The Debt

  The next day we get up early, Keir eager to show me around Skye. He hasn’t been to the island before either but I guess he looked through my Lonely Planet when I wasn’t looking and decided to play tour guide.

  I’m not complaining. I’m in good spirits after last night and the weather is cooperating. We get breakfast in the restaurant and head out on the road.

  The landscape here truly is stunning. It’s like everything we’ve seen on the road trip so far all combined into one island. The only drawback is that it is decidedly more popular and crammed with tourists, which proves to be a challenge on the one-way roads.

  We start by heading west, past the high cliffs and plateaus of the Quiraing mountains that lord over the hotel. I’d love more than anything to climb up the dark crevices, see the views from the flat tables at the top, but my leg won’t allow it.

  Same goes for the famous Old Man of Storr, just a few miles down. I can only take photos from the car while a line of tourists (ant-like from this distance) climb up from the side of the road, heading for the pinnacles that stand apart from the steep mountain sides.

  “When you’re all healed, we’ll come back here,” Keir says, his hand on my knee as he drives. “Climb every last fucking one of these places.”

  I believe him too.

  Next we drive down to the busy town of Portree, pick up some coffees, then cut across the northern isthmus of the island, heading back up on the other side, an essential loop that will lead us back to the hotel. That’s the plan for day one. I assume the latter half of the day includes a lot of fucking.

  Now Keir is on the lookout for a certain road and I’m navigating via Google maps, which I keep losing since the cell service here is shit. Finally, we find it, high on the road above the town of Uig, massive ferries at its docks, ready to head out to the Outer Hebrides islands. Yet another place I’d love to see, another journey with Keir.

  This is real, isn’t it?

  What he feels for me, what I feel for him. Though I didn’t say the words last night, partly because he didn’t want me to, I know I will. I almost told him while we showered together this morning. Instead I dropped to my knees and gave him a blow job.

  I almost told him over breakfast, when he accidently spilled tea on me, the look on his face was upset, so priceless, I nearly died.

  I want to tell him now, as he takes a steep narrow road to our right, heading for the unmarked destination of the fairy glen. The way he frowns as he drives, his dark, perfectly arched brows swooping together. The way his hands handle the shift, large and powerful, capable of being extraordinarily gentle and deliriously rough at the same time. The way his hair curls onto his nape, the soft, tanned skin back there that I love to kiss and lick and taste.

  The way he makes me like I’m worth his heart a million times over.

  All of this and I love him to the point of agony.

  And it’s a risk, the voices pop up. As everything in your life is.

  But I’m tired of listening to them. I’m tired of protecting myself. I love him with every part of me, all the whole parts and the broken parts and the parts that are still mending.

  I willingly fling myself into the abyss.

  “I think we’re here,” he says, driving past a bunch of cars parked on the side of the (you guessed it) one-lane road. But though the scenery is pretty with rolling green hills, I don’t think it’s worthy of being called a “fairy glen.”

  We keep driving. More sets of cars, then a farmhouse, then cars and people walking back to their cars. Well, if they’re walking back it means they’re coming from somewhere.

  “This is it,” I tell him, after we pass a reflective pool, a strange mound, like a twenty-foot high miniature mountain of grass rising above it.

  There are cars here too, also some willow trees and beyond them paths that lead toward more mounds.

  We follow the most level path, my cane digging into the soft dirt and grass and start climbing upward on a gentle incline until we round a bend. All around us are these small mountains of grass, seventy feet high in places, all with worn paths that traverse the sides. It makes me feel like I’m a giant.

  The one beside us is topped with a sharp basalt cliff and silhouettes of people who have climbed to the top, and at the base of it are stone circles making a perfect swirl outward. Heaps of these rocks are scattered throughout the lush valleys here, making me wonder if people arrange them this way weekly.

