughts of Carter and the conversation we still need to have to the back of my mind, instead determined to focus on what’s right in front of me: the sprawling view of Edinburgh. The stitch in my side. The damp air, threatening to turn to rain. The crooning voices of buskers on the Royal Mile. The thousand years of history all crammed into a narrow maze of cobblestone and brick, worn and weathered by time.
All around us the city hums with a kind of magnetic energy. A reminder that we are but transitory visitors in a long, rich history that started long before we arrived and will continue long after we leave.
It makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t felt before. Like all my life I’ve just been wandering around in a zombielike haze until this moment when everything shifted from dull and faded to sharp and brilliant. Sounds feel louder, colors more vibrant. Even my body feels lighter, looser, like I’ve managed to shed twenty pounds in a matter of minutes.
I wonder if it’s the magic of Edinburgh. Or if traveling always feels this way. But deep down, past all my excuses, I know that the quiet purr of contentment vibrating inside me isn’t so much about where I am or what I’m doing, it’s about who I’m with.
As we stroll in and out of kitschy souvenir shops and stores selling hundred-year-old whiskey, Jack tells me about playing Little League with Collin, and how his favorite birthday memory was going to the zoo when he turned ten. He tells me about staying at Collin’s family’s lake house every summer, and how when it was time to go home, he’d cry because he didn’t want to leave. We trade stories about school dances and first crushes and bad teenage fashion choices (apparently Jack had an eyeliner phase in high school), and I absorb each detail like a sponge eager to soak up every last drop of him. But even still, I find myself greedy for more Jack.
Jack, who is funny and smart and does a terrible impression of a Scottish accent. Jack, whose body my subconscious can’t stop tracking. I’m continuously aware of his proximity, his heat, the way his frame vibrates when he laughs, and all the accidental hand grazes I’m having a harder and harder time convincing myself are actually accidents.
Around midafternoon, the dark clouds congeal and the sky morphs from gray to a deep charcoal. And with cinematic timing, it begins to rain. Again.
I attempt to cover my head with my arms, but it’s no use. Unrelenting streaks of cold rain pummel the cobblestone, soaking us for the second time that day.
“Come on,” Jack says, taking my hand in his. “Let’s get inside somewhere.” This time the weight of his hand in mine feels natural, like a choreographed dance we’ve practiced before.
As he pulls along, it starts to rain harder, coming down in thick, heavy sheets, entirely different from the Seattle rain that rains around you rather than on you. It’s raining so hard that it isn’t until the door shuts behind us and we are safely out of the rain that I notice we’ve found our way into a bookshop. On either side of us, tall wood shelves form narrow rows, each section feeding into the next like a giant maze.
I’m so absorbed in the over-stacked rows of worn paperbacks and bright new releases that it takes me a moment to realize that Jack’s still holding my hand. I wonder if it’s unconscious, if maybe he’s also too absorbed in the shop to notice. But after a few beats of continued hand-holding, it becomes apparent that that can’t possibly be the case.
I decide to count to five, then I’ll let go. But five comes and goes and I still don’t let go. And neither does he.
My pulse ratchets up, loud enough that I wonder if he can hear it over the lo-fi beats playing in the background.
I should let go. We should let go. There is no reason for a pair of non-romantically involved adults to hold hands in a bookstore. But it’s like the weight of his hand, the heat of his skin, is causing every last functioning brain cell to revolt.
I’m wondering how long we’re going to do this, or if we’ll be stuck in hand-holding purgatory forever, until a man bumps my shoulder from behind and I stumble forward. The man murmurs a quick apology, but the brief contact is enough to break the spell. Jack drops my hand like it’s scalding hot.
“Sorry,” he mutters. But he doesn’t say it like an apology, more like the kind of offhanded sorry you mutter while sidestepping a stranger in the supermarket.
My cheeks grow warm, and in an effort to look preoccupied, I reach for the first book I see.
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.
Ah, yes. How appropriate.
I pretend to riffle through a few pages. But I can’t focus. My brain is too aflutter, too scrambled, not with thoughts, but with flashes of sensory detail. The weight of his hand. The brush of his knee. The slow, easy curl of his mouth when he smiles and the cloud of sexual chaos that promptly rages inside me.
