Brian unfolded his bulk from the backseat, joining me on the pebbles where, during the day, tourists parked to stare at the wild view of highland ruggedness and cliff sides. But by night, it was the well-known ‘getting high and having sex’ hang-out spot for rebellious teens. “You’re just a tease, Hope Murphy. A goddamn tease.”
I almost rolled my eyes.
Couldn’t he see how cliché all of this was? Girl and boy date. Girl doesn’t really like boy, but she’s lonely enough to go along with it. Boy thinks he’s going to get lucky, but girl decides she’s worth more and would rather wait forever than give up everything for nothing.
Ugh, even his argument was cliché.
Hence the reason why I wanted to be a scriptwriter. Humans could only tell so many tales. The well-known tropes of the ‘meet-cute, boy-next-door, friends-to-lovers, enemies-to-lovers, and forbidden romance’ were all overdone. But within those tropes, variations could make a common love story unique—but only if the dialogue and delivery were special.
And Brian was definitely not special.
“I’m going to walk home.” I brushed past Brian to grab my small handbag and plum trench coat from the front seat. The trench I’d bought with the income I’d earned from my small acting parts. I had a habit of buying clothes that were a bit too old and styles too regal for a teenage girl who still had no clue who she was.
Only that she was lonely.
So, so freaking lonely.
“You cannae walk home. We’re miles away from the village.”
“I can walk home. And I’m going to.” My nose came up in case he argued again.
I wasn’t afraid of the dark or the temperamental weather of Scotland. I’d ridden in far worse. At least horses were there for me—making me stronger in both body and spirit, carving me from a silly child to someone I would hopefully learn to like.
“Well, dannae come crying to me when you get lost,” Brian muttered, moving around his car to get into the driver’s seat. “We’re through, by the way. I’m dumping you.”
I couldn’t contain my laughter. My snicker was full of months of dating someone I wasn’t interested in and finally being set free. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all year.”
“You’re a witch.” He slammed his door and twisted the key with a jerk. The Vauxhall growled pathetically then squealed like a rat as he spun from the car park.
I coughed a little on the dust left behind. Shrugging into the trench and slinging my handbag over my shoulder, I shoved my hands deep into the warm pockets.
With my mind full of fatherless farm boys, I began the long trek home, all the while concocting believable excuses to hide the fact I’d been up at the lookout after curfew with an unused condom in my bag and a heart still well and truly smitten with a boy I would never have.
* * * * *
Sunday.
Normally, I’d go riding with Sally on the moor, even in the rain, but today, I wasn’t in the mood.
Last night, after sneaking home with blisters on my toes from stupid suede boots, I’d made the mistake of pulling out Jacob’s old letters.
Not that there were many of them.
I’d lost track of how many I’d sent him, but I could count the number of his replies on one hand.
Only four.
All simple and closed off with an unwritten message to leave him alone.
Hope,
Glad you got the locket okay. Stop thanking me. Seriously. It was just a practical thing—doesn’t mean anything.
Happy riding in Scotland.
Jacob.
A few lines of neatly written text in return for three pages of me gushing with thanks for his gift and news about my new life in Scotland.
I cringed as I placed the letter back in its box. I’d been a silly, idealistic little girl. I’d believed Jacob found me as fascinating as I found him, but it wasn’t until I started dating Brian and grew up that I’d understood I’d just been an annoying child.
And nothing was fascinating about a child who wouldn’t stop asking about death.
God, it was almost too embarrassing to remember how desperate I was to be around Jacob. How, every day at horse camp, I was more interested in spying where he was than actually riding.
Pathetic, Hope.
Adding salt to my already flayed memories, I opened another letter.
Hope,
Thanks for the news, but honestly, you don’t have to keep writing. It’s fine. I get that you love the locket and that Scotland is totally different from here.
As for me, I’m good. Horses are good. Life moves forward.
Have a great day.
Jacob.
As I ran my finger over the handwritten letters, heat once again flooded my cheeks. A few years ago, when I’d received this letter, I’d been besotted with everything Jacob Wild. His notes might’ve been short, but I was a master at reading into them. Painting a picture of him working the land, enjoying a novel where he was sunburned and dirty, watching a movie of him taking a nap between Forrest’s legs in lush green grass.