  There are a few people about, though judging from the number of cars that we saw, I’m guessing the land keeps going, that there are more hidden pockets to explore and the crowd is spread. Behind each mini conical hill there may be another hill, or a valley or a waterfall. In fact, Keir points out that he can hear a faint waterfall in the distance.

  “You said we were going to climb every mountain next time,” I tell him. “For now, how about we climb this one.” I point my cane to the top of the across from us, about fifty-feet high, the incline seeming more gradual from here.

  “No problem,” he says. He moves his massive body in front of me and then crouches down and backs up into me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Get on my back,” he says. “I’m your fucking Sherpa.”

  I step forward, holding my cane like a crop and he grabs the backs of my thighs, hauling me onto me. I settle on his back like I’m on a draft horse, my thighs gripping his sides, my arm going around his neck, trying to hold on and not strangle him.

  I can feel his pulse beating against my inner arm as I hold onto his neck and I let out a girlish yelp as he starts ascending the hill. Like last night, this is just as freeing, me riding atop this wild man.

  It takes no time to reach the top, a soft plateau that looks out onto the other hills.

  He gently lets me down, even though I could have piggy-back rode him forever.

  “Not a bad place,” he says, looking around him. “It’s like a miniature version of the Shire.”

  “Or the Shire,” I scoff, hitting him on the arm. “Because they were miniature.”

  “Calm down little Lord of the Rings nerd,” he tells me, crossing his arms across his chest, his legs in a wide-stance, surveying the land like he owns it.

  He definitely owns me.

  Still. “I am not a Lord of the Rings nerd,” I tell him. “Not that I would care if I was, it’s just common knowledge. If anyone is a nerd, it’s you. You’re still working your way through Game of Thrones. You know you could just watch the TV show.”

  He shrugs, not giving a fuck. “The book is always better. And I’m a masochist, just like George. I can relate.”

  I roll my eyes good-naturedly then fish out my phone. I take a selfie of us with the green hills behind us, which he obliges even though he hates the camera, then press the phone into his hand.

  “It looks like some bad weather is coming in,” I tell him, noting the clouds moving in from the west. “Do you mind going over there and taking a picture of me.” I point at the next hill over, one that seems to lead onto a large plateau, the back of the hill high and craggy.

  “You want me to take a picture of you from there?” he asks. “I hate to break it to you but the iPhone isn’t going to pick you up at all. You’ll be a stick figure.”

  “That’s what I want,” I tell him, hitting him on the arm and trying to shoo him before the sunshine is gone. “Believe me, it will be a scenery shot and I bet from up there it will look amazing. Only you and I will know to look for me.”

  He seems to get this. He kisses me quickly on the lips and starts running down the hill. “Don’t go anywhere,” he yells over his shoulder and then disappears over the side.

  I breathe in deeply, closing my eyes. The air is pure, fresh, a mixture of the nearby sea and the fertile grass. It’s absolutely heavenly.

  This must be what peace smells like.

  I turn my head to the sun before the clouds steal it away and smile into it, letting the rays soak me from head to toe.


  Happy.

  I’m fucking happy.

  “Excuse me,” a voice says to my left, snapping me out of my zone.

  My eyes fly open and I turn to see a large, lumbering man coming toward me, rounding the crest of the hill. He walks stiffly and the way one of his pant legs clings inward below the knee, makes me think he might have a prosthetic leg.

  At first I thought he was going to ask me to take his picture – he seems alone. But now I’m wondering if he sees my leg-splint and cane and is coming over here out of empathy.

  “Hi,” I say to him, giving him a cautious smile. Out of the corner of my eye I see Keir a hundred feet away starting to climb the other mound.

  “Hey,” the man says, stopping beside me, his gaze going to Keir. He’s a young guy, maybe in his late twenties, red in the face, crew-cut blonde hair, thick neck. He’s wearing khakis and a leather jacket. Dog tags lie on top of his t-shirt and the combination of that and his mannerisms just scream army man to me.

