Somewhere north of Fort William

I'm currently trying to untangle the bra from my birds' nest of a hair bun and have managed to knock my sunglasses off my face in the process, too. 

This is a freaking nightmare!

I duck down as low as I can in my seat to try to limit views of my embarrassing struggle. I can hear a low chuckle coming from the direction of the driver's seat, though, and my face heats up considerably.

Owen Sullivan.

Last spotted in real life approximately ten years ago in a busy Glasgow pub. His hazel eyes sparkling, grin dazzling, as I'd added my phone number to his mobile. I'd finally been promoted to Phone Friend after nearly a year of being solely a Facebook Friend.

I'd actually genuinely thought that was going to be the start of something. And, unfortunately, I couldn't have been more wrong.

But, I'd thought, for several years after I'd had a brief moment of fury and blocked him completely on social media, at least I wouldn't ever have to see him again. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I'd actually pretty much forgotten he existed. I've become really good at out-of-sight-out-of-mind over the years. Mostly thanks to him: "Forgetting Owen Sullivan" was the first course I took in order to start developing this special skill of mine.

Yet here he is, almost a decade later, mere feet away from me. And to say I'm quite cross about that would be a massive understatement.

I might not be able to blame anyone but myself for this hangover, but I can certainly blame Nessa for this particular unpleasant surprise. Because this isn't really a coincidence. Let's face it, that would be hard to believe. A little too convenient and contrived, like something that happens in a romance novel. *rolls eyes*

The problem is that, for the past few years, Nessa has been seeing my brother Kieran. (Why yes, it did take me a while to get used to that, thanks so much for asking!) And, when our holiday plan went tits up last minute, and we couldn't find any reasonable holiday abroad as a back-up, Kieran called in a favour with an old friend who ran a Scottish tour company.

And of course the friend is Owen. I just hadn't slotted all the pieces into the "Fuck My Life" jigsaw until now. 

I finally manage to remove the bra from my head, replace my sunglasses, and sink down further.

I have no idea how to play this. How to react. I'm going to have to acknowledge him at some point, obviously, but I'm not even sure I can act normal.

Did he know I would be on this trip? 

"Vanessa," Owen says now, getting my friend's attention. "Do you think some stodge would help you lot out? There's a pub in Drumnadrochit which does good fish and chips; it's less than an hour away from here."

My stomach growls in agreement. Apparently, my appetite is coming back, at least.

"That sounds amazing, actually," Nessa says gratefully. "I think we all need a major dose of carbs."

What I really need, I reflect, is a time machine . . . so I can go back to last week and not agree to replace a pool holiday in Portugal with a road trip around Scotland. Particularly not one involving him.

Six days with Owen fecking Sullivan. I close my eyes tightly, frustration coursing through my body. "Shit," I say quietly.

"You okay, Mir?" Nessa asks me.

Fuck, I can't say this out loud... he'll hear. But I need to get this off my chest. I pull my phone out of my bag, and gesture towards it, then pull up WhatsApp.

Remember Portpatrick Boy?

Nessa knows the story. She was out with me the night I last saw him in person, on my 19th birthday, although she never actually met him. She reads the message and looks at me questioningly. I nod towards the front of the bus, and her mouth drops open. My phone lights up. 

OWEN is Portpatrick Boy??? Ffs!

Yep. I'm freaking out, Ness! 

Try not to. 

That's . . . Really not helpful. Ever considered a career in counselling? Because . . . Just . . . Don't. :-(

"It'll be okay," she mouths at me. 

I'm not so sure.

I suppose meeting people from your past can be fun sometimes. Exchanging memories. Reminiscing. I've never particularly liked dwelling on the what-could-have-beens, though. And Owen . . . Well, it's not that he broke my heart or anything like that; I didn't think he was a terrible person then, and I'm sure he's still not. 

But . . . He hurt my feelings. He made me feel sad and a bit disposable when I was already in a vulnerable place. I felt embarrassed, even if no one else (bar Nessa, of course) was in on that little secret.

And people who make me feel like that don't have a place in my life.

I turn my attention to the scenery outside, remembering that last night at Galloway Haven, when I'd admitted to Owen how little I'd travelled. Not only had I barely left Scotland at that point, but I'd never been further north than Perth. I'd been confined to a tiny geographical space for years, and as soon as I was old enough, I left the country as often as I could. I planned holidays with various friends, several times a year, scrimping on everything else in my life so I could afford to go to all the destinations that I (probably unfairly) felt I'd been robbed of as a kid.

In less than ten years, I've covered a vast amount of Spanish and Greek islands. Visited New York and Boston, Paris and Prague. Floated in the Dead Sea and admired the Pyramids.  

But I've still haven't explored most of Scotland. And I've been happy to keep it that way. Somewhat dramatically, I've resented the country a little for keeping me hostage for so much of my life.

Yet another reason why I wasn't keen on the idea of this replacement holiday! 

I'm forced to admit, though, as we pass between dramatic mountains and pretty lochs that this part of Scotland is pretty stunning. Travelling through Glen Coe and Rannoch Moor on the train yesterday en route to Fort William was an eye-opener for sure. 

But it's not Portugal, and I'm bitter about that. So very bitter.

The hangover is finally starting to fade as we pull up in Drumnadrochit. But my nerves are ramping up as I realise I'm about to face this unwelcome memory. Taking a deep breath and a fortifying gulp of the last of my water, I let the others alight from the bus first.

He's waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and my first instinct is to just not look at him. I fiddle about with my bag, looking for some nonexistent item. Possibly my dignity, which definitely vanished with the bra incident.

"Mirren?" That voice. The way he says my name. Fuck. It curls around me like a cosy hug, cocoons me somehow in reluctant happiness. "It is you, right?"

The moment of truth has arrived, and I'm still not ready.

I raise my eyes to his, glad my sunglasses are still acting as a shield. Because I'd apparently managed to forget just how handsome he actually is. His half-reflection from the bus did him absolutely no justice.

I nod. "Hi Owen," I say stiffly. I hold out a hand - am I wanting him to shake it? What the fuck am I doing? I feel like I'm morphing into some sort of socially-awkward robot.

He ignores my hand, his face breaking out into a massive grin. And suddenly his arms are around me.

He's hugging me?

"It's so great to see you," he says warmly.

And, for a brief moment or two, I don't know what else to do other than return that hug.