Chapter 2
I spend two glorious hours in Margaret’s company. She shares her dinner of hearty steak-and-ale pie and a side of mashed (now
smashed) potatoes with me, and we talk about books and music and travel and life.
My main job as her assistant this summer is as simple as it is real: to make sure she writes. If I see her spending too much
time scrolling through Instagram Reels, I’m supposed to bring her a cup of tea and some candy and take her phone away. I literally
cannot imagine doing such a thing, but she made me swear on a copy of Anne of Green Gables that I would. Her new book jumps around in time, which means my other responsibilities will be continuity and research, so
she isn’t slowed down by details. I’m so excited I can hardly breathe.
“This has been a delight,” Margaret tells me as she walks me to the door. “Tomorrow, we work.”
“I can’t wait,” I tell her, beaming.
Penniless and poundless without my wallet—and uncertain whether my Apple Pay works internationally—I decide to walk rather than risk another bus ride. I’m on such a high, I’m certain I could float back to the pub.
It’s so strange, feeling this way and having no one to talk to about my day. The streets of Edinburgh are alive with commuters
staring at their phones, trying to make it to their next destinations: groups of friends holding on to one another and laughing,
families going to dinner. A pang of loneliness hits me as I weave between them all. I pull out my own phone, expecting to
see more missed calls, more messages. When nothing new is there, I can’t decide whether I’m relieved or depressed. I roll
my shoulders back and resolve not to let anything I’ve left behind in Milwaukee ruin what has been an imperfectly perfect
day in Scotland.
I don’t need any of them. This summer is about me, I tell myself as I reach the corner where the sign for The High Road becomes visible. I’m so eager to tell someone about my
magical afternoon with Margaret, I’m sort of hoping Bill or Eileen will have time to chat with me.
The High Road in the evening is a completely different vibe from the afternoon. Eileen and Bill are nowhere to be seen, replaced
instead with younger staff, and the crowd is decidedly less Let’s put on a Tom Jones record and more Have you heard the latest Chappell Roan?
One group in particular catches my attention.
There’s a muscular, attractive Black man confidently wearing a tank top that says “I’m cool, but I cry a lot,” and a white girl with long dark hair that looks magenta when the light hits it, who’s laughing uproariously.
She’s clutching the arm of a tall guy with copper hair and a bemused smile.
I’m mesmerized by their energy and don’t even realize I’m standing in the way of anyone until I feel a bump behind me and something wet sloshes onto my back.
“Ohmygod, I’m so sorry,” a horrified English voice says.
I turn around and see a South Asian girl, who looks about my age and is so gorgeous she deserves her own Sephora line.
“No, it’s my fault,” I insist. “I was standing here like an eejit, I mean idiot.” The word slipped out before I realized what I was saying. You’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, I remind myself. You do not get to use Scottish slang.
The girl’s face turns from apologetic to delighted in an instant. “I found an American,” she yells to the group I was staring
at.
“Why’d you pour your drink on her, then?” the muscular guy asks. He waves me over. “Come here so we can apologize on Bethany’s
behalf and pick your brain.”
“Please come talk to us,” the girl I’ve just learned is named Bethany says. “Callum is obsessed with America, and I owe you
a pint as an apology.”
I wonder if Callum is the muscular guy or the copper-haired guy with the smirk. Before I know it, I’m seated at a table with a beer in front of me while Bethany is retreating to the bar to get another one. The other three approach the table, looking at me expectantly. I feel like I’m in a zoo.
“Hi,” I say with an awkward wave.
“She’s adorable,” the girl with the magenta hair coos.
“She’s better than adorable,” the copper-haired guy says. “She looks like she could’ve been a pinup girl in the nineteen fifties.”
“Not tonight,” Magenta-Hair says, hitting him in the arm. “Take one night off, I beg of you.”
Oh, he is trouble.
“I just want to hear her talk all night so I can appreciate her accent,” the muscular guy says. “I want to know how many times
she’s been to Universal Studios and if she’s ever seen the Grand Canyon.”
The copper-haired smooth talker takes the seat beside me. His jawline is ridiculous.
“Stop talking about her like she’s not here,” he says. I’ve never been quite sure what “plummy” means, but I’m pretty sure
it applies to his English accent. In fact, none of them sound Scottish. At least, not to my untrained ear.
“Yeah,” I agree, turning to him. “Stop talking about ‘her’ like she’s not here.”
The other two laugh and I’m not sure why it’s quite so funny that I called him out on his hypocrisy. Meanwhile, the girl who bumped into me, Bethany, returns and sits on the other side of me. “Have you lot been raised in a barn? Introduce yourselves!”
