5. Makenna
Makenna
After a full afternoon taking in the sights of Inverness city centre, the music drifting from the open door of a pub draws me in for supper.
I remember the name of the place from a list of restaurants I found when researching gluten-free food in the city, so when I’m handed my menu, I’m pleased to find everything clearly marked.
It’s not until I’ve ordered my bangers and mash (the gravy is gluten-free!) that I look up toward the music.
A solitary man sits on a raised platform in the corner.
He’s sitting on a stool with one foot on the floor, and the other on the rung of the stool, as he supports his guitar.
The man looks completely at ease as he sings what must be a traditional Scottish song.
He’s singing something about Scotland being home, but honestly, I’m having trouble focusing on the words. His mesmerizing voice is deep, with just a hint of a rasp. And, of course, his lovely Scottish accent comes through the music.
I’m sitting at a table maybe fifteen feet from the man, so it’s no surprise when his eyes meet mine. The surprise is in the length and intensity of the connection. He looks at me for so long that many other patrons of the pub look my way, as if to see what the handsome man’s girl looks like.
I take a sip of my Irn-Bru and feel red inch up my neck as I glance around at them. It’s not me. I’m not his girl.
I look back at the musician and find a small smile on his face.
One that he definitely means for me. Or for my obvious embarrassment, anyway.
It’s a relief when the server arrives with my food.
I take a photo of my meal and send it to my mom.
She wants me checking in often, so my meal will be my proof of life for tonight.
As I cut into the sausage, I make two vows to myself: One, I will not look up from my food toward the man. And two, I will not make a face if I hate this. I mean, I’m sure I’ll like the potatoes, but the sausage? Who knows?
As far as I know, people, including the musician, have taken their attention off me, so I enjoy my food in peace. I’m taking a final bite of the delicious meal when I notice the music has stopped. I look up at the stage, and find the man is no longer sitting there.
My phone pings with a response from my mom. It’s a GIF that I’m a hundred percent sure she doesn’t realize is very inappropriate.
Makes me laugh, though.
A smooth, deep voice calls to me from above. “May I sit here for a moment, lass?”
I’m so startled that all I can do is nod. I wipe my mouth and toss the napkin on my plate as he sits.
“I’m Malcolm.” He smiles, awaiting my response, but I stare at him like a lunatic. I’ve never had anyone, much less anyone who looks like him, come up to me with interest like this. While I think I’m pretty enough, I’m not a petite woman with a gorgeous face.
As it often does, my ex’s voice fills my mind.
You’re getting a little soft around the middle. Are you sure you don’t want to join that gym?
“Do you no speak English?” he asks, genuinely.
I clear my throat. “I do.” Look at me go with all those words.
“Ah good. I thought I’d come over and scared you by not speaking your language.” He studies my face. “Though, maybe I am scaring you.”
I give a nervous laugh. “No. You haven’t scared me.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” There’s something like disappointment in his eyes, but quick as a blink it’s gone. “It seems you aren’t from around here.”
“What gave me away?” I smile, feeling more normal, and I’m rewarded with a movie star caliber grin in return.
“For starters, you aren’t waving a Scottish flag. Locals always have flags to wave.”
“Is that so?” I put my elbows on the table and lean toward him. His shaggy red hair looks richer up close, out of the light of the stage, leaning more toward auburn than orange.
“Oh, aye. And you’ve not any tartan on you.”
I laugh. “That you can see.” My face flames hot. What am I doing?
He lifts his eyebrows at me and laughs good-naturedly. “Fair point.”
“I’m from Georgia,” I add, hoping to change the subject. “The state, not the country.”
“Thank you for that clarification, though I think I could have worked that out.” His smile is so kind, and there’s something about him that I already feel like I can trust. Like, I could leave my non-existent baby, my phone, and all my money with him, and everything would be entirely safe and sound when I got back.
Not that I need to trust this man I’ll see tonight and never again.
“You have a beautiful voice. And your guitar playing too. You’ve clearly been doing this a while.”
“Och, I’m not as good as many, but I have been at this a wee while. I taught myself guitar as a teenager, then began playin’ in public”—he pauses, clearly thinking—“oh probably ten years ago.”
“Always in Scotland?” I ask. He’s good enough that he could surely tour around a bit.
“Always in Inverness. I live here, and there’s nae shortage of pubs that want live music.” He smiles and shifts in his chair. “So, what is it you do in Georgia?”
“I’m a wedding planner,” I say automatically, then remember my current circumstances. “Or I was. I’m actually between jobs now.” I shrug as if I’m unbothered, and realize I am. While I loved what I did, I really disliked who I worked for. With good reason, apparently.
“I see. Do you hope to go back to plannin’ weddings for your next job?”
I nod. “I think so. Weddings, or events in general. I love the planning and the design.” I grin. “Especially all the little details. Those are my favorite things, and I think they are the things that end up meaning the most to the clients.”
He smiles, and gosh, if it doesn't make me want to run my fingertips along his short beard like the socially inept person I can sometimes be.
“I can tell you love it. Your eyes lit up talking about it.”
“I really do.” I stop myself because I don’t want to bore him to death. I could talk for hours about wedding planning, and I’m sure that isn’t what he bargained for when he walked over. I’m about to ask him if he does anything apart from gigging in pubs when he speaks.
“Your kirby grip is falling out, lass.”
He called me lass! “My what?” I’m taken aback when he reaches up and slides a loose bobby pin back in my hair. Why does the simple action send my heart aflutter?
“There. All better,” he says, as if we’re finished talking about this.
“What did you call it?”
“A kirby grip. I take it that’s not what you call it?”
He’s all serious, and it makes me laugh. “I call it a bobby pin.” I take a sip of my second Irn-Bru. So good. “Still, it’s impressive that you know what a kirby grip is.”
“Ach, no. I grew up with three sisters. There were two on the bathroom counter and three on the floor at all times growing up.”
“And probably thirty per pack that vaporized into thin air.”
This makes him grin, and again I can’t believe this gorgeous, seemingly wonderful man is talking to me.
“I can’t speak to that, but I think their vaporization isn’t out of the realm of possibility.” His broad mouth breaks into a wide smile I can’t help but respond to with one of my own.