A few days later, Jo and I were hanging out in downtown Aviemore, if it could even be called that. The main drag was only six blocks long and ended at the Tesco. There wasn’t even a stoplight.
My grandparents had insisted I stop moping around the house, and to be honest, it was nice to do something besides sit and worry, imagining a million different insane scenarios about my mother’s death and the cursed journal she sent me.
It was an unusually warm day for Scotland—a whopping 70 degrees—and we were celebrating the sun with ice cream. As much as I wanted a hard scoop of caramel mocha fudge, the only choice in town was vanilla soft serve. The clerk stuck a long piece of waxy, crumbly chocolate in it before she handed me the cone. Jo said that made it “a 99” but couldn’t explain why, since it cost more than 99 pence and it was definitely more than 99 calories.
“Your grandparents don’t have a dog, do they?” she asked, swirling her chocolate bar through her ice cream.
“No. Why?”
“I heard there’s something weird going around. People’s dogs are dying. Like, a lot of them. Stuart’s did just last night.”
“Oh my gosh, that’s terrible,” I answered. “Is it like a disease?”
“Sort of. I guess the dogs are going crazy and freaking out and strangling themselves on their collars and stuff.”
“Is it rabies?”
She shrugged. “Dunno. I just heard that if you have a dog, you’re supposed to keep it inside.”
“Scary.”
“I know,” she agreed.
We sat on a splintered wooden bench and broke off tiny pieces of cone for the round, gray birds at our feet. We watched the small cars whiz by—the three-wheeled ones genuinely freaked me out. And we took turns embracing and then pretending to lick the giant plastic ice cream cone outside the sweet shop. I was taking Jo’s picture with my phone when I saw him.
Gavin.
Even though he was wearing a white oxford shirt with jeans and not a kilt, he still somehow looked like he was from another time. There was something otherworldly about him.
“Jo, look! It’s him!” I whispered, cocking my head across the street. “Gavin. The guy I met in the woods.”
“He is hot!” she murmured appreciatively.
“Don’t look!” I scolded.
“You just told me to!”
“Well, stop now,” I said. He disappeared into the small, bright blue post office. “So, did you recognize him?” I asked. “Did he go to Kingussie?”
“Nope,” she said. “I know everyone, and I certainly wouldn’t forget a face like his.”
“What do you think he’s doing here?” I asked.
“Visiting? Enjoying the scenery? Tons of tourists pass through here, especially when the weather gets warmer. We even have a seasonal bum, Bertie. Crazy-looking bald guy with a big beard, but totally harmless. Comes up for the summer every year. Sleeps in the woods.”
“Creepy!” I said, wondering if that was the danger in the forest Gavin had warned me about. “But Gavin said he lived nearby.”
“Maybe he just moved here.” She shrugged. “It’s rare, but people do that, you know.” She raised her eyebrows to mean me.
“But why was he hunting with a bow and arrow? Don’t you think that’s weird?” I persisted. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Gavin for more than five minutes since we’d met, and it was driving me crazy. I caught myself actually fantasizing about him, about what it would be like to hold his hand, what it would be like to kiss him . . . ridiculous thoughts only ridiculous girls had. I’d never been that girl. How could this guy I just met have such an effect on me?
“Not really,” she replied in between licks. “A lot of people hunt that way in the Highlands. It’s sort of old school, I guess. Man, you’re obsessed with this guy.”
“I am not!” I protested.
“Really? Prove it. Go buy me a stamp.”
“What?”
“If you’re really not into him, then go into the post office and buy a stamp. What’s the problem?” She grinned mischievously.
“There is no problem,” I answered. “I just don’t need a stamp.”
“Sure you do,” she said. “Everyone needs stamps.” She gave me a tiny push toward the street. It was all I needed, since I was dying for an excuse to go in and see him. Just once. To prove to myself he wasn’t really that handsome or worth dreaming about. I handed my cone to Jo, and crossed the street armed only with my stamp excuse.
Inside, the post office was dark. I was temporarily blinded, having gone so quickly from the sunshine to the cool interior. My vision cleared a second too late, and I ran straight into Gavin.
“I’m sorry,” I gushed.
“It’s okay,” he mumbled. His face was blank, like he didn’t recognize me, but he was still hyperventilatingly gorgeous.
Why did I feel such a connection to him? Maybe it was because we were both outsiders; were both new to a town where everyone had a shared history that dated back to their birth.
“Hi, it’s me . . . Maren,” I stuttered. “We met the other day?”
“Yes, I remember,” he said coolly. He looked at me, waiting. I couldn’t read anything in his sapphire-colored eyes, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to melt into them.
“So, I got home safely,” I said.
“I know.”
I perked up. “How?” Had he followed me home, secretly watching me?
“You’re standing in front of me,” he said, slowly, as if I might not understand at normal speed. “Blocking the door,” he added.
“Oh, sorry.” I slid out of the way. He nodded, and started to walk past me. I couldn’t let him leave so soon. “I’ll see you around?” I called after him.
“Hopefully not,” he muttered.
The words hit me like tiny daggers. “What?”
He stopped, realizing I’d heard him. His shoulders sagged, then he took a deep breath and spun around. “It’s nothing personal,” he said roughly. “You just need to stay away from me.”
“I’m not a stalker,” I found myself spitting back. “I can stay away from you just fine.”
“Good,” he answered. “Then do it.” Even when he was angry, his face was almost too lovely to look at. It radiated with an intensity and energy that took my breath away.
I was heartbroken our conversation was going so horribly wrong. In my fantasies, he was always wonderful to me. What an idiot I was, thinking a guy like Gavin would like me for even a second. I had to let him know I didn’t like him either.
“Done. I’m not into the whole bad boy thing anyway,” I lied.
He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m a ‘bad boy’?” The idea seemed to amuse him.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, not wanting to inflate his ego any more. “You’re certainly not very nice.”
He leaned toward me, and his expression was softer. “I’m sorry you think that,” he said quietly. “I’m a good guy, I really am. I just have a bad . . . job. Well, it’s not bad. It’s more . . . dangerous. And the danger sort of rules out the ability to have a girlfriend.” He looked at me as if he might actually consider me girlfriend material. I got a little light-headed.
“Who said anything about a girlfriend?” I whispered.
He moved in so close, I thought for a thrilling moment he was going to kiss me. “Please,” he whispered back. “Forget you ever met me.”
I blinked and he was gone, the door slamming behind him. I peered out the hazy, rectangular windows and spotted Jo. She made a face and shrugged.
Forget I ever met him. Short of getting a lobotomy, I had exactly zero chance of succeeding at that.