  He’s fidgeting too, his fingers twisting together nervously. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” I say cautiously, wondering why this guy is anxious, why he won’t stop staring at Keir.

  He points off in Keir’s direction. He’s almost to the top of the hill.

  “Is that Keir McGregor?”

  I jolt at that. “What? How do you know Keir?”

  The guy finally looks at me, dark brown eyes full of curiosity. “Sorry, I should introduce myself.” He sticks out his hand. “My name is Oliver Blackwood. My friends call me Brick.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Keir

  The hill is steeper than I expected, my boots nearly slipping on sheep-shit as I climb up. The waterfall that I heard in the distance is growing louder, though when I finally reach the summit, it’s hardly more than a stream, tumbling downward between a crevice in the greenery. A lone apple tree grows from the banks, the leaves turning yellow and gold.

  I turn around and lose my breath. The view from here is stupendous and with the sun shining in my eyes, making everything glow, it’s hard to take it all in. It’s a blinding green as far as you can see, bordering on neon, the shadows catching between the various mounds and hills, the sun shooting through the clouds like someone opening a window in a dark room. The stone circles dot the land in between. Beyond the rounded hills of the fairy glen, waterfalls spout from the mountains, their grassy slopes look like velvet in this light.

  In a way it’s such a fucking shame to have to head back to Edinburgh tomorrow. This whole trip, being out here and exploring the unknown and peaceful places, makes me dream about a life with Jessica. How easy, how beautiful it would be to have a wee house somewhere. Maybe on the cusp of a desolate moor, maybe by one of the many beaches we passed, maybe tucked away under the shadow of a munro or in the middle of a tiny village, like the ones they have here on Skye. She could teach yoga – she can do anything – I would open a garage. It would be so fucking perfect. My heart nearly trips over itself just thinking about it.

  My eyes scan over the horizon again, back to the mound where I came from, ready to line up the shot. But it takes me a while to realize I’m looking at Jessica’s silhouette because she’s talking to someone.

  A tremor of jealousy runs through me. I can tell it’s a man and a big one at that. The way he’s gesturing seems vaguely familiar.

  I don’t want him in the shot.

  Move, little red, I tell her mentally and start waving my hand, hoping that she’ll see me and realize I’m ready, maybe move to the edge of the hill so I can capture her by herself. The whole photo was her idea, I was just doing it to make her happy.

  But if she sees me, she doesn’t react. I wish I could see her expression from here, all I can really get is her silhouette.

  She’s gesturing with her arm to me now. Then to the man. The man faces her, not moving, like he’s listening to her every word.

  Something about his shape makes my gut harden.

  Warning bells go off in my head.

  Nearly the same feeling I got the day we were attacked.

  I start running down the hill, trying not to eat shit as I go, suddenly filled with this pressing urgency to get to her in time. I feel like a bomb is about to go off, like we’re about to be attacked, like something horrible is going to rip us apart.

  No, no, no, no.

  I hit the flat ground and start sprinting across the grass, jumping over wayward stones.

  As I get closer, I lose sight of her, the angle of the hill blocking my view.

  I start scrambling up the hill right there, ignoring the path on the other side. I grab hold of the grass, my fingernails digging into the dirt when my boots want to slip, and I climb, frantic.

  Jessica’s profile comes into view as I rise up. It happens in slow motion.

  She turns her head to look at me, her face paler than milk, her eyes shimmering with pain as they meet mine.

  Oh no.

  I don’t even…

  I keep climbing up and then the other person comes into view.

  I’m staring at Brick Blackwood.

  The only one left of my men who survived.

  I stop, my chest tight, not from the climb but from the terrible realization that my world has finally come crashing down on me.

  I have no words. I don’t know what to say. Jessica is staring at me with shock and Brick is giving me an awkward smile. I can’t pretend I don’t know him though. I owe him just as much as I owe Jessica.

