Chapter 3
Chapter three
Duncan
Son of a Scurvy Dog
"Ahoy!" Granny Franny yells boisterously as we exit the terminal. "What a right crew of scallywags."
The short, stout, tough as nails woman wraps my mother, father, sister, and I into hugs.
"Hello Ma," my mother says with affection. "Where did you park?"
"Just through here." She says and we follow her out to the lot where her two-door Volkswagen Golf sits waiting.
"Granny, how are you going to fit five people and four suitcases in there?" Delilah asks the question we’re all thinking.
"Oh, aye. Well," Granny rocks back and forth from her heels to her toes. "I figured Duncaroo would drive The Golf Cart with the luggage, and see to the clicking sound it's making when I turn right, while the rest of us hopped the bus."
"Why me and not Dad?" I complain.
"You know I'm all knuckles when it comes to mechanics." My dad says with a chuckle. "Remember the DVD player fiasco of '09?"
"How could I forget?" My sister’s lingering pain is thick in her voice. "10 Things I Hate About You skipped right before the final kiss forever."
"Until you made Dad buy you a replacement copy." I remind her in that little brotherly way.
"And then buy a digital version a few years after that." My mom adds on and Del lifts her chin trying to save face.
"Yeah, well, those first few rewatches with the skip were rough."
"Sure, sure doll." Granny says with a pat on Delilah’s hand. "Alright then, load up. Duncaroo the map's on the passenger seat."
I shake my head but can't even pretend to be surprised by this being my grandmother's solution to getting five people from Inverness up to Marreldir. One year she convinced two of her friends to carpool with her. Other years we've all taken the bus.
I have offered to rent cars, or charter a van for us but she refuses. She's a fan of my hockey game, she watches our team when she can, but she insists the money I'm making is for me and my future, not her.
"Fair winds my boy!" Granny claps my shoulders. "See you ashore."
"Bye Granny." I say as I unlock the car and slide in.
My knees bump up against the wheel. My shoulder presses into the window as I reach for the power seat switch. Slowly it starts to glide back. Technically it still works but the seat jumps a few times like the pumps are considering giving out.
"C’mon you ancient canoe, don’t quit on me now."
Two more heart stopping jerks of the seat and my legs are down in the well. Her engine turns over easily enough but half a beat after the engine rattles to life, I am blasted by the sound of men singing sea shanties.
"I guess someone taught Granny how to use the aux cord." I mumble as I turn down the volume and fish out a little square MP3 player by the cable. I skip ahead until the robot lady announcing tracks says the name Rhys Reid.
Delilah had a gossip magazine in her bag and the minute she fell asleep I swiped it.
The cover had a blurry photo of the actor, Mike Kerr, pressing a woman up against a wall, his hand just a half inch below her tit.
The two were sucking face. Then in a little circle graphic below it was a picture of Rhys looking sad while sitting alone at a coffee shop.
Poor bastard.
The article inside was a six page spread detailing how long Rhys and Mike had been together and how their relationship was groundbreaking in its openness.
Blah, blah, blah.
I just kept getting confused reading M-I-K-E K-E-R-R but having to pronounce it "Meek Car". What a turd.
I got behind Aiden’s romantic pursuits when he joined the team knowing if he settled down he’d open up to his teammates more too.
I helped Bryson only because I thought he was trying to repel Jo but it backfired and now the goofball is obsessed with her.
Crosby has leaned into the role of dog dad with abandon but he’s spent even less time going out so getting a girlfriend requires going out and meeting girls so he’s safe from being off the market.
Relationships are fine, for others, but they are also traps for complicated feelings.
Why bother?
It boils down to this. Rhys is hot. Douchey name or not, I have to admit Mike Kerr is hot. And two hot people got together.
When I'm looking for someone to spend the night with, that's my standard. Hot and electric. Hot like an open flame. Hot like a wildfire where you have no control and just have to give in to its power.
The car putters out onto the road and I chuckle because nothing about this rounded, blue-grey vehicle is hot.
If anything it's a sex repellant.
Which is fine, a trip to visit Granny isn't exactly about hooking up. I mean, I'm sure there are plenty of bonny lads and lassies for me to work with but I'm here this week to be with my family.
I turn right to merge into traffic and the car rattles like every bolt under the hood is loose.
"Clicking sound my ass cheek." I grumble. "This ship is being held together by a hope and a prayer."
I'm here to be with my family, I just have to get back to them first.
***
"You fucking hornswaggle!" I grunt as I kick the tire on the lily-livered hunk of junk my Granny calls a car.
I'm two miles from her cottage on the edge of town. I navigated traffic circles, three way stops, single lane roads, a flock of sheep on the shoulder, and it was a slight bend to the right that did me in.
We'd been doing fine, The Golf Cart and I, gently easing through turns, rumbling along the puddle laden country road, all while Rhys Reid sang to us through the speakers.
Then one water filled crater appeared in the middle of the road and I jerked to the right to avoid it because I learned to drive a car in America not the UK and The Golf Cart couldn't recover.
The wheel locked up so I got myself to the side of the road as best I could.
I’m stuck in the mud, I’m not giving up.
I've got the hood open trying to decipher the child’s Etch A Sketch piece of an engine in front of me as the rain steadily falls.
Naturally, I don't have cell service so I can't even look up how to fix this, or call for help.
My family will realize I'm not there soon enough, right?
But if I'm in Granny's only car, how will they come and get me?
Fuck.
For all the times Felix has worried about our whereabouts here I am, actually stranded, and he's none the wiser across the Atlantic.
I look out over the hills on either side of this road. They roll and tumble into each other and the rain seems to dump in heavier sheets from one place to the next.
Yeah, May in Scotland might not have been the best choice.
A sudden torrent falls, soaking me to the bone. I reach up to unlatch the stand from the hood, finally calling it, and as I drop it down headlights blind me from around the turn.
Holy shit, I'm saved.
I wave my arms but the only greeting I get is a wave of dirty pothole water as the giant black SUV speeds by.
"Son of a scurvy dog!" I grumble as I shake the water from my arms, turning away from the road.
I hear a car door slam.
"Oy, you alright?" The voice calls through the storm.
"Yeah, dandy." I say as I lift my glasses and pinch the filthy water from my eyes.
"You look like a wet rat." The voice is close behind me.
"Hey, fuck off," I start but then a warm, heather and herb scented blanket wraps around my shoulders. My neck rolls to accommodate my suddenly dense and cloudy head.
"Here," the man mutters and steps around to face me.
Brown Chelsea boots are tucked under darkwashed straight leg jeans. I push my glasses up my nose as I take in the man’s sage green chunky knit fisherman’s sweater. Ink covers his knuckles, and peeks out on his wrist and forearm.
My frames settle into place but I’m not sure my vision is 20/20 right now. "Holy shit." I mutter. "You're..."
I trail off as I stare into the square jaw, freckled cheek bones, and green-grey eyes of the man who was just singing to me. The same man who I read about on the flight over.
Rhys Reid.