CHAPTER EIGHT ~ ABBY ~ FOURTEEN YEARS AGO #2
As a Canadian, I’m used to changeable and unpredictable weather—this spring alone, there were times when the weather changed drastically from day to day or sometimes within the same day—but Scotland is a whole different story.
Drew and I have dubbed it ‘weather whiplash’.
Yesterday evening when we got back from our road trip, the weather was mild and overcast. By the time we stored our overnight bags, got something to eat, and headed back out, a thick fog had descended.
We went for a walk anyway and were glad we did; seeing this Gothic city shrouded in mist added to the moody, atmospheric feel, and made us feel like we’d stepped back in time.
“Better get a move on,” Graeme says now. His voice is as even as always, but I don’t miss the wary glance he casts at the darkening sky. Steel-grey clouds are closing in, and the city below appears hazy, which means the fog is returning.
A shiver runs through me as the temperature drops further.
We all pitch in, collecting empty containers and garbage, and shoving everything into the backpack we used for the picnic.
I hate to put my camera away, but I stow it safely in my bag to avoid getting it wet.
Brodie has just directed us to the easiest route off the hill when the sky splits open and cold rain lashes down.
Drew and I let out twin cries of surprise.
My face and hair are soaked before I even have a chance to flip my hood up.
I pull it tightly around my face, squinting against the deluge as I pick my way over the rocky path.
I’m slower than the others, so I end up at the rear, watching as they splash through the newly-formed puddles and patches of mud, their voices and laughter ringing out over the sound of rain pounding the earth.
Up ahead, Graeme stops suddenly and looks around. “You doing all right there, Pumpkin Spice?” he calls.
“Yeah, I’m fi—” The last word turns into a shriek as I slip in a patch of mud.
Time slows to a crawl as my feet fly out from under me.
Before I fully realize I’m falling, I see Graeme’s smile drop and his eyes go wide.
He darts forward, but he’s too far away.
The next thing I know, I’m on the ground, with my right hip taking the brunt of the impact.
Graeme slides in the mud as he rushes to my side. He crouches next to me, leaning in to shelter me somewhat from the rain. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
I do a mental scan of my body before tentatively moving my legs. Pain shoots through my hip, but otherwise I’m fine. “What is it people say when they fall spectacularly in front of someone else? I’m physically fine, but my ego is a bit bruised?”
Even over the pounding rain, I can hear the relief in Graeme’s laugh. “I thought we’d be past being embarrassed around each other by now.” He pushes my damp hair back and readjusts my hood to protect my face from the rain. “Think you can stand?”
I nod and reach for his hand, but he moves behind me and gently lifts me, waiting until I’m steady on my feet before releasing me.
For some reason, having him pick me up out of the mud is almost as mortifying as falling in front of him.
The feeling fades when I see the concern in his eyes as they study my face and then dip down to the hip I fell on.
“How about a collie bucky?” he asks.
I laugh, thinking back to a few weeks ago when he found me after my breakup with Tripp and offered me a piggyback ride home because my boots were pinching my toes.
Just like that day, part of me thinks he wants to lighten the mood, and yet I know if I said yes, he’d kneel without a word and wait while I climbed on his back.
“As tempting as that is, if you slipped in the mud and we both went down, it could do more damage than me falling on my ass just now.”
“True enough,” Graeme says. “All right then, we’ll go slow. There’s no rush.”
“No rush,” I echo, tilting my head up to look at the sky and regretting it immediately as cold rain smacks me in the face.
Graeme takes my hand, and we continue down the hill.
He lets me set the pace and doesn’t comment on how overly cautious I am around patches of mud or uneven parts of the path.
By the time we catch up with the others, they’ve reached the bottom, and the rain has stopped as suddenly as it started. Because of course it has.
Drew spots us first, and her face lights up the way it always does, whether it’s been minutes, hours, or days since we last saw each other. “Did you two take the scenic route?” Her gaze drops to where Graeme’s and my hands are still linked.
I offer my best friend a rueful smile. “Graeme noticed that I kept slipping in the mud, and he offered to stick with me.”
