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."

Mic drop. Boom! Thunderous applause - in my head, of course.

It doesn't sound as good as it did in my many shower rehearsals. In fact, I now wish I could rewrite my response. The irony of this does not escape me.

However, it still has the desired effect. His animated face drops into a sad mask, and I end up suddenly feeling like I kicked a puppy. What is wrong with me? "I guess I deserved that," he says quietly. 

"Yeah," I mutter, relieved to spot my friends coming into the bar. I wave frantically at them, desperate for a distraction. All three of them look surprised by my enthusiasm. "Ready for dinner?" I ask them.

"Have fun, ladies." Owen's smile has been downgraded from devastating to mild on the Richter scale as he turns to his drink, and I know it's all my fault.

"Owen, you should eat with us," Nessa suggests, and I glare at her. That's the last thing I want. My mic-drop moment was meant to be followed by a rapid exit, for goodness sake! Owen shakes his head and protests, but my so-called best friend is insistent. Shooting me what I think is meant to be an apologetic look, he reluctantly agrees.

We settle down at a table at the restaurant, and somehow, Owen ends up opposite me again. Great. 

"So how exactly do you two know each other?" Debbie asks before we can even open the menus, looking between us nosily. It's just like her to stir the pot - she never means it maliciously, but I swear to god she keeps a metaphorical giant spoon on her person at all times, ready to pull out at any opportunity.

But I also guess our relationship is the massive elephant in the room at this point, and needs to be addressed. 

Owen glances at me awkwardly, as if to ask whether he should explain our link or not. I nod towards him and raise my eyebrows sullenly, a silent agreement for him to go ahead.

"My parents used to own a caravan park in Dumfries and Galloway, where I'm from," he explains. "Mirren and Kieran's family were probably our most regular visitors."

A sudden rush of familiarity and warmth towards our shared history floods me as he speaks, and I laugh despite myself. "My parents used to joke with your folks that they should give them some sort of loyalty card," I say, almost without thinking. I look towards my friends. "We were there for two weeks every summer without fail."

"Didn't you come for a few Easters, too? And the October week once?" He asks me, and Michelle whistles quietly. 

"Someone was paying attention," she sings out, and my eyes involuntarily shoot towards Owen's face again. His suddenly pink face.

"Oh, give him a break, Mich," I snap in her direction. "He did half the admin for the place - of course he's going to remember that." Over the years, while mentally filming my highlight reel, I'd come to realise that Owen spent a lot of time actually helping out in the park. The aforementioned admin as well as more manual work. Sometimes, the latter was carried out topless, like that old "Diet Coke break" tv advert. The reality was far better than the commercial.

But, despite me instantly - and inadvertently - jumping to his defence there, his words do give me food for thought. Had he always noticed me? Or am I reading too much into things?

I remind myself it doesn't matter. He's still a decade too late.

"I did help out with a lot of the admin," Owen says now, nodding. His gaze flicks back to meet mine. "But I was also paying attention." The edges of his perfect soft lips curl up into a half smile, the shyness contained within it at odds with the boldness of his sentence, and he ducks his head briefly.

"Oooooooh!" Debbie and Michelle say in chorus, and it's my face's turn to betray my embarrassment.

My insides swirl like clothes trapped in a washing machine on the fast cycle. My natural instinct to flee is kicking in . . . but I'm also absolutely ravenous, so I pick up my menu, as if the last five minutes never happened, and bury my face in it. "So what's everyone having to eat?"

Hopefully, by the time we've all ordered, we can move on to less awkward topics . . .

Hope you're enjoying the story! Please like, comment and share if you are.  And I'd love to know your thoughts so far. 💜

The next chapter is a continuation of tonight's dinner, so should be up in the next day or so. Then the updates will get a bit less regular as I've mostly caught up with what I've written so far. I was trying to space it out but I just can't resist posting!