by Cara McKenna
They’d been back to joking today, though the closer they got to Inverness, the heavier things felt; the realer and more inevitable their good-bye became.
Rob hadn’t said much the past couple of hours, not since signs of humanity had begun presenting themselves. He wasn’t upset, she didn’t think, just edgy. And she’d known he would be.
She’d sensed it in his character and heard him admit as much in words. Only one thing for it—stay calm and positive, and show Rob that no matter how different and overwhelming a city might feel to him, what they had together couldn’t be changed.
She took his hand, a habit she’d grown quite fond of these last two days. He squeezed hers in return, just as a sign came into view down the road.
“Inverness. One mile to go,” Rob announced. “You’ve nearly done it.”
“Shall I carry you the final mile? Just to be extra butch about it?”
“I’ve lifted your pack—I think you’re doing just fine in that department.”
In no time at all they were at the city’s edge, their journey having gone from grass and granite to highway shoulder, to sidewalks. So many buildings and signs and people. So much noise and human energy.
They took the main road, crossing the beautiful, lazy, broad River Ness just as the sun began its descent in earnest. That gave them perhaps an hour of daylight to find a hotel vacancy, and hopefully enough time leftover for Merry to find condoms before the stores shut for the evening. She grinned to herself. Worn out from the journey, they’d fallen asleep just as they’d crossed second base the night before, but not again—not on the eve of her departure, their final few hours together, for months or a year or more, perhaps forever.
They reached the far bank and what felt like the city center, and Merry checked her map. Back in San Francisco, she’d marked likely-looking lodging with numbered stars, and she aimed them toward her top pick. “We’re close. Maybe four blocks.”
“Luxury place?” Rob asked, gaze jumping all over the street. If this was sensory overload for Merry, God knew what it must be like for someone who’d not set foot in a city in over two years.
“Nothing too swank,” she promised, scanning every restaurant they passed. “Pretty old, it looked like, but not too pricey. Oh God.”
Rob stopped when she did. “What?”
She paused to ogle the menu posted on a restaurant’s front window. “Indian food. Man, this could be it.”
“I vote we get cleaned up first.”
“And I second it.” She continued their stroll. “This will be a first, though. Tonight’s dinner.”
“How so?”
“This,” she said proudly, “will be the first time in as long as I can remember when I’ll be able to go into a restaurant, order whatever I want, and not feel guilty about it after I leave.”
“Ah. You’ve not have the easiest relationship with dining, I take it?”
“Never. When I was overeating, the pattern went: Enter with good intentions. Blow them on an appetizer, then eat a huge entrée, two glasses of whatever, plus dessert. Always dessert, even if it made me feel sick. Which it always did.” She couldn’t say why she was admitting this—perhaps the weariness had stripped away her filters—but she did know it felt good.
“Then when I was into my big overhaul period,” she went on, “I either avoided restaurants altogether, or stuck to soup or salad while everyone else ate whatever they wanted.”
“That must have been rough.”
She made a face. “A bit . . . But I was determined. Maybe too determined, since I kind of replaced one compulsive behavior with another.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, I was a compulsive eater for my whole life; then I flipped some switch, somehow, and turned into a compulsive calorie-counter.”
“We’ve all got some cross or other to bear. Some area to monitor.”
She nodded, thinking of Rob’s fetish and how defective it had clearly made him feel, and for so long.
“The worst part of the whole change is how my best friend ribs me about it when we’re out and I’m policing what I order. I get that it’s probably annoying to watch, but . . . she always has to say something. Like, ‘Oh great. Now the rest of us get to feel like Caligula. Thanks, Mer.’”
“She doesn’t sound like much of a friend.”
Merry sighed, stopping before a candy shop to admire its pretty window display. “I don’t even know, anymore. We had really good times together, for ten years—and we were roommates for three of them. But she’s heavy too, and she’s treated my weight loss like a personal betrayal.”
“Like you broke some pact with her?”
“Exactly. I hope she gets over it. I’m being as patient with her as I can. Because I mean, I totally know how it feels, that exact flavor of insecurity. But if it keeps up this way, I’ll probably have to let it all fizzle.”
“That’s how it goes,” Rob said, his attention on the bright yellow hard candies suspended on fishing line, like bumblebees frozen mid-flight. “People change. Sometimes for the better. If the ones you love stay in one place, or head off somewhere else . . .”
“Yeah. She and I got very used to staying in one place together, though. A very comfortable, delicious place.” She eyed the outrageous lollipop garden sprouting from a lawn of shredded paper grass, beside a watering can bursting with gumballs. “Man, I love this store.”
“You have a sweet tooth, I take it.”
“Not even that. Just the whole look of it.” She put her fingertips to the old glass, one of a hundred diamond-shaped panes separated by black leading. It was a funny building—big granite bricks, three stories, and narrow—squished between two broad neighbors.
Rob pointed to a sign hanging above the display. “Going out of business.”
