Chapter 3 #2
She shook her head, the movement small and tight.
“That none of them are you.”
Agnes closed her eyes, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed.
“Graham...”
“I know you ended things. I know you said you didn’t love me, and I’ve spent years trying to accept that.
I have done my damnedest to respect your choice.
” I was standing too close now, close enough to smell her perfume—something lightly citrus that made me want to bury my nose in her hair.
“But I don’t believe it, Agnes. I never have.
Because the woman who once kissed me like the world was ending doesn’t kiss someone like that if she doesn’t love him. ”
It was maddening. It was exhausting.
It was killing me.
“Agnes, look at me.”
She opened her eyes, and I saw unshed tears glistening there. Och, lass.
“Whatever this is,” I said, gentling my voice, “whatever you’re so afraid of, you can tell me. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been here for years, waiting, and I’ll keep waiting if that’s what you need.”
For a moment, I thought she might tell me. I saw it in her face—the words gathering, the truth pressing against her lips like water against a dam.
Then something shifted. That familiar wall slid back into place, and she stepped away from me, putting distance between us that felt like miles.
“I can’t,” she said, and her voice was steady now, controlled. “I’m sorry, Graham. I know that’s not fair. I know you deserve better. But I can’t”—she gestured vaguely between us—“I can’t do this. Maybe not ever.”
I wanted to argue, to demand she stop running from whatever was chasing her.
But pushing Agnes only made her retreat faster.
“Okay,” I said, the word scraping my throat raw. “That’s just fine, darling. I’ll leave it. For tonight.”
Relief flew across her face, followed quickly by something that looked like disappointment. As if part of her had wanted me to push. Wanted me to refuse her refusal.
God, this woman was going to be the death of me.
We walked the rest of the way in silence, our footsteps echoing off the cobblestones. The village was quiet, most people already home and tucked up for the night. A cat darted across the street ahead of us, disappearing into an alley. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then fell silent.
When we reached Bonnie Books, Agnes paused at the door to the stairs that led up to her flat.
The shop windows were dark, displays of books and pottery barely visible in the shadows.
I’d imagined, once, what it might be like to live above that shop with her.
To wake up beside her. To build a life in this village we both loved, together instead of apart.
Those imaginings had become less frequent over the years, dulled by rejection and distance. But they’d never quite disappeared. They lived in me like embers, ready to flare back to life at the slightest encouragement.
“Thank you,” Agnes said, “for walking me home.”
“Anytime.”
She turned to face me, key already in her hand, and for a moment we just looked at each other. The streetlamp behind me cast her face in pale gold and she looked soft and tired and oh so damn beautiful.
I wanted to kiss her so badly I could taste it.
“Goodnight, Graham,” she said, and her voice broke on my name.
Then she was gone, disappearing through the door and up the stairs, leaving me alone on the street with nothing but the cold air and the echo of everything I wanted to say.
I stood there longer than I should have, staring up at her windows. After a moment, a light flickered on—her living room. I imagined her up there, taking off her coat, making tea, going through whatever nightly rituals she’d developed in the years she’d spent alone.
Alone because she chose to be.
Alone because of me, somehow. Because of something I’d done or hadn’t done or would never understand.
It doesn’t matter.
It can’t.
What did that even mean? It can’t matter? Why the hell not?
I scrubbed a hand over my face, exhaustion and disappointment warring inside me. This was what frustrated me. Every conversation left me with more questions than answers. Every moment of connection was followed by a door slamming shut.
Round and round we went, year after year, and I was no closer to understanding her than I’d been the day she’d ended things.
“I’m sorry, Graham, but … we can’t do this. I’m ending this.” Agnes’s eyes were huge on her face.
“What the fuck, Agnes?” What the hell was she talking about? We were made for each other. Always had been. This summer break had only confirmed it. “We love each other. We’ve talked about a—”
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I’m not … I can’t. It’s all too much. With losing Gran. Trying to figure out my next steps. I just need space.” Her words were rushed. She looked devastated. But why?
“Agnes, love, we can try long—”
“No. We’re done. I’m sorry, Graham.”
She rushed away, taking my very broken heart with her.
And she was still walking away from me. All these years later.
I turned and walked back toward The Tipsy Thistle, my mind churning uselessly.
The loch stretched out to my left, dark and still, and I couldn’t help but glance at it—at the place where the Beithir had risen, where the Kelpies had nearly taken Zara, where magick and monsters had made themselves undeniable.
Something was happening in Loren Brae. Things were shifting in ways that I didn’t understand, and Agnes knew more than she was saying—I was certain of that much.
But what was I supposed to do about it? Demand she tell me? She’d only retreat further. Wait for her to come to me? I’d been waiting for years, and it had gotten me nowhere.
The pub was dark when I reached it, closed early as was my way on Monday nights. I let myself in the back door, climbed the stairs to my flat, and poured myself two fingers of whisky without bothering to turn on the lights.
The window in my living room looked out over the village, and beyond it, the loch. I stood in the darkness, glass in hand, watching the water and feeling the familiar ache settle back into my bones.
At one time in my life, running The Tipsy Thistle had been my sole purpose, and the very thing that had lit me up inside.
I’d loved nothing more than building the pub into a center of community in a village that was the only home I’d ever known.
It had meant something to me, being able to contribute to the wee town, to run a place that was a haven for so many.
And then Agnes had come back, and while I couldn’t say that she was like sunshine on a stormy day, because even on my most difficult days I loved running my wee pub, she’d been like icing on the cake.
Like a wee dram by a cozy fire after a long day’s work.
Hell, like Scotland finally getting into the World Cup after decades of missing our chance. Aye, Agnes was all the things.
And, unbeknownst to me, my heart had been waiting for her.
She’d been the missing piece, and for a brief moment in time, I’d been happier than I’d ever been in my life.
Until she’d closed the doors.
It had taken a tremendous amount of love, patience, and a few long talks with Lachlan to get to a point where I could carelessly flirt with and tease Agnes across the bar, day after day, all while pretending my heart wasn’t slowly shriveling and dying inside at being so close to her but not being able to be with her.
And don’t get me started on the nights when I caught wind she’d gone on a date.
Och, Lachlan had needed to pull me away from a few dark moments on those nights.
And sure, I’d given her a run for her money, happy to take any bonnie lass on a date, but it had only tortured me when I’d see that wee spark of jealousy flare in Agnes’s eyes when she heard about it.
Was it immature of me to be gratified by that response?
Aye. Was I still happy to get a rise out of her anyway?
Bloody hell, right I was.
Sighing, I took a sip of my whisky and watched the loch shift in the moonlight.
This was my life now—loving a woman who wouldn’t let me close. Wanting something I couldn’t have. Going through the motions of living while the best part of me stayed frozen, waiting for a thaw that might never come.
I drained my whisky and set the glass on the windowsill.
Maybe it was time to accept that some things just weren’t meant to be.
Maybe Agnes was right, and I should move on. Find someone else. Stop torturing us both with something that would clearly never happen.
The thought sat heavy inside me, and frankly … just felt wrong.
Tomorrow I’d open the pub and pour pints and make small talk with the regulars and pretend everything was fine. Same as always. Same as it had been for years.
What else was there to do?
I turned away from the window and went to bed, but sleep was a long time coming.
And when it finally did, I dreamed of auburn curls and moss agate bracelets and a woman who looked at me like I was everything she wanted—and then walked away.