I try to tell myself I shouldn’t feel this way, that it’s not a good idea to continue harboring this crush on Jack when I know he and I don’t want the same things, but the thought that was once loud and insistent dulls to a quiet murmur, waning under the pressure of too many feelings and not enough options to categorize them all.
“Come on!” Jack urges, his voice carrying down the hillside. Above us the gray sky morphs into a light blue as the clouds shift and sunlight filters in through the gaps. I cast a quick look over my shoulder and I’m almost dizzy knowing how high up we are.
After the rain broke, Jack insisted we get a panoramic view of the city. I assumed he meant from the top of a tall building— not hiking to the top of an active volcano! But alas, here I am, halfway to the summit of Arthur’s Seat, the main peak in Edinburgh’s surrounding group of hills.
My thighs burn and sweat gathers at the back of my neck, but I push forward, knowing the view at the top will be worth it. That, and after days cramped in trains, cars, and airplanes it feels amazing to work my leg muscles and feel the fresh air on my face.
“How did you know about this hike?” I call ahead to Jack, who is a few feet in front of me on the path.
He turns around just as a gust of wind feathers across his hair, sending dark tresses into his eyes. “From this little-known travel guide,” he says. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s called Google.”
I laugh but my voice is lost to the wind.
As we climb, there’s this steady beat inside me, the feeling of knowing this is exactly where I’m supposed to be right now. It’s one of those rare moments, almost like an out-of-body experience, where you step outside yourself and think, This moment, right here, this is what it’s all about. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
Not much farther ahead there’s a bend in the path, and suddenly we are at the top of a ledge jutting over a cliff where we can see everything: Edinburgh Castle perched atop the rugged remains of an ancient volcano. Spires and steeples pressing skyward. A thick coat of mist from the earlier rain hovering just above the surface. It’s eerie and powerful and just a little magical. The kind of scene I’d love to capture on canvas.
I imagine the broad strokes of green I’d use. The texture to show the grass rustling in the breeze. The way I’d mix the blue and black to get the gray color of the sky just right. I visualize the brush in my hand, hovering just over my blank canvas, anticipation coursing through me as nothing becomes something.
“I read that some people think this is supposed to be Camelot,” Jack says, coming up beside me. “That’s why they call it Arthur’s Seat.”
“I believe it,” I tell him, finding it easy to imagine the sprawling expanse of green below as a magical kingdom.
Ahead of us, a group is taking photos and I find myself drawn to a woman with a sleeve, pausing on one design in particular, an intricate tree with roots stretching across her bicep. The line work is exquisite, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve seen it before somewhere.
Then it hits me. I have.
My heart starts to race and, as if by impulse alone, I walk toward her, excitement building with each step.
“Excuse me?”
The woman turns to face me.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Ada. I don’t know if you recognize me, but I did your tree tattoo.” I point to her arm and she follows my gaze.
Awareness flows through her features. “Oh my gosh, of course I remember you! I spent six hours in your chair howling with pain. How could I forget?”
I laugh. “I’d know that arm anywhere.”
She beams at me, clearly just as thrilled as I feel. “Wow. What a wild coincidence, running into each other all the way in Scotland!”
“Yeah, wild,” I repeat. But it’s not wild. It’s fate.
“I heard you closed shop,” she says. “Which is too bad. Your line work was phenomenal.”
A blush crawls up my neck. “Thank you.”
“I was hoping I could commission you for another piece,” she says. “I don’t suppose you take on freelance, do you?”
“Well—” I start to say, ready to give my usual diplomatic answer about how I’m not taking commissions right now, but just as the words start to take shape, so does an idea.
It starts as nothing more than an ember. A cautious little spark. But then it catches fire, rapidly expanding inside my brain until I’m consumed by the possibility of it.
Yes, I’m scared to try again. I’m scared to fail. I’m scared to be vulnerable with something as tender and delicate as my dreams. But I want this. Perhaps more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. And before I can consider it further, I hear myself say, “I’m actually opening another shop.”
Her eyes double in size. “Really?”
A million questions lurk under the surface. Questions I don’t know the answers to. But what I do know is that right now, in this moment, I want nothing more than to do exactly as I’ve told this woman. I want to reopen the shop.
“Really,” I confirm, this time with more confidence.
