CHAPTER ONE
Jamie – Now
The moment the plane’s wheels touched the tarmac in Glasgow, a strange mix of anxiety and something like coming home crashed together in my chest.
Ten years.
I haven’t been in this country, touched its rich soil and breathed its crisp, damp air, in ten years.
I told myself I would come back someday, after enough time had passed. Yet a decade has come and gone, and I never did. Until now.
The sharp ache that pulsed in my chest the day I left—watching the sprawling city, lush mountains, and River Clyde fade away—was echoed today as I watched that same view come back into focus from my window seat.
I didn’t think my first time back would be like this, or that I’d be riddled with guilt and a sense of foreboding. If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t think of it at all.
But I’m here now, and my numb indifference to this place is thawing as the countryside blurs past my driver’s-side window. My heart is being eviscerated too, knowing there’s no one to blame but myself if I don’t make it in time—if I don’t get to say goodbye to him.
I increase the pressure on the gas pedal and push the engine to drive faster. The hospital in Fort William feels too far even with the Land Rover I rented at the airport. It may as well still be oceans away at this rate.
I’m conscious of the fact Gran might never forgive me if I don’t make it. That she might not forgive me even if I do. She’s never held it against me that I left and didn’t come back, but now?
Now, I’m not so sure.
I pull away from those thoughts and let my brain fully seat itself in the drive. It’s been ten years since I drove on the left side of the road, and I don’t need to add to Gran’s load by turning into oncoming traffic.
Since I moved to the States at fourteen, I learned to drive “the American way” and only ever drove here in the summers when I came back to visit… and then not at all.
I feel a kinship in this moment with Breck, my best friend Rory’s boyfriend. He’s from Australia, and when he visited the States this past winter, he had to figure this out too. I definitely didn’t give him enough credit.
The thought of Rory draws my hand to the screen on the dash. Her name sits just below my dad’s. I called him when I landed, promising an update after I see Gran and Grandad. I know that his inability to jump on a plane with me is weighing on him. God, I hope I can give him good news.
I tap my finger on her contact, welcoming the distraction.
“This is Rory, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Have a great day.” Her voice rings through the cab of the car, followed by a resounding BEEEEP.
I tap the red end button and attempt to calculate the time difference between Scotland and Nevada, but I don’t have the brain power to get it right.
I’ll text her from the hospital and tell her to call me when she lands.
I should be there right now, waiting at the airport for her to arrive from Australia.
I should be there to hear all about her trip—about how she got the guy and how Breck is moving to Tahoe as soon as he can get his and his daughter Willow’s visas in order.
But as fate would have it, as she boarded her plane for home, I boarded a plane for Scotland with no idea when I’ll be going back.
I run a hand through my hair and glance at myself in the rearview mirror.
I’m an absolute mess. The auburn strands stick up at odd angles, as opposed to the neatly gelled swoop I usually have them in.
My beard is unruly, feeling thicker against my fingers.
That might be a good thing though, considering it’s a bit cooler here than back home.
Of course, that depends on the day; Lake Tahoe can be as finicky with its weather as Scotland.
I put my contacts in at the airport, so I can’t even hide the dark circles under my eyes or the way they stand out against my pale freckled cheeks. I look exhausted. I am exhausted.
I’ve never been very good at sleeping on airplanes, and with the constant fear that I wouldn’t make it to the hospital in time, I was on edge through every moment of my flight.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and turn onto the bridge over Loch Leven. Twenty minutes. I speed over the bridge, the water rushing beneath me and the stretch of land on either side passing by in a shock of green. I can’t enjoy any of it. Not yet. Not until I see him.
I finally swing into the car park outside the hospital and thank my lucky stars I didn’t hit a lick of traffic. I grab my messenger bag from the seat next to me and nearly rip the door off its hinges in my haste.
I sprint for the entrance and the door slides open, revealing a woman sitting at a desk just inside.
My frantic expression catches her attention. “Sir? Are you alright? Can I help you find someone?”
My gaze swings around the room, but I don’t see a map or directory.