“Oh, what a shame. If I were a millionairess, I’d buy it myself.” It looked fairly new, though—the business, not the premises. Highly improbable that this place had sold candy when her mother had still lived here. Very few of these businesses had likely existed those forty-plus years ago. She was about to go in and buy them a treat for after dinner, but the shop was shut for the day. “Closed. Darn.”
As they resumed their trajectory, Merry said, “I daydream about owning my own little store sometimes.”
“Oh? And what do you sell?”
“Clothes, of course. My own designs. Like twenty or so showroom items per season, that I can make to order for my customers, in any size. Like, any size. Skirts and little jackets and dresses . . .” She’d fantasized about such a thing for hours—at work, through mindless chores, at the gym, on long walks, in the shower. She’d fantasized about it for so long, she could remember spacing out to those daydreams way back in her freshman lectures.
“Have you ever done that?” Rob asked. “Sold your own work?”
“A bit, online. I’ve dabbled.”
“And you enjoyed it?”
“Oh yeah, it’s fun. And my stuff did well. But it was a lot to cram in, on top of a full-time job. But if I woke up filthy rich, that’s what I’d do. Run a cute little shop with a studio in one corner, just sew and sew and sew until someone came through the door.”
He smiled. “That sounds peaceful.”
“That’s why I love clothing, I think. Sewing. It’s that one thing I’ve found that can really, like, occupy me. That one thing that can absorb me for hours. It’s the only time I get hypnotized enough by an activity to look up and realize, whoa, I forgot to eat lunch. Sort of like it makes me manic, but in the most joyful, productive way.”
He nodded, looking touched by the thought. “Everyone should have a hobby that offers that.”
“Wish my day job gave me even a taste of it . . . What’s yours? Your hypnosis-hobby?”
“Archery, I’d say. Fishing,
hunting. Good long swim.”
“No wonder you love it out where you are. Surrounded by nothing but your favorite, most fulfilling activities. And none of the BS—no working just to make sure you’ve got health insurance, no pointless meetings, no commute.” She envied his life with a new pang, a deeper one than she’d felt before. Framed like this, she finally felt she understood him, and the choices that had taken him so far from other people. A life that made no room for the bullshit.
She looked around them, spotting a souvenir shop a half block down the street, its sign a field of tartan. “I need to run a quick errand before the stores close.”
“Sure.” He panned the street. “I might buy a coffee, to keep from passing out before dinner. Would you like one?”
“Oh, please. With cream, if they do that here. If not, with tons of milk.” She fumbled for her wallet, stashed in the side pocket of her pack, but Rob waved it away.
“My treat.”
She smiled at that, recalling all the ways in which she’d treated him this past week. “I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.”
For a moment he merely pursed his lips, shy as she’d ever seen him, but then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She felt foggy and dim and happy as he stood up straight.
“See you in ten.”
***
Rob waited at the corner with a hot takeaway cup in each hand, watching the bustle of the city and trying to keep himself separate.
Too many people. Too many voices trying to draw his head in too many directions.
Caffeine probably wasn’t the wisest idea, but they’d established this tradition—coffee to celebrate new achievements—and Merry had certainly earned a cup, having completed her epic journey across a good two-thirds of Scotland. If this land were a heart, she’d hiked right up the gulley between the two lobes, straight through its wild, pulsing, muscular core.
She found him shortly, her eyes drawn to the candy shop once more, with its quaintly garish window display. He liked the way she looked at it, eyes alight with a child’s hungry wonder. So very Merry.
“I got you a latte,” he said, holding out her cup.
“Perfect.” She failed to suppress a smirk, and he knew exactly why—she was trying to square the man she’d met a week ago with one who’d ever be found in a café ordering a latte.
There are quite of few sides of me you’ve yet to meet. And never would, if Rob had anything to say about it. Though he was proud he’d at least told her about one of them. He’d told her about his marriage, if not the full truth of what had poisoned it.
“Here,” she said, and handed him a flat paper bag. He set his cup on top of a covered rubbish bin and slipped his hand inside to withdraw two postcards—each with a photo of Inverness, one day and one night. Airmail stamps already affixed, and Merry’s address printed neatly. He smiled. San Francisco, CA. USA. Goodness, they really were from different worlds.
“Drop one of those in the mail, the next couple times you venture into a village for supplies,” she said. “Let me know how you’re doing. That you survived the winter and weren’t devoured by wolves.”
He laughed. “I will.” He looked up just as her smile wilted.
“If only I could send you something,” she said. “A care package.”
If only. It’d be nice to wake to find a chocolate bar or a letter waiting on his doorstep . . . Or a bottle of something. That whiskey she’d felt he’d been lacking for their coffees, or the champagne missing from their picnic. Wouldn’t that be the sickest turn of events, if alcohol did somehow manage to find him, all the way out past Great Glen . . .
She shrugged. “I’ll just have to come laden with goodies next year.”
Next year. Tell her. On the off chance she did actually come back. On the off chance it didn’t come up tonight, or if he chickened out.