We talk for a few minutes more and she shows me some ideas she has for a sailing ship she wants on her left shoulder. Then we swap contacts and I promise to let her know as soon as the business is back up and running.
By the time the conversation ends, I’m a teakettle practically frothing over with excitement. And nerves. But mostly excitement.
It won’t be easy, it will be really fucking hard, but this is something I want to work hard at.
“Who was that?” Jack asks after I say goodbye to the woman.
“ That was a sign,” I tell him, practically vibrating out my skin.
“What kind of sign?”
“Remember how I told you I always wanted to see one of my pieces in the wild?”
Jack looks over at the woman, now snapping a photo with her girlfriend, then back to me, understanding washing over his expression. “Wait. You did a tattoo for her?”
My head bobs up and down, eyes shining. “And what’s even better is that I think I just found my first client for the new shop! She asked me if I’m still doing custom work.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her I was.”
Jack’s gaze warms, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “That’s great, Ada. What changed your mind? Besides fate,” he adds.
I look around us, taking in the windswept plateau and the jagged cliffs falling off into an endless horizon. Maybe it’s this beautiful place. Or the magic of traveling. Or maybe it’s the fact that over the course of the last few days everything that could go wrong has, and yet somehow I feel a little braver, a little bolder, like maybe things not working out isn’t always a bad thing. Maybe with rejection and failure also come silver linings and new beginnings.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I just feel confident, I guess.”
His mouth stretches into a smile. “We’ll have to celebrate later,” he says, and I can’t help the way my limbs feel almost jittery with excitement, like I’m overcaffeinated. It’s not just at the idea of celebrating, but that there will be a “later.” With Jack. The possibility of which balloons inside me until I’m practically levitating.
“That sounds great,” I tell him. “But I kind of want to do something now. Something fun.”
“Like what?”
My eyes dart across the expanse of grass then back to Jack. “How about cartwheels?”
Uncertainty flashes in Jack’s eyes. “Cartwheels?”
“I haven’t done one in years, and this”—I gesture to the grassy plateau—“is the perfect spot.”
He shakes his head. “No way.”
I put my hands on my hips. “And why not?”
“Because,” he says, voice crackling with laughter, “I have a JD, Ada. I’m a serious person. I don’t do cartwheels.”
“Oh, you’re a serious person? Were you a serious person when you were making fake sex noises last night?”
“I think you and I both know that was very serious business.”
“Well, so is this. How about I do one first?”
I raise my arms overhead, look down at the ground, and aim. My hands squelch in the mud, and I kick one leg over my head and then the other. My shirt rides up and cold air hits my exposed stomach. I land with a flourish.
“ Ta-da! ”
Jack applauds and I do a little curtsy.
“Your turn,” I say.
Jack steps back, as though afraid cartwheels might be contagious.
“Come on, just one. For me?” I give his wrist a tug. “Pleeeeeeeeease.”
His mouth scrunches in the corner of his jaw like he’s going to argue. Instead, he rolls his sleeves up past his forearms and I find my eyes homing in on the defined muscles popping under his skin.
“Fine,” he says. “ One cartwheel.”
Jack screws up his face in concentration, shifting his weight back and forth like he’s mentally preparing himself.
I watch him, waiting. But he doesn’t move.
“Here,” I say, stepping forward. “It’s hand, hand, foot, foot.” I mime the pattern for him.
“I don’t need a lesson,” he says with a hmph . Then he takes a deep breath and hurls his body toward the ground. Jack sticks out his arms just in time to not faceplant, but his legs aren’t in the air fast enough and he tumbles into the grass, landing right on his ass.
For a moment I’m worried he’s hurt, but a second later, Jack’s face splits into a grin and he flops backward, laughing. “Am I dead?”
“Solid 9.76 except for the dismount.” I sit down beside him, not even caring that my jeans instantly soak through in the wet grass. “Does anything hurt?”
Jack presses his palm to his forehead as though assessing for damage. “Just my ego. I think it’s bruised.”
“The Lord has to keep you humble somehow.”
I lie on the grass beside him, heads pressed together. We’re close enough that I can smell his cologne. Tangy with something sweet.
“See, wasn’t that fun?” I tease.
“No.”
“Come on, Simone Biles, don’t lie. You know it was fun.”