“I’m here for Angus Murray,” I rush out.
“My gran said they were in room 1235, but I don’t know which way that is.
” What’s left of my Scottish accent tends to creep out in moments of panic, but with the way she’s eyeing me, I don’t think she’s clocked that I’m from here.
The woman shifts some paperwork and checks a chart printed with names and room numbers. The system seems archaic. I shift on my feet and look around again, as if Gran will pop out and lead the way.
“Aye, that’s right. You’ll want to take this first left and then a right. Head down that hall, and toward the end you’ll find the room on the left-hand side.”
“Thank you,” I say over my shoulder as I bolt away without a second glance.
Left. Right. The sound of my feet slapping against the tiles echoes in the quiet space. Down the hall. 1235 on the left.
Murray is written on a small board beside the door. I made it. I’m here. I drag my damp palms down the legs of my pants, then knock lightly as I push open the door. I don’t make it more than a foot inside before a grey-haired pixie of a woman engulfs me, trapping my arms firmly at my sides.
Gran.
Everything in me softens. Relaxes in her presence. Clicks into place.
“Jameson.” She breathes my full name against my chest. She’s always been tiny, but she feels smaller than ever as I let her hold me.
“Gran,” I say, and my voice nearly breaks on the word.
All the emotion and strain and unknowns combine like a tidal wave held at bay by a dam that just broke.
There’s nothing left to hold it back as they slam into me.
My breath shudders out and she pulls back to look at me, studying me as the first tear I’ve cried in years rolls down my cheek.
She swipes it away with the gentleness of a matriarch who’s seen it all and then some. “I’ve missed you, lad.”
“I’ve missed you too. Is… is he… did I make it?
” I peer around the corner of the room and lose the battle with my composure.
Grandad’s chest rises and falls in sleep, and my neck cranes back in relief.
Another tear—and then another—streaks down my face.
It’s only now that I register the soft beeping of the monitors, the tell-tale signs that he’s alright. He’s still here with us.
“Now now, m’eudail. Come sit down. We should talk.”
The soft smile on her lips bolsters my spirits, as does the use of her favorite endearment for me. My darling. Maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. Maybe it’s not as bad as I thought.
I have no idea what to do, but she does. She always has. So, I let her lead me to the couch on the other side of the room.
We’re barely seated when she speaks, and the words cut through me like a knife. “He’s dying, Jameson.”
The terror I experienced at the reception desk swells again. “Are they sure?” I croak, clutching my chest as the pain from that blow lances through me.
“Yes, my boy, they’re sure. It’s his heart. He has some time, but not a lot.” Her eyes glisten behind her glasses but her voice is firm, steady. Nothing like my own.
“How much time?” I can’t look at her. I want to, but the guilt of not being here is a presence I can’t ignore. I should have kept in better touch, continued to visit, made more of an effort.
“Months. A year at most, and that’s if we’re very lucky,” she says, and I finally lift my head, but she isn’t looking at me.
Her eyes are on Grandad, and there’s a wistfulness in her voice that breaks my heart and heals it all at once.
“He and I have already been so very lucky, maybe we will be given a wee bit more.”
They have been lucky. They’ve had an incredible life together; they deserve as much time as they can get.
“What can I do?” I ask, at a loss.
She brings her gaze back to me, full of resolve, and lifts a hand to my cheek. “You can stay.”
“Stay?” My voice warbles. In Scotland? For how long? The questions run rampant in the moment it takes for her to continue.
She nods, shoulders back and chin lifted in determination.
“He was going to ask you himself, but I figured I’d beat him to it.
That way, when he wakes up, you can just tell him yes.
” Her confidence is almost enough to make me speak the word on the spot.