  “Sir,” Brick says, automatically standing taller when I approach and fuck, I wish he hadn’t done that. “Sorry to just come over here like this, I wasn’t sure if it was you or not.” He tries to smile and I try to return it.

  I stare at him in disbelief. “Brick,” I say, my eyes darting to Jessica and back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Me and my wife are taking a little road trip,” he says.

  “You’re married? That’s fantastic,” I tell him but my voice falters. There’s too much to latch onto here, too much to deal with and I don’t even know where to start. Why is he here? How could this happen?

  What has he told her?

  He nods. “Yeah. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, I barely know her but it happened. Hey, I heard you didn’t sign on for another tour. You leaving the army?”

  I can’t bear to look at Jessica now. “I did. It was time for me to move on, do something else.”

  Brick frowns at that, exaggerating the deep crease between the eyes that is almost always there. Brick was the angry one, the one who watched romantic comedies when no one was looking, who always had a joke to tell a minute after he had a screaming match. He was the last surviving member of my unit and had lost a leg in the process. I didn’t think about him as much as I should, not as much as I did about Lewis and Jessica. But he was another person I deeply owed a debt to.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch,” he says, even though I’m equally to blame for that. “After I saw what Smith did on the news, I should have reached out to you. I wanted to. I guess I just…lost the nerve. I know you took things pretty hard.”

  “Not as hard as you did,” I whisper, eying his leg.

  He reaches down and pats his calf. “This old thing? It wasn’t your fault, McGregor. Not this. Not what happened to Ansel and Roger. Not what happened to Lewis.”

  Jessica sucks in her breath, a loud sharp sound that causes us both to look her way.

  She’s put it all together.

  Brick nods at her. “What did you say your name was again? Jessica?” He looks to me, confused. “Is this the girl Lewis shot down? Damn. I thought you looked familiar.”

  I go completely still, as if if I don’t move, there’s a chance I can disappear.

  “Yes,” Jessica says, her voice flat. “This is the girl.” She stares at me in disbelief. “Keir, I don’t understand. You were in the army? You knew Lewis Smith, the man who shot me?”

  “Oh, fuuuuuuck,” Brick whistles undernea
th his breath. Fearful eyes fling to me. “Sorry,” he mouths, walking past me to leave.

  Though I want to keep my attention on Jessica, on the bomb detonating and sucking us in the blast, I owe Brick more than that. I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Listen,” I say to him in a low voice, leaning in close. “I’d love to talk more. When you get back, please get in touch with me. There’s a lot I have to say to you. That I need to say.”

  He nods and looks over my shoulder at Jessica. “Seems I’m not the only one you need to talk to. Good luck, sir.”

  Brick Blackwood disappears over the hill.

  Now it’s just me and Jessica and the deadly truth.

  And I know, I know from the faint horror in her eyes, the way she’s looking at me like I’m already a stranger, that when I come down off this hill, I will have completely lost her.

  Then again, that was always the risk anyway.

  “Keir,” Jessica says, standing where she is, her voice empty. “Please tell me none of that is true. I don’t…I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  I suck in a deep breath. “What did he tell you?”

  “What? Why?” she exclaims, throwing her arm out. “So you can try and match up your lie to the truth he told?”

  Frankly, yes.

  “I just want to know what he told you.” My fists clench and unclench, my nails driving into my palm in a desperate attempt to not lose my motherfucking mind.

  “He told me he was in the army with you. That you were his Lance Corporal and that he hasn’t seen you in a while. That it was quite the small world here in Scotland. That’s what he said.”

  “And then you said…”

  She looks at me in disgust. “What I said? What does it fucking have to do with me? I said that he must be mistaken because Keir was never in the army. He must be thinking of someone else, must be another Keir McGregor out there. But not my Keir. Why? Because I just asked him the other day if he was in the army and he said no.” She swallows painfully. “And you did. I asked and you fucking lied to my face!”

  I take in a deep breath. My heart wants to claw itself out of my chest. “I had to.”