And Brigs is laughing, holding onto his son’s legs and staring up at him with the most adoring eyes. I knew from the way he talked about Hamish that he was a father who would do anything for his son, and now I have the proof.
The exact proof why he and I will never become anything, even if he did happen to feel the same. And the odds of that happening now are probably a million to one.
By luck or grace or mercy, Brigs doesn’t see me. He walks past, happily chatting with Hamish while Miranda strolls alongside him. I have to say, at least it doesn’t look like the two of them are anything more than friends. There are no shared smiles between husband and wife, no looks of lust or love. Both of them are entirely fixated on their son.
But that doesn’t change anything, other than the fact that I’ve been a fool. And even though I’ve been telling myself it’s okay to fall in love with Brigs, to revel in that love, as long as I don’t tell him, as long as I don’t act on it, I know it’s wrong, too.
I had just told myself it wasn’t going to end well.
Now I know for damn sure.
I watch them go, walking into the sun, and there’s a spear in my chest, my heart bleeding from the inside.
Foolish, foolish girl.
I flop down on the grass and open the can of cider. I drink it quickly, trying to bury the burn. I’m embarrassed and hating myself a little bit. A whole lot.
You’re an idiot, I tell myself. A lovesick puppy who ought to be kicked.
I finish the other cider until my brain starts swimming, then start the walk back to the flat.
Halfway there, my feet lead me into a pub.
I sit down at the bar and the rugged looking bartender gives me a wide, welcoming smile.
“What can I get for you?” he asks, leaning across the bar.
“Anything that can make me forget a man,” I tell him.
He raises his brow, an eyebrow ring glinting under the lights. “I think that’s called Scotch. Or whiskey, since you’re American. On the rocks or straight?”
“Straight,” I tell him.
“Good to know,” he says with a wink, turning around to grab a bottle.
Suddenly there’s someone in the seat next to me.
I turn my head to see a big bearded beast of a man wearing a grey t-shirt. His arms are covered in tattoos, even across his collarbone. “Oy Rennie, don’t be giving your customers a hard time.”
He’s drunk but non-threatening in a weird way. I mean, he’s huge, and when he turns to face me, he’s not smiling. Just observing me with green-grey eyes, the color of the ocean beneath a dock. I don’t see any malice in them, nor predatory charm. He’s just here as I’m here.
“He’s not giving me a hard time,” I tell him, sticking up for Rennie who’s pouring me the largest shot in the world. “The world is giving me a hard time.”
Rennie turns around, giving the tatted beast a wry smile and sliding the drink toward me. “This is on the house,” he says. “Since the world isn’t being so nice.”
“The world isn’t being so nice to me, either,” the guy next to me says.
Rennie rolls his eyes. “We know, we know. That’s your excuse for everything.” Still, Rennie turns around and gets him a shot too. And then, to my surprise, pours one for himself. He raises it in the air.
“To the world,” Rennie says.
Me and the tatted guy raise our glasses. Theirs go down like water, though even in my heartache and the need to bury the pain, I take it easy and have just a sip.
“I’ve never seen you around here before,” Rennie says, wiping at the bar with a rag, his biceps bulging under his shirt.
“I live in London,” I tell him.
The tattooed guy makes a derisive sound. I look at him defensively. He manages to shoot me a sloppy smile. If the guy wasn’t drunk, he’d be gorgeous, that much is true. Full lips, a brooding stare, built like he does MMA in his spare time when he’s not throwing logs in the Highland Games. The kind of guy I would normally go nuts for, if only my mind wasn’t so preoccupied.
“But you’re American,” the drunk guy says, his brogue getting thicker and thicker.
“I am,” I tell him. “But I go to film school in London. I’m just here for the summer, working at the short film festival.”
“My brother is a teacher,” the guy says.
“Oh really?” I ask, staring at him closer now. He doesn’t look familiar. I wonder about Brigs’ brother. But other than the fact that he’s a rugby player, I don’t know anything about him. Though his arms look like they could definitely win a game.
He nods and licks his lips, staring down at his empty glass. Doesn’t say anything else.
“So what’s ailing you, Miss America?” Rennie says, swinging my attention back to him.
I bite my lip for a moment, wondering if I should tell the truth or not. But these guys are just strangers in a bar. In a few weeks, I’ll be gone from Edinburgh. Maybe even sooner if Brigs doesn’t need me anymore. His book is moving along at a snail’s pace. It used to be he would type so fast when he was around me, but now it seems everything has slowed to a crawl.
“I’m in love with someone I can’t have,” I tell them.
Rennie whistles while drunk guy twists his lips, giving me the “that sucks” look.
“I’m not sure what’s worse,” Rennie says. “Being in love with someone you can never have or having someone and losing them.”