“He’s missed you. I’ve missed you. You’ve been gone too long, and we want you here. ”
Never one to beat around the bush, my Gran.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, staving off the fresh deluge of guilt. “But I can’t just stay. I have a life in Tahoe, work—”
“You can write from anywhere, Jameson, so don’t give me that,” she scolds, and I feel like a boy again. She’s not wrong, and being between contracts with my publisher means I’m even less tied to my work than usual. Add in the burnout I’ve been battling and…
“I can, you’re right, but—”
“Listen, I know you have a life back in America. I’m not denying that. But you had a life here once too. This was your home… Still is. We think it’s time you came home. At least for a little while. Your Grandad wants you here. Isn’t that enough?”
Her bright green eyes—nearly identical to mine—plead with me to listen to her. My heart wrenches open and the place inside it where I’d hidden my love for this country, for our home on Skye, pours free.
“I can’t stay forever. You know that,” I say, and she nods. “But I can figure out a way to make it work—at least for a while.”
“Your grandad would love that. I would too.” She wraps me in another hug, her size once again no match for the fierceness of her embrace. It rings with everything we’ve left unsaid and serves as a reminder of the distance I put between us. “Welcome home, Jameson.”
I lean into the railing and inhale the scent of the sea, relishing the shifting of my hair as it blows in the breeze. The sun shines on the lush trees and hills of the island in the distance.
Skye.
The memories bombard me in a torrent: this ferry, that island, the inn, my home, her. I wish I could say the ten years I’ve been gone have healed old wounds, but it’s clear that isn’t the case.
I drag my gaze away from the shoreline, drawing nearer with each passing minute, and look at where my hands grip the bar, my knuckles white.
I need a distraction—and my phone vibrating against my leg presents me with exactly that.
“Hey, Mum.”
“Jamie.” She sighs, and with that one word, I breathe a little easier. “How are you holding up?”
Finding time for a call yesterday wasn’t feasible between talking with the doctors and fighting off the jet lag. But I’ve needed this call. I’m guessing they have too.
“Alright, I guess.” Even to my own ears, I sound tired. “How’s Dad?”
“He hates that he can’t be there.”
“I really do,” Dad says, and I can picture him squishing in next to Mum to get near the phone.
“It’s not like you could’ve known Grandad would have a heart attack the same day you had your knee replaced.” Talk about the world’s shittiest timing.
“I know,” he says, sighing deeply. “How is he? Did you have a chance to talk to the doctors?”
“You know him; he’s sick of being in the hospital, but he can’t resist joking with the nurses and driving Gran crazy.” I turn away from the view of Skye and lean back against the rail, crossing my ankles in front of me. “But the doctors are honestly shocked this was his first heart attack.”
Mum inhales abruptly and I hear them shifting, and then it’s just Dad’s voice on the line.
“Sorry, she needs a minute,” he says. Angus might be my dad’s father, but he’s been as good as a parent to Mum too. “The prognosis is really only a few months?” he asks. The sadness in his voice is something I’ve rarely heard.
“They said it could be as little as a few months, but that it’s hard to tell how long his heart will hold out. If he steps back from work at the pub, eats something besides red meat, and takes his meds, it could be longer. Maybe a year?”
I lower my chin toward my chest and slide my thumb and pointer finger up under my glasses to squeeze the bridge of my nose.
“He won’t like being told he can’t cook,” Dad supplies.
“He actually already has a chef lined up to take his place. I guess he’s been talking about stepping back for a while.”
“Well, that’s news to me. But we haven’t been over there in a year. Maybe they saw the signs and just didn’t tell us?”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “I’m going to stay a while, I think.”
“How long is a while?”
“Not sure. I figure I can cover some of his tasks at the inn, maybe help with the transition a bit. I’ve—” I break off, running my tongue over my teeth to hold back my emotions. “I’ve missed too much time with them, you know? I don’t want to miss any of what’s left.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Jamie. You’re there now, and I’m sure it means everything to them that you’re staying.”
Dad’s never been a particularly emotional man, but he tends to know exactly what I need to hear.
I rotate back to the view and rake a hand through my hair. “I’m on the ferry to Skye now. They won’t release Grandad for a few more days, so Gran asked me to go up and check on things.”
“Does it look the way you remember?” he asks.
“It does. And it feels the same too. Like coming home.”