He rolls over onto his side, facing me. “I think I liked watching you do it better.”
I give him a jab in the ribs, and he cocks his head, mouth sliding into that easy smile when he knows he’s being cute.
It’s funny how after only a few days together I already know some of his mannerisms. The glint in his eyes when he’s trying to get a rise out of me. The crease in his forehead when he’s thinking. The curl of his lips when he’s trying not to laugh. Each expression is like a puzzle piece, although what it all adds up to, I’m not sure yet.
“We should take a picture,” he says after a minute.
“So you can remember your failed Olympic dreams?”
“I never take photos anymore,” he says with a shrug. “It’s like the last year of my life never existed.” His tone is easy, but I can tell there’s something he’s not saying.
I shift closer, letting my hip nestle against his. “Why not?” I ask.
“I guess it wasn’t worth remembering.”
Again, he shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, but a shadow passes over his eyes, and I can’t help but wonder if it really wasn’t worth remembering, or if he doesn’t want to remember it.
The thought makes me sad, not just because it’s depressing , but because it’s a clear reminder that despite the last few hours together, he’s still keeping me at arm’s length. Close enough to tell me about Collin’s lake house and hold my hand in a bookstore, but not close enough to tell me about the hurt draped across his face like a heavy curtain.
Jack holds up his phone and we put our heads together, beaming into the front-facing camera. Our cheeks are rosy from the cold and our hair sticks out as a breeze ripples past.
As we freeze on his screen, caught in place, I wonder how I’ll remember this moment a year from now, two years from now. Will Jack and I be friends? Will we still talk? Or will he be a stranger from my past? Someone who drifted into my life for three days and then drifted back out. The thought forms a wedge in my throat that I can’t seem to swallow past.
After he snaps the photo, he stands up, wipes his palms on his now-wet jeans, sticks out his hand to me, and helps me to my feet.
“Here. You’ve got…” He reaches to wipe blades of grass from my hair and goose bumps spread down my arms like wildfire.
“Thanks,” I say, voice snagging.
He blinks at me, and I can feel him trying and hesitating to speak before he says, “I found something you might like.”
My insides give a little skip. “You did?”
His mouth moves into an uncharacteristically shy smile as he holds out his hand, showing me a perfect four-leaf clover sitting in the middle of his outstretched palm. The ultimate symbol of luck.
A gasp breaks in the back of my throat. “How did you find this?”
“I might have been keeping my eyes open for one.”
My limbs suddenly feel unsteady, one strong gust away from toppling over.
“I thought you don’t believe in luck?” I ask.
“I don’t. But you do.” He holds up the clover, eyes landing on the spot behind my ear. “May I?”
I nod and he gently moves my hair away from my face, tucking the clover behind my ear. His fingers brush along my scalp and everything in me squeezes tight.
When he pulls back, I strike a little pose, one hand on my hip. “What do you think?” I ask. “Do I look lucky?”
He studies me a minute before answering, and I feel his eyes everywhere, like he’s taking me in, particle by particle. “You look happy,” he says at last.
“I am happy,” I tell him. And I mean it. For the first time in a long time, I feel hopeful. And not just about Sleeve It to Me. But about everything.
I don’t know what’s going to happen, or what Carter’s going to say when we finally talk, but maybe that’s okay.
I think about the past few days, how seemingly nothing’s gone to plan, how pretty much everything that could go wrong has, and yet I’m okay. A little jet-lagged. A little sweaty. A little broke. But okay, nonetheless. Maybe that is yet another sign. A sign that no matter what’s next, I’ll survive.
As we make our way back down the hill with muddy clothes and sore cheeks, Jack’s earlier question surfaces inside me like a clump of ice lodged in the back of my head that little by little has begun to thaw its way free.
What do you want?
This , I think. I want this.
This high of being here, on a windswept plateau overlooking a beautiful city, exploring new places, trying new things, doing cartwheels and making plans with men who smell tangy and musky with a hint of something sweet. Whatever this feeling is, I want more.
Yes, I’m scared to let go. To be alone. To fail. To divest myself of the future I’ve pinned the last eight years on.
But past the fear is a flicker of possibility. It’s tiny, nothing more than a glint in the dark. But it’s enough. Enough to push me over the edge, headfirst into the unknown.