The others let out a chorus of ‘aww’ and ‘that’s nice’, although I can tell Drew feels bad. That’s part of the reason I didn’t mention the fall; my friends are protective, especially Drew, which means they’d fuss over me if they knew I fell. Plus, I’d rather not relive the moment.
We head out of Holyrood Park and back toward the Royal Mile.
I tune into the others’ conversation as we get closer to MacKinlay Tower, smiling to myself when I realize they’re arguing over who’s going to shower first. When we enter the building a minute later, my hip is throbbing.
I swallow a groan at the thought of climbing the winding stone stairs, even though it’s just two flights.
Graeme’s gaze keeps flicking to me as we ascend the stairs. The glint in his eyes makes me think he’s going to offer to carry me again. As we reach the small landing outside Mr. and Mrs. MacKinlay’s apartment, Graeme’s hand slips into mine, and he winks at me.
“You three can argue over the shower at Mum and Dad’s while Abby and I use mine,” he says. As we carry on up the stairs toward his apartment two floors up, I hear Brodie say, “That gives me an idea: Drew and I can shower together to save time and water.”
An image of Graeme and me showering together flits through my mind. With more reluctance than I care to admit, I dismiss it before it can fully form.
We reach the top floor, and Graeme unlocks the large blue door to his apartment.
At Drew’s insistence, he gave us a brief tour on our first day here, but we haven’t been back since, partly because Graeme has been with us every waking hour, playing tour guide and chauffeur, and partly because there’s not much to see.
His parents rented the apartment to a family friend while Graeme was in Canada, and they wanted to furnish it for him before he moved back, but he insisted that after living in a fully-furnished rental for years, he wanted to decorate the place himself.
They got a few pieces out of storage so he’d have somewhere to sit and sleep while he got settled, but he hasn’t had time to shop for anything else.
Without a word, we remove our jackets and boots, and then he leads me into the kitchen, where he puts the kettle on. “If you make us some tea, I’ll get a bath running for you,” he says. “Hopefully soaking in hot water will keep you from getting too sore after your spill.”
He leaves the room, and I poke around while the kettle comes to a boil.
I take in the pale wood of the cabinet doors, the two-seater table against the wall, and the pantry.
The shelves are bare except for a small group of cans on one shelf.
Once Graeme has time to shop, I’m sure it’ll be packed with ingredients.
I picture him in here cooking meals for himself and washing dishes at the small sink.
I smile to myself when my gaze lands on the washing machine.
I’ll never forget his and Brodie’s amused reactions to Drew, Fern, and me being completely baffled by a washing machine in the kitchen of all places.
The kettle finishes boiling, and I find two mismatched mugs and a tin of teabags.
While the tea steeps, I wander around the rest of the apartment, finding myself lingering in what Graeme told us will be his office.
In Mr. and Mrs. MacKinlay’s place, this is where the room Fern and I share is situated, so the view out the window is familiar, although Graeme’s apartment is two storeys higher.
Moray House, part of the University of Edinburgh, is directly across the street, and Arthur’s Seat looms in the distance.
The fog has cleared, and the sky is full of fluffy, grey-lined clouds.
You’d never know there had been rain of biblical proportions less than half an hour ago.
I hear Drew’s laughing voice in my head, saying, “Weather whiplash!”
Back in the kitchen, I get our mugs and take them to the bathroom. Graeme is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring absently into the swirling water as the tub fills. A lit candle flickers on the vanity by the frosted-glass window, and a light floral scent hangs in the air.
“The previous tenants left a few things behind, and Mum left them for me.” Graeme’s voice is soft, but it still startles me from my thoughts. “There was an unopened packet of bath salts, which I thought you might like.”
“Smells amazing.” I move further into the room and hand him one of the mugs.
He thanks me, and we sip our tea in silence.
After a minute, he sticks his hand in the bathwater to test the temperature, then turns off the tap, plunging the room into silence.
Steam wafts from the water, reminding me of the Scottish fog—or ‘haar’ as Graeme and Brodie call it.
Graeme hands me his mug and motions toward the counter. After setting both of our cups down, I take in his wet, mud-splattered clothes. Even his socks are damp, despite the sturdy, well-made boots he was wearing. “You should have showered first.”