“I’m Callum.” The guy in the tank top reaches his hand out to shake mine. He nudges the girl with magenta hair. “That’s Mhairi.
The girl who spilled on you is Bethany.”
“I’m Hannah,” I say. There’s a pause. I jut a thumb at the guy beside me. “Does he not have a name or is he just not worth
knowing?”
The shriek of laughter that comes from the other three is contagious, but I manage to keep a straight face, mostly because
I have no idea what’s so funny. I take a sip of beer. It’s quite hoppy and I’m not normally a beer drinker, but I am legal here. When in Scotland, et cetera.
I turn to the nameless guy. “And you are . . . ?”
“Finn,” he says, scrutinizing me so intensely, I wonder if I have something on my face. I lick my lips in case there’s foam
on them and catch his eye for just a millisecond. He flashes me a knowing look and raises one eyebrow.
I have half a mind to scooch my chair farther away from him and half a mind to scooch it closer.
“What are you doing in Edinburgh?” Mhairi asks. She’s fidgety and energetic. She hasn’t stopped playing with the container
of sugar packets since we all sat down.
“I have a job here. I just arrived today.”
“No wonder you looked so lost, standing there in the middle of the pub,” Bethany says sympathetically.
“Yes, aren’t you lucky Bethany spilled on you,” Finn says to me. “Or are we the lucky ones?”
I roll my eyes as if I’m irritated by the cheesy innuendo. But the truth is, my heart is racing.
“Finally, someone immune to your charms,” Mhairi practically sings.
Despite the player energy from Finn, I do feel lucky to be brought into a group of people right when I was feeling alone.
“I’m here for the summer,” I explain to the rest of the group, deliberately ignoring Finn. The only way to deal with a player
is to ignore him.
“Don’t you love the way she says ‘summer’?” Callum asks Mhairi, hitting the hard r sound. “If she says ‘y’all’ next, I’ll die.”
“Not likely,” I say with a laugh. “I’m from Milwaukee, not the south. And I thought being American was out of fashion these
days.”
“Darling, no.” Callum shakes his head emphatically. “America has got a lot of things wrong, but do you know what it’s gotten
right?” He starts counting off on his fingers. “Pop girlies, enormous shopping malls, Disney Gays—”
“Gas-guzzling SUVs,” Finn says dryly. “Manipulative pharmaceutical ads on television. Confusing cash notes that are all the
same color. Jake Paul.”
Is he negging me? Like some wannabe pickup artist?
Callum glares at Finn, then continues. “Ensemble sitcoms that run for more than two years, podcasts about reality shows about reality stars who have been in more than one reality show—”
“Someone, please shut him up,” Bethany cries dramatically.
Mhairi begins throwing sugar packets at Callum, and he catches every single one while saying, “Hannah, if I give you money,
can you get me kitschy American souvenirs I can decorate my house with?”
“My own house is full of them,” I tell him. “I’ll just send you the ones my parents collect.”
Callum gasps so dramatically, the entire table laughs.
Finn leans in so close, his breath moves my hair. “Now look what you’ve done.”
I turn my head and try to ignore the swoop my stomach does when I stare into his hazel eyes. “I find him delightful. You, on the other hand . . .”
He sits up and looks at me expectantly. “I’m what? Go on, you can say it.”
“You’re a rapscallion,” I tell him, and take a sip of beer.
“A rapscallion?” Finn gives me a wry smile. “Does every American girl talk like my nan?”
I blame the word choice on the series of historical romances I read to get through senior year.
“Definitely. Nan-core is the new thing,” I say blithely. “I bet she’d be really popular in America.”
The table is now staring at us. Shit, did I say something wrong? Maybe Finn’s grandma just died or something. To break the awkwardness, I ask, “How do you all know each other? From school? You’re not Scottish, right?”
Mhairi snort-laughs into her pint.
“Yeah,” Bethany says, exchanging looks with the others. “We go to uni together, but . . .”
“But what?” I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. An inside joke or a secret. It’s starting to make me self-conscious.
“But that’s it,” Finn says, cutting her off. “It’s summer holiday, and those three rented a flat in Edinburgh for fun. They
let me crash there when I get too sloshed.”
It sounds reasonable, but the cagey way he says it makes me think it’s not entirely true.
“The real reason the three of us got a flat here for the summer,” Bethany says meaningfully, “is because our main job is to keep that one”—she nods at Finn—“out of trouble.”
“There’s no trouble here,” Finn says, stretching his arms out and casually resting one on the back of my chair.