Page 89 of Unless It's You
Stella shifts in the bed and I watch her settle, waiting for her to wake up. Maybe if she does, I’ll talk to her, even though I shouldn’t, and confess how confusing this journal is. Mum had the right intentions but couldn’t follow through. I wish she’d have talked to me. I wish I’d known the mum who wrote this journal entry, the mum who took me to Skye. Not the mum I had the rest of the time. The mum who ignored me, neglected me, disparaged me. The mum who lost herself in a bottle and a never-ending string of loser men.
I study the curve of Stella’s cheeks. The lids of her closed eyes, covering the dark-blue irises I could get lost in, like a thick mist on the sharp mountains of the Scottish Highlands.
But Ihavefallen in love. I found my soulmate. She’s right there.
And I’m going to spend one last night sleeping beside her.
35
STELLA
Friday, August 2
BUCKET LIST DAY 26
After I left the men last night, I stayed up another hour to work on what I would say to Ethan today. This morning, I woke up to the pillow wall between us. The man slept in the bed with me, but built an actual wall of pillows.
Hedoesread romance novels.
It’s heartbreaking, but I’m also still cracking up about it inside as our group gathers in the parking lot of the Old Man of Storr.
“Come on,” I say to the men behind me, who do not move an inch. It’s the director, Gerald, two members of the crew, Joe and Dave, and Ethan. They’re all a little slow this morning, which is not surprising, given how trashed they were when I snuck away last night.
Ethan’s standing in front of one of the cars, posed with his arms crossed and one leg loosely linked over the other, looking out over the gorgeous expanse of horizon and water. I memorize the width of his shoulders, the curve of his arms through the hoodie,and his profile, waiting for him to make eye contact. It doesn’t happen, but he follows the others as they head toward me.
The gravel path is well worn, rocky, and lined with tall grasses that sway in the cool island breeze. The views from here are absolutely magical, with the impressively large Loch Leathan sprawled out in front of us, pulling on something in my soul. I breathe in through my nose and close my eyes for a few beats. This is the last item on Evelyn’s bucket list, as well as where I’ll tell Ethan how I feel.
Am I going to have to do it in front of the crew? Maybe.
I shift my backpack and lead the group, trailing a couple probably around my age. They’re dressed in woolen hats, rain slickers, and hiking boots. Probably the right choice, as the vast sky is covered with a mixture of white fluffy clouds and menacing darker ones. The couple is holding hands, reaching over to kiss as I watch. I pull up my hood and lift my shoulders. I could use another layer.
This place is special. It’s where Evelyn’s true love asked her to marry him. Where she hesitated, said no, and later regretted it. The Old Man—a towering, skinny rock, so tall it’s basically reaching into the heavens—looms ahead of us and I tilt my head to take it in. I picture Evelyn and her love walking up this very path fifty years ago, about to take a hike that would change their lives. He’d be thinking about how he was going to ask her to marry him, ask her to uproot her life by moving to Scotland so they could be together.
What was she thinking at that very moment? I don’t know. But I know what she thought about it later, thanks to the letter she left me.
Hers is exactly the type of story I used to fear, and before this month, I would have thought it was a close call, almost getting sucked into changing her life completely for a man. Giving it all up for love? No way. I’ve never felt that close to someone. Even Hunter was an illusion, and everyone since then—including Ben—has felt just fake. Evelyn must’ve agreed with the sentiment, at least when she was on her way up the Old Man of Storr.
But now, that just looks like choosing loneliness, and I don’t want to do that.
I want to stay who I am, but also live my life with Ethan. I can do both things, can’t I? It’s all clear now. To me, anyway.
The internet tells me it should take about an hour and fifteen minutes round trip: forty-five minutes up to the top, then around thirty back down. So that’s how long I have with Ethan. And a bunch of other dudes.
I glance behind me. Gerald and Joe are trailing about ten feet behind, chatting and laughing. Ethan and Dave take up the rear, and Dave’s telling a story about his teenaged son getting into trouble at school. Behind our crew is another group of people. A family. Two men walking closely together and two middle-school aged boys ahead of them, laughing and fighting over who is better at rugby versus soccer.
Ethan’s quiet. Thinking about his mom? Thinking about me? He makes eye contact and quickly looks away. My heart squeezes. I’m not sure how he’s wormed his way this close to me over the past month, when on the first day, that meeting in the conference room, he seemed to hate me.
And now... this. It was never really hate.
I get to a wooden gate and push through, leading the group between rolling, green, moss-covered hills. The gravel part of the path ends, turning into a dirt-packed trail that gets gradually steeper and rockier, with muddy patches to traverse, my sneakers not having ideal traction. The chattering behind me dies down and my own breathing gets heavier.
Rounding a corner, the view is breathtaking over another large expanse of land and water. I gasp quietly and pause to take it in. It’s a view of a million miles, the ocean in the distance, Loch Leathan in front of me, the rolling, rocky Skye landscape betweenhere and there. Looking out, anything seems possible. Everything, really.
It’s magical.
The men approach behind me and Gerald whistles.
“Gorgeous. I’d say this is about good enough for me.”
