Chapter Thirteen
Angus
Open mic night?
Christ.
If there’s one thing I loathe, it is a fucking open mic. A roomful of shit performers longing for attention who aren’t good enough to get paid? I can’t imagine anything worse. This isn’t why I’m here.
Although, if I’m honest, I don’t know why I’m here.
I only know that after the others left, I didn’t feel the rush of joy I was expecting.
The slowly setting sun, the sound of the water, the hot food, the solitude, none of it.
And instead of looking forward to settling down in my sleeping bag with my book, I felt… empty.
I hated it.
I like being alone. I like the silence. The peace. I like that no one is relying on me, and I’m not relying on them.
I thrive in solitude. Always have.
So why am I suddenly craving company? Why am I thinking about a certain someone’s smile, and what it would be like to put my hand in hers? Why am I picturing the four of them laughing by the fire, clinking their glasses in a toast?
I found myself standing by the bar door, drawn like a moth to the heat and the light.
And now I’m trapped. Rowan is clapping, her blue eyes shining. Of course she loves a bloody open mic night. She’s replaced her cap with a purple knitted beanie. Bananas dance around the rim. Her cheeks are rosy from the fire, and her hair curls wildly out of its braid.
My fingers twitch with the urge to smooth it back.
Ewan excuses himself to go to the bathroom. If I jump ship now, I’ll be leaving her alone. I remember how she looked on the first night. The shadow of sadness in her eyes, her full lips compressed in a frown.
I don’t want to be the cause of that. Again.
Bonnie slams three steaming pies in front of us, right as the idiots with their gigantic instruments struck up, the first notes drifting gently into the quiet room.
Her stare sweeps past me, and I sigh: I’ve not made a friend there.
The pies, on the other hand, are perfect.
Crisp, golden outside, buttery flakes drifting onto the white plate, a few drips of filling spilling from the base.
And the smell: rich and savoury. Delicious.
Each has come with a mound of chips, and I’m hard pressed to keep from stuffing a handful straight in my mouth.
Rowan leans back into the booth, sipping on her pint. She sighs happily, her lips broadening in a smile as she grabs a chip. The moan of pleasure that come out of her when she bites down is barely decent.
“Fuck me,” she says around another chip, closing her eyes.
I stifle a groan of my own.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I’m done with attachments. With feelings. No exceptions.
I’m self-aware enough to know that anyone I drag into my mess of a life will take one look at the wreckage and run for the hills. Ma did. Da did. Violet did. And Rowan? There’s no reason to think Rowan will be any different.
The door opens, and a gust of cold air hits my face. I breathe it in with relief. Rowan’s eyes catch mine.
Fuck, but she’s beautiful. Her eyes brighter than ever, motes of gold dancing in the blue like light glinting off rippling waves. She’s wildflowers shooting life into spring, the hazy motes of a summer dawn.
“Priya!” she calls. “You came back! Want a chip?”
Priya and Lila shuffle to the table, Lila’s hands resting protectively on Priya’s shoulders.
“Yes, please.” Priya glances between our laden plates and the empty space.
“Ewan’s popped out for a second.” I point a thumb at the table. “But you should know he’s sorry for what he said. No one’s going to make you get up and play. Not if you don’t want to.”
Priya nods, still hovering.
“Come sit next to me,” Rowan pats the space beside her. “Orange and lemonade, is it? And have as many of my chips as you want. They’re really good!”
“Go on, honey.” Lila shoots Rowan a grateful smile.
The cellists finish with a grand crescendo and lumber off the stage to muted applause. Stavros jumps back on, bringing the microphone uncomfortably close to his mouth, as if he’s about to swallow it whole.
“Some more applause for Three’s A Crowd!
And our next act up is Where Did the Sunshine Go, playing ‘Thank God She’s Dead’.
Er, right.” He looks at the piece of paper in his hand again, and then at the act who are waiting to go on.
I recognise them from the bar: three Goths who look like they’ve been teleported straight from Camden, standing out in the crowd like a sore – and quite bruised – thumb. “A hand for Where Did the Sunshine Go!”
The applause is lacklustre at best, and falters when the trio draw two flutes and a recorder from their cases. First cellists, now this? It takes every bit of willpower I have not to put my head in my hands as the first note squeaks out sharp.
Amid the screeching, Ewan returns with a fresh Red Bull, a packet of crisps, and a broad grin, which widens further when he sees me. I frown. What is he up to? But he slides into the seat without saying anything and slides the crisps towards Priya.
“What are these?” she asks.
“Monster Munch,” he says. “They’re my favourite. I wanted you to have them. Didn’t know if you’d ever tried them before…”
“Monster Munch?” Rowan leans over. “That seems a bit adventurous for a Scottish bar, doesn’t it?”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Rowan’s eyes spark with a wicked glint. “I knew that would rile you,” she says, making finger guns and pretending to blow them out.
Against my will, a corner of my mouth twitches.
“I saw that!” She points her finger guns at the tiny smile I couldn’t suppress. “Admit it. You think I’m funny.”
“Billy Connolly is funny. Cats playing keyboards are funny. You’re mildly amusing at best.”
“Uh huh. And you’re a terrible liar. But what do I care?” Rowan pretends to flick her hair and turns to Ewan. “Seriously though. There is no way the bar stocks those. Where did you get them? Who did you bribe?”
“Fine! I got them from my tent. Happy now?”
“But why?” Priya is struggling with the packet, pulling it this way and that, but failing to break the seal.
I take it from her, opening it and pushing the bottom up so it can stand on the table. I ignore Rowan’s satisfied look.
“Because I feel bad, alright. All… sticky inside. And I thought if I gave you something it would make the feeling better.”
“And has it?” Rowan asks.
Ewan scrunches up his face. “Yes. No. I don’t know. What is it with this group and all this chat about feelings?”
“Says the boy who’s on the hike for his dead best friend.”
“Man!” Ewan throws his head into his hands. “I am a man!”
“Grandma says no.” Rowan sips her pint, wincing as the band all miss their notes, producing a discordant screeching like an elephant being tortured by a raccoon.
“Ewan.” Priya’s eyes are round as she carefully munches her way through the packet of crisps. “I accept your apology.”
“But I didn’t—”
I kick him under the table.
“Ah, right. Shit. Fine.”
“You do understand that Priya is only ten? Could you at least try to keep the swearing down?” Lila chips in, and the rest of us duck our heads, shame-faced. She pats Ewan on the arm. “Thank you, Ewan. That was very sweet.”
Just as the lad looks fit to burst into flames, the band finally stops playing and silence falls. I send up a prayer that this means the awful noise is at an end. A nice, normal band. A guitar. A good singer. Lord, that’s all I ask.
“Thank you so much. Thank you, thank you. Now if you’d …
” Stavros is on the mic while the last note is still ringing.
“What an interesting song! So unique. So… poignant. And now for—” Bonnie hustles over and whispers in his ear.
Stavros beams, searching the crowd. “One second, ladies and gents. I’ve been told there’s a singer in the audience.
With a voice that could melt chocolate. Well!
That’s exactly what we need! Could you all welcome Angus to the stage? ”
I choke on my drink.
Ewan smiles.
Son of a bitch.