The Reluctant Roadtripper (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter 5

Inverness, Scottish Highlands

Several hours later, I'm feeling far more human - but just as emotionally wrecked - as I settle myself at the hotel bar. I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall as I raise my bottle of mango and raspberry Rekorderlig to my lips, pleased with my transformation from bridge dwelling troll into relatively pretty girl.

Layering on extra mascara and contouring the crap out of my face had nothing - absolutely nothing -  to do with the fact I might run into Owen, of course. And choosing to wear my favourite dress - a turquoise tea dress with a subtle but plunging neckline - and shaving my legs was completely unrelated too.

"What can I get you, sir?" When the barman speaks, I look up automatically to see who has taken the barstool beside me.

Fabulous.

"Just a pint of Guinness, please." Owen pushes the sleeves of his dazzling white shirt up and swivels in his seat towards me. His grin is still as bright as ever, but I can sense he feels awkward, as if he's finally realised I'm not exactly over-the-moon to see him. "How are you feeling?" He forges on cheerfully. "Hangover gone now?"

I nod. Look away. Force myself not to fill the silence.

Then I remember I promised Nessa I'd at least try with him (damn her!) so I coax my pink-coated lips into a semblance of a smile and force myself to meet his gaze. "Much better, thanks. I thought I might die this morning, though, so anything would be an improvement on that."

He laughs, clearly relieved that I'm apparently making an effort. "It really is so nice to see you again," he says softly, after a brief hesitation. His eyes are bright and eager as he studies my face. "You haven't really changed . . . Well, apart from the hair."

The hand that isn't clutching my bottle of cider like my life depends on it flies to my head at his words. About six months ago, I made the impulsive decision to bleach the life out of my shoulder-length hair and add lilac streaks. At first, I regretted it and planned to return to my former brunette self as soon as my hairdresser allowed. But I ended up really liking it once I was used to it, so, for now, it stays.

"I've actually changed a lot over the last ten years." I can practically taste the bitterness in my voice, at odds with the sweet taste of the cider. Suddenly, I want to make it clear to him that I'm still pissed off with his actions - or lack of them - back then.

He winces.

The words I've left unspoken hang between us. He's understood what I'm trying to say, and I knew he would. Owen isn't stupid. It's one of the many things I used to like about him. 

"I'm sorry, Mirren," he says quietly, his words practically toppling over themselves in their hurry to escape. "I never intended for . . . I didn't mean to just not come back like that. But then I had no way of getting in touch with you, and then next thing I know, it's ten years later, and suddenly you're . . . here, and I'm hoping that maybe, somehow, I can get a chance to make up for the past."

For the first few months after I'd found out that Owen wasn't returning from the Canary Islands after all, I'd imagine countless scenarios in my head: an alternate reality where he reappeared in my life begging for another chance. This usually happened while in the shower - as we all know, this is the best place for those "things I wish I could have said" conversations.

I had different responses prepared - there was the "gracious" template, and the polite "go fuck yourself" version, and what reply I would go with on any given day depended entirely on my mood.

Finally, I get the opportunity to use the latter draft. 

"This is the real world, Owen," I reply wearily. "You don't get rewrites here."