I can only see half of his face, reflected in the mirror at the front of the bus, and part of that is obscured by the peak of the black company-branded cap he's wearing. But I can see enough to glean that there's a strong jaw covered in scruff. A wi...
"Oh." Yeah. I really don't know what to say to that.
Owen actually had wanted to talk; to tell me what had been going on. And I'd cut all ties with him before he could.
"And Francesca . . . I wasn't ever with her," he tells me now. "She was my boss' daughter, and she looked at me as a brother, I guess. I certainly didn't see her as anything other than a friend. And she had a boyfriend. Who was there the day that photo was taken, as a matter of fact."
"I'm sorry for assuming," I mutter.
"I can't exactly blame you." He's quick to reassure me. "It all looked pretty bad. And really, I should have known better than to send a text message that said 'can we talk?'" He grimaces. "Everyone knows that's rarely a good sign."
"That's true." I nod. "So you were coming back to Scotland at that point?"
"Yeah. One day, I woke up, and my head was clearer than it had been in weeks. I knew I couldn't keep putting off reality, and I really didn't want to stay in Lanzarote forever, nice as it is. So I decided to come home and finally come clean with my folks.
"They were more pissed about the fact they'd also found out I was no longer in uni through Facebook than anything else, to be honest. And they were obviously disappointed that I didn't want to ever take over the holiday park, but they understood. I had built it up to be such a huge thing in my head, to the point it had taken over everything else for a while. If I'd just told them from the outset, maybe I wouldn't have ended up in that terrible headspace."
He picks up his beer and takes a long gulp, staring intently at the view outside. "I - a couple of months later, I ran into your brother. I asked about you - tried to be as casual as possible, but I probably failed dismally. He told me you were good, that you were seeing someone. I knew then I'd missed my chance. Not that I had a way of getting in touch with you anyway - Kieran would have been the only line of communication, and I could hardly tell him what I'd done to you." He grins. "Although, who knows, I might have risked the potential beating had you been single."
"I don't know if you can rebound over someone who was never yours," I say quietly. "But Donnie was definitely a rebound decision for me." And a bad one, which I continued to make, on and off, for several years. Thinking I didn't deserve anything better.
The most ironic thing is that, had Owen never been in the picture, I probably wouldn't have gotten involved with Donnie in the first place. I'd have possibly even formed a relationship with someone far better for me than Donnie ever was. So, I guess in a way, I've been blaming Owen for the shitty relationship I'd been in for years, too.
I shake my head to clear my own thoughts. "So what happened next for you?" I ask. "After you spoke to your parents?"
"I did some more travelling, around Europe mostly. Then I went back to uni and did a business course. One summer, I got a job working in a hotel, not too far away from here, actually. I'd drive around a lot in my free time, and that's when I found myself falling for Scotland after all. And the rest, I suppose, is history." He shrugs modestly.
"I also went to counselling for a while. The way I'd spiralled out of control like that freaked me out, and I wanted to be able to identify my triggers, and how to manage them." He laughs. "Probably a good thing I did, since the pandemic turning up approximately two seconds after I started my own travel business would have probably sent the old version of me into the same state I was in ten years ago."
"It's definitely good you talked to someone about it," I say.
"Yeah, it helped a lot." He looks directly at me again, and I feel like he knows somehow that I've considered counselling myself. That this weird bond we seem to have tells him things I'm not yet ready to reveal. And, although he doesn't say it, I also know he's telling me he's there if I want to talk too.
He drains the last of his drink. "Mirren, I want you to know . . . I haven't told you all of this because I expect anything of you. I don't anticipate you're going to jump into my arms and tell me it's all okay and we're all good, but I just wanted you to know that what happened that summer is one of my biggest regrets. I don't know what would ultimately have happened between us had I came back as planned, had we gone on that date . . . But over the years, I've thought about it a lot, and I do feel I missed this massive opportunity for something amazing thanks to my behaviour."
"It's okay, though," I tell him. "I know I've given you a bit of a hard time, but I understand now."
And I do. I actually get it. Deep down, I think I always knew he wouldn't have done me dirty like that without a good reason.
But he's not finished, and his next words . . . Well, they rock my world in somehow the best and worst way at the same time.
"But I do want to add this. And I'm saying it without any expectations; I just feel I've been given a chance I don't deserve, and I want to put this out there. I like you, and I think you like me too, despite everything. If all you want is friendship, if even that, then that's absolutely cool. But if you wanted to try to see if there could be something more here . . . Then I'd be up for that, too." His gaze is steady again, and my breathing is shallow.
"I don't . . . I don't know." I feel like I've been saying this a lot recently. My brain feels incapable of logical thought. Actually, it currently feels unqualified to formulate any type of thought.
"Absolutely no pressure." He stands. "The ball is completely in your court. If you decide you do want anything more, just let me know."
"Okay. I'll give it some thought." I do my best to play things cool, but suddenly there's the tiniest spark of hope in my heart that I'm just not ready to extinguish. This is the first time in a long time, I realise, that I've felt even this tiny level of optimism. And I wonder if this is a good sign . . . or a clear warning. He nods and pushes his chair in. "Oh, but one more thing, Owen? If my friends ask, I hate them, and I had a miserable time tonight." I smile to show I'm only kidding. Nothing could be further from the truth, after all.
He grins back. "Fair enough, that can be the official line. Unofficially, though?" He touches my shoulder lightly as he turns to leave, hazel eyes brimming with sincerity. "I'm really bloody glad they meddled."
And, as I watch him walk out the door, my skin still tingling from his touch, I know I'm really bloody glad too.
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