CHAPTER TEN ~ ABBY ~ NOW
I’m staring at a photograph of daffodils and tulips.
It’s one I’ve seen a thousand times before because I took it fourteen years ago.
This photo isn’t on my phone, though, it’s hanging in an eight-by-ten frame in Graeme’s spare bedroom.
It’s part of a gallery of six pictures, all featuring bright pops of colour against a moody Edinburgh backdrop.
With the exception of one photo, they were all taken by me.
There are the daffodils and tulips in St. Andrews Square; the cherry blossom trees in The Meadows; a stunning sunset taken from Calton Hill; a row of gorse bushes on Arthur’s Seat; a cluster of bright purple thistles with a row of gravestones behind them; and a picture of me in my red jacket at the top of the Vennel Steps.
Unlike the photo I have on my phone, I’m facing away from the camera in this one, looking at the castle.
Anyone else might think it was an anonymous woman, but I know. Graeme knows.
They’re not the only photographs of mine in the apartment.
There’s a similar gallery in the front hall, except they’re all shots from our trip to Skye.
There are also individual framed pictures displayed on the bookcases and shelves in the living room—shots of The Crew in both Scotland and Kingston, a series of photos of the MacKinlay family I took one night when we were all out together, plus a few from Drew and Brodie’s wedding.
During our first trip here, Graeme often joked about wallpapering his flat with my photographs.
I guess this is the next best thing. I was worried he hated me, but these photos suggest otherwise.
This place was nearly empty when I stayed here before, and now I feel like I’ve inadvertently left my mark all over it.
My phone buzzes with a text from Drew: We’re almost ready. Meet you outside in five?
It’s our fourth day in Scotland, and Drew, Brodie, Fern, and I are taking a bus tour into the Highlands.
Graeme has been busy with work since we arrived, so we don’t have him to play chauffeur this time around.
The MacKinlays said we’re welcome to use their car whenever we like, so we’ve taken it a couple of times for short excursions, but Brodie said after years of driving in Canada, he now lacks the confidence required to drive the narrow, winding Highland roads.
A bus tour seemed like our best option, and this one comes highly recommended by a friend of Fern’s who travels extensively.
I open my bedroom door and poke my head out, peering up and down the hall.
I know Graeme is already up because there was fresh coffee in the kitchen when I went out earlier, and he’d set out the mug I always use.
Despite staying with him, we haven’t been alone together for more than a few minutes.
He’s been working every day, alternating between the company office and his home office.
He’s managed to join us for dinner each night, but he hasn’t been able to come on any of our outings or hang out with the group at his parents’ place.
I hate to admit it, but it’s a relief not to have been alone with him for long.
Being in his apartment, surrounded by his scent and his things and the memories of what we once were to each other has stirred up a yearning inside me that’s impossible to ignore.
And yet, as much as I wish we could recapture the friendship we once had, I’m afraid too much has happened and too much time has passed.
More than that, I’m afraid there’s no coming back from the hurt I caused Graeme the last time we saw each other.
I’d do anything to avoid causing him further pain, so if that means avoiding him, so be it.
I step out into the hall and close my bedroom door behind me.
All the doors along the hall are closed; I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the fact Scottish homes have doors on rooms like the kitchen and living room.
The apartment is silent, so it’s impossible to guess where Graeme might be or if he’s even still here.
That doesn’t stop me from stepping lightly as I make my way down the hall. I’ve just reached the corner that leads to the entryway when one of the doors at the far end of the hall opens.
“Morning, Abby,” Graeme calls. “If you’ll wait for me, I’ll just—”
“Sorry, the others are waiting for me, and I can’t be late,” I say in an overly bright voice.
“Can we catch up later? Dinner at your parents’ place tonight, right?
Have a good day!” I cringe and smack myself on the forehead as I round the corner and grab my jacket at the same time as I stuff my feet into my boots.
I burst through the door, taking a moment to tie my laces before heading down the spiral stone stairs.
My footsteps echo in the tight space, and my head is spinning by the time I reach the large wooden door that leads out onto the Royal Mile.
