Chapter Four
Rowan
Victory is almost in sight. I stagger into the first campsite I come across, perched on the banks of the loch, idyllic in the waning afternoon light.
A couple exchange soft looks at a picnic bench as they eat their dinner from outdoorsy-looking silver pans, while a mother and daughter pair are hard at work setting up their tent, the mother handing the daughter poles and watching patiently while she struggles to thread them through the lining.
Ducks quack in the distance. Water laps at the shore.
I can hardly feel the pain in my feet. Or, rather, I can hardly feel my feet. Or anything below my now tightly strapped waistband. I poke tentatively at my hips. Nope, nothing except the cold of my still-wet shorts. Hopefully feeling will return eventually.
Then again, given how much my back is complaining, perhaps it’s better if it doesn’t. I shudder to think about how much pain I’ll be in come morning.
I’m half-exhausted, half-elated. One day of walking might seem small to a lot of people, but to me it’s monumental.
I haven’t done anything this adventurous in years.
Scratch that: I have never done anything this adventurous.
After the Great Collapse, I promised myself I would stay in my lane, where it was comfortable. Safe.
Unlikely to precipitate another breakdown.
So this? This small achievement? It’s big.
And right now, there’s only one obstacle standing between me and a well-earned pint: setting up my tent. I watch the mother and daughter for a minute. They’re smiling, laughing even, easily banging pegs into the ground. Great. That doesn’t seem so hard.
Half an hour later, as I sit on the ground staring at the various pieces of plastic and metal I’ve pulled from my bag and trying once again to understand how any of them fit together I realise it really is quite hard when you a) have never set up a tent with someone else, let alone on your own b) do not have the first clue what you are doing and c) have realised the tent you borrowed doesn’t come with instructions.
The sun dips towards the horizon, and my mood dips with it.
I miss my boyfriend, cheating arsehole that he is.
I wish someone would put their arms around me and tell me everything’s alright.
I’m wet and muddy and I want a pint, a hot shower and some dinner, not necessarily in that order.
And to add injury to insult, the sensation in my legs and feet has returned with a vengeance.
Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. I’m ready to burst.
MARNIE: You got this, babe! You can do it!
The text is accompanied by a picture of Brian and her grinning through facemasks, a tub of ice cream nestled in each of their laps.
I want so badly to be there with them, curled up under one of Marnie’s fluffy blankets wearing my favourite lime-green slippers, watching a crap movie and eating until I’m fit to burst.
Instead, I’m in bloody Scotland failing to put up a bloody tent and if I don’t bloody work it out, I’ll be doing it in the dark.
Tears prick my eyes.
“It’s a lot easier if you lay it out flat. The poles are colour-coded, see, so that way you can tell what’s meant to go where.”
It can’t be.
The lumberjack is standing over me, arms crossed, perpetual frown still in place.
“Are you talking to me?” I squeak.
There is no way the unbelievably attractive, unbelievably rude Scottish man from earlier is here, at my campsite, and is seeing me like this: utterly dishevelled, utterly defeated.
“No, I’m talking to the cartoon squirrel beside you.” His frown deepens, his forehead folding like origami. Somehow it makes him more handsome, not less. “Do you always struggle with basic comprehension, or is it my lucky day?”
“I don’t know. Do you always struggle with basic conversation, or is it my lucky day?”
Oh my god. I don’t speak to people like this. I do not insult strangers in campsites. I do not go to campsites at all.
“Got a mouth on you, don’t you?”
“Only when provoked.” Half of me wants to clap both hands over my mouth and disappear into the ground. The other half has her pom-poms out and is doing cartwheels in the grass. With her side-sweeps bangs and her excessive eyeliner, she looks a lot like seventeen-year-old Rowan.
She looks like the person I used to be.
I do neither. Instead, I pull myself to my feet, attempting to gain some of the high ground. But tall as I am, he’s taller, and I stop short of raising up on my toes. “What do you want?”
He sighs and brushes a hand through his hair. “Fuck if I know,” he says. “I was thinking you looked a bit lost, is all. Might need some help with your tent. But this is obviously a bad idea.”
“No!” I sound desperate, and I am. “I… Fine. If you must know, I’ve never hiked before.”
“You’re shitting me.”
I breathe deeply through my nose. I will not let the man-beast provoke me again. I am a napkin floating on a breeze. I am a rowboat in a still pond. “I would appreciate some help. If you wouldn’t mind.”
I wait. He doesn’t respond, just stands there with his arms crossed, watching me with an amused light in his eyes.
“What’s the magic word?”
If I grit my teeth any harder, I’m worried a filling will fall out. Arrogant, insufferable man. “No.”
“Ach.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Not quite. Nice night to sleep under the stars. Although… that cloud coming in looks rough. At least you won’t need a shower in the morning.”
The tent pieces lie abandoned on the ground, a puzzle there’s no way I’ll be able to solve.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
“Might want to get used to it up here. Can’t bulldozer your way through everything with a stink-eye here the way you can in the city. People here deserve respect.”
“And they don’t in London?”
He laughs. “That’s a good one.” Then he eyes the mess of my tent. “Right, like I said, you’re going to want to lay it all out first, so you can see what goes where.”
I glance at the rapidly lowering sun. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you did it? Given that you’re clearly so much more competent than me and all.”
“I assume you’re doing the whole walk, and not just one day?”
“I… Yes.” I try to say it confidently, as if I’m a person who really believes she can walk another eighty miles. “All the way to Fort William.”
“Then you’re going to need to set this up yourself, aren’t you? I won’t be helping your sorry arse again. Consider this a one-time favour.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Generous of you.”
“London.” The word rumbles in his chest. He says it like a warning, and I hate that my knees go weak. “Lay out the damn tent.”
Against my new-found rebellious instincts, I do as I’m told, spreading the two plastic sheets out on the grass.
Under his direction, I manage to assemble the poles and thread them through the right openings – somehow avoiding making any inappropriate jokes about either of those words, no matter how much I want to – and even sink the pegs into the grass with the help of the hammer he lends me.
He’s surprisingly patient. His tone gentle as he explains that I should ensure the bottom of the pegs face towards the tent, not away, so they won’t get ripped out of the ground if the wind picks up, and shows me how to adjust the guy-lines properly instead of tying them into knots.
He moves like he’s comfortable in his own skin, crouching down and standing up with an ease I envy.
His expression is serious, those molten eyes focused on the task at hand, which gives me a chance to drink him in.
I can’t help it. Something about this extremely grumpy, extremely competent man is entirely too attractive.
Especially when he’s too absorbed to remember to insult me.
Before long, we’re standing in front of my home for the night, the last rays of the sun lingering in the sky, casting everything in a dreamy, golden haze. I hang my nightlight from a hook in the porch, and zip the door closed with a smile.
“Right.” The lumberjack shifts from foot to foot. “Think you’ll remember any of that?”
“Absolutely none,” I reply honestly. Elation buzzes through my skin. I’ve done this: me. This entirely practical, entirely sensible thing. “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver. I’m Rowan, by the way.”
I hold out my hand to shake his.
He looks at it as though I’ve offered him a venomous snake. His hand stays very firmly by his waist. But after stretching the silence too long, he grunts. “Angus.”
I take a breath. He’s helped me. He’s been patient and understanding, and thanks to him I won’t be sleeping in the rain. I can be the bigger person. The better person.
“Would you like to go to the pub?” I ask, still holding onto my optimism.
I can’t describe the look that comes into his eyes, only that it’s how I imagine a wild horse might look when approached by a cowboy with a lasso. He shakes his head. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again.
And then he walks off without another word.