I could tell her in one of these postcards. In passing. “Hope to see you again soon. If you do return, please don’t bring alcohol.” No explanation, even. Let her infer, and even if she did jump to the right conclusion, well . . . They could have that discussion in person. This trip, he’d sprung a fetish on her, and the broader strokes of his failed marriage. Next time, an addiction.
One massive character flaw at a time, son.
“Well, caffeine—check.” Merry looked down the block. “Next up, find a room, ditch the packs, take a hot shower, and go out in search of some dinner. Anything except cashews and turkey jerky. Sound good?”
“Sounds like heaven.” He followed as she led the way. They sipped their coffees and pointed out interesting shops and people, mused over the oddness of all the activity and vehicles and noise after so much time spent sequestered in the hills—three weeks for her, and a month and a half since Rob’s last trip into a village.
Inverness was a circus. So full of colors and smells, simultaneously too ordered and too chaotic. He tried to keep his anxiety externalized, like a piece of baggage he was stuck toting, but needn’t be toppled by.
They reached the hotel, an old stone building straddling the line that separated classy and corny. Tartan and painted clan crests decorated the lobby, and with its large hearth and heavy wooden furnishings, the place was just flirting with parody. But there was something comforting about the decor, something styled and presented, contained by its own costume. Rob needed that sensation—containment. A psychic length of rope binding his hands and arms, keeping him docile before he was led to a room most likely outfitted with a minibar.
Merry marched them to the front desk, and they were informed there was indeed a single room available, with a view of the river. She handed over a credit card and it was returned, along with two more plastic cards—their keys.
They took the elevator to the fifth and top floor, then went down a hall that smelled of citrus polish to their appointed room. Merry swiped them in.
It was a nice enough space, and more modern than the lobby had suggested. Carpeted and clean, with tall windows staring out over the downtown’s urban hive to the River Ness. It looked nothing like any place they’d yet shared, but Rob didn’t let the nerves take hold. She’s played tourist in my reality for long enough. Time to join the modern world for a night and visit hers.
“I like it.” Merry let her pack tumble from her back and onto the broad bed. She stretched, looking around, wandering to the windows to inspect the view. “Perfect, don’t you think?”
“A proper, big bed certainly looks seductive.” Though Rob was far more interested in the bathroom. He dropped his bag with a grateful groan, then headed for the open door. Flipping on the light and fan, he was blinded by the perfect whiteness of the tub and sink, the towels, the tile, the bulbs. “Goodness.”
Merry joined him at the threshold. “Oh man . . . A bathtub’s never looked so amazing, has it? Too bad it’s not big enough for the both of us.”
“You go first.”
“If you insist.”
Back in the room, she opened her pack and pulled out clothes, including Rob’s old Rush Carpentry tee, with his father’s logo on the chest. Easily fifteen years old, that thing. She’d borrowed it to sleep in the night before. As she unfolded it now, she shot him a funny look and smiled.
“Yes?”
“I don’t suppose I could keep this . . . ?”
“That manky old relic?” Rob had to think a moment. It was one of a very few physical reminders he had of his father—just that shirt, his rifle, and the rocker, plus some photographs and albums and letters, packed carefully in a water-tight bin in his shed. But there were other scraps he held far more dear—ones that visited him each and every time he lifted a bow or a rifle, skills and memories held in the heart and muscles, not the hands.
“Sure,” he said. “You can have it.”
Her grin was broad and she folded it tenderly, as though it
weren’t the homely color of curry and peppered with holes. As though it were a coveted gown. “Thank you. I’ll wear it to bed every night and think of you.”
He blushed at that, and didn’t even try to hide it.
Merry pulled the gauzy curtain across the windows and stripped out of her hiking gear. She only looked a touch shy as she passed by Rob, arms crossed demurely over her chest. He smiled until the door shut. Then his gaze went where any alcoholic’s would the second they found themselves alone in a hotel room. That hateful little fridge, nestled on the shelf beneath the television.
Don’t open it. You don’t even want to know.
He’d face that long-avoided demon at dinner. Merry would be puzzled when he didn’t order a drink to toast her trip, and he’d tell her why, in the simplest terms. It doesn’t agree with me. Or, The taste makes me sick. Just about the truth, and hopefully that would be that. That was the only relationship he needed to have with alcohol tonight. Simple, unequivocal dismissal.
Still, his eyes snapped to the fridge. Like a cobra plunked dead center on the spotless carpet. Impossible to ignore. But possible to resist for, what? Twelve hours? He’d be too busy making the most of Merry, surely.
He crossed to the tall window and drew back the curtain to reveal the river and the buildings beyond.
The sun was setting. And soon the full moon would be rising.
Fucking hell, he might as well call himself a vampire or a werewolf or some nonsense, but that was exactly how it felt—the sun would set, the moon would appear. Worst of all, the streetlights would come on as the sky went black, and that was a sight Rob hadn’t glimpsed in years. Those lights . . . crisp tonight, not blurry or doubled. A long-forgotten sight, and a trigger he’d not had to confront in ages.
The moon rises and the monster comes out.