Traffic noise greets me, along with voices in a mix of accents and languages as people walk past. I spot the others near the fudge shop next door.
I take a step forward, then immediately retreat when a group of tourists rush past, oblivious to the fact I have to plaster myself to the door to avoid being mowed down.
The door opens suddenly behind me, and I experience a horrifying moment of weightlessness as I tip backward.
Strong arms catch me within seconds. I immediately recognize Graeme’s spicy musk scent and the firm grip on my arms as he sets me upright and waits until I’m steady on my feet once more.
The laugh that escapes me sounds slightly crazed. I tell myself this lightheaded feeling is the lingering effects of running down five storeys’ worth of winding stairs and not the unexpected proximity to Graeme.
“Sorry about that,” I say, angling to look up at him. “I’d make a joke about tourists, but I guess that’d be pretty hypocritical.” I motion to my camera where it rests against my chest.
“Nae bother,” he says absently, scanning the area.
In the snippets of time we’ve spent together over the last few days, I’ve noticed his accent is slightly thicker than it used to be, and he uses more Scottish phrases and slang.
Drew noticed too and said it was adorable; I simply agreed since I couldn’t tell her I’d describe it more along the lines of ‘sexy as fuck’.
“We’re heading for the bus station,” I tell him, motioning toward the others. “We’re going on a day trip.”
“Aye, I know, I’m going with you,” he says.
Before I can voice my shock, the others wave us over and start walking up the Mile before we even reach them. The bus station is about a fifteen-minute walk from here, and we need to be there to check in fifteen minutes before the tour leaves.
“I’m so glad you decided to come with us,” Drew says to Graeme over her shoulder. “It’s been so weird doing stuff without you the last few days.”
We’re walking so fast, I’m already slightly out of breath.
I’d somehow nearly forgotten that walking in Edinburgh means mostly going uphill.
Between that and the stairs up to Graeme’s apartment, it’s provided a rude awakening of how out of shape I am.
If I’d had more warning about this trip, I would have walked all over Kingston and done some leg exercises to build up my strength in preparation.
“When I finished work last night, I checked the website for the tour you’re doing, and there were a couple of spots left,” Graeme says. He’s been walking beside me as the others lead the way. A moment ago, he noticeably slowed his pace, so I did the same until I was able to catch my breath.
“That’s great,” I say. “Drew was right, it’s been weird being here and not having you do stuff with us.” It feels almost too vulnerable to admit that, but I don’t want him to think I’m happy about his infrequent appearances.
As we turn right on North Bridge, the faint sound of bagpipes rings in the air. I can picture the bearded, kilted piper who’s been in the same spot just up the Mile every day since we arrived.
“So you’re okay with me going?” Graeme asks.
I jerk to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk. It’s as if my brain misfired, causing my legs to quit working. Graeme carries on, then stops and doubles back when he realizes I’m no longer at his side.
“Of course I’m okay with it.” I’m about to say ‘why wouldn’t I be?’ but that could open a can of worms I don’t think either of us wants to deal with right now. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you think otherwise.”
“Come on, you two!” Drew calls from up ahead.
Without another word, we catch up with our friends, falling into step directly behind them.
Brodie casts a grin at his brother. “I was just saying how glad I am that I won't be the only Scot on the tour now. I was worried people would think it was strange.”
“And I told him people would likely be charmed,” Drew says.
“A hot Scot wanting to see more of his own country, and taking his wife and friends along? At least this way he’ll be able to relax and enjoy himself without worrying about driving and getting us to all the different places we want to go.
He’ll have plenty of time to get used to driving here again if we—”
The rest of Drew’s sentence falls away as we pause at a busy intersection.
I glance between her and Brodie, who are doing that married couple silent conversation thing.
My gaze darts to Graeme, but his attention is on a dog that’s stopped beside him.
There’s no time to question Drew before we’re swept up in the crowd and crossing the road.
We arrive at the bus station with a few minutes to spare.
Our guide is a kilt-wearing Glaswegian in his fifties named Bruce, and he welcomes us all warmly as we climb onto the sixteen-seater bus.
There’s a row of single seats on the right, with double seats on the left.
I slide into the first free single seat I find.