Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102731 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“I want you!” he yelled, his own tears brimming over. “I want you. I love you.”
We stared at each other in abject grief as we cried together in the woods. Seconds felt like minutes as time suspended.
Until finally I could speak. “I think you want something more and you’re too afraid to admit it to me. And I want someone who wants to be here with me. You can’t, hand on heart, say that, Lewis.”
“I can,” he pleaded again. “I can. Don’t …”
I knew we could stand here for hours going around in circles, but the truth was, two days ago I had utter faith and belief in his love for me. And all it took was a few weeks of uncertainty and a few words to tear enough holes in that belief to make it impossible to hold on to. I let the cold sharpness of reality settle in as I swiped the tears from my face.
Voice brittle but calm, I stared him directly in the eyes. “We’re over, Lewis. Go to London.”
“You don’t mean that,” he whispered.
“I always mean what I say,” I said pointedly. “I always know my own mind. And it’s made up. We can’t go back. I won’t go back. You want something more beyond Ardnoch. I want something more from the person I plan to spend the rest of my life with. Here.”
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Lewis wiped his nose, suddenly looking like a lost wee boy. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me. After everything we’ve been through, and you’re throwing me away like this?”
“I can’t see any other way.”
Anger darkened his expression. “Well, fuck you, Callie. Fuck you for giving up at the first fucking speed bump.” He marched past me, bristling with rage. “Enjoy your sad fucking life in Ardnoch.”
Renewed pain sliced through me, but I waited until I could no longer hear his footsteps before I let myself burst into tears again.
Nine
LEWIS
PRESENT DAY
Ididn’t want this conversation to devolve into a bitter argument, even though it frustrated me beyond measure how she perceived our breakup. One of the reasons I’d decided to leave, not to stay and fight for her, was because I was pissed off that she didn’t even try to understand. She cut me out of her life. No mistakes, no errors, no wavering allowed.
That was her failure in our breakup.
Mine was walking away instead of fighting for her. But I was a kid, and I could give myself grace for that decision.
However, I was a man now.
“Drink?” I changed the subject.
“You got any whisky?” She surprised me by asking.
I raised a brow. “I have a bottle of Ardnoch.”
“My favorite. With ginger ale, if you have it.”
That made me smile. “I don’t.”
“Straight it is, then.”
As I poured us both a dram of my uncles’ whisky, I was aware of Callie looking around the flat as if in search of something. Finally, she took a seat on the couch and pulled her phone out of her clutch. I hated that my immediate concern was that she was texting some bloke. I despised being a jealous guy, and I felt like I’d been playing that role for seven years now.
“Just texting Eilidh to let her know we left.”
Shit. Though my sister had plenty of friends to keep her occupied, I hadn’t even thought to let her know I was leaving. I’d been concerned with chasing Callie. “Good shout, thanks.”
I handed her the whisky and sat down on the other end of the sofa, turning my back to the armrest so I could face her. Raising the glass, I said, “To reunions.”
She gave me a droll smile that didn’t reach her eyes but raised her glass too. “To reunions.”
We stared at each other as we sipped.
“Mmm. Your uncles don’t know how to be bad at anything, do they?” Callie murmured.
“Since when do you drink whisky?”
“I had a glass on my eighteenth. Took a liking to it, much to Mum’s surprise.”
Her eighteenth. Her birthday is August 2. Mine’s in March, so I’m only a few months older than her. We’d celebrated my eighteenth with an unsupervised party at Fyfe’s, and Callie and I had gotten drunk and had sex in Fyfe’s mum’s old room while everyone partied beyond the doors. For Callie’s eighteenth, my uncle Arran, the youngest of my uncles, had taken me to Inverness so I could get obliterated. We’d had a lot of whisky that night too. Dad had been furious when we returned the next morning with the worst hangover, but Uncle Arran must have talked to him because he got over his snit quickly.
It was the worst summer of my life, avoiding Callie before I left for London. Wondering if she was kissing someone else on her eighteenth birthday. But she’d asked Fyfe to her party, and everyone else in our class who was still in Ardnoch that summer. Fyfe said she didn’t kiss anyone else, and that she was sad, though she pretended she wasn’t.