Page 5 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Rory seems to find my fear funny. We’re three-quarters the way up one hill, the grass wet and slippery underfoot, and I have this pathological panic that I’m going to slide backward at an angle into an eternal void of nothingness. I’m going to disappear off this earth, fall to my death in a freak accident, and be mourned and victim-blamed as someone who should have known better than to go hiking with a boy who wants her dead.

But when I slip and cry out, Rory catches my hand in an instant. He reaches over to me, squeezing my hand in his, and draws me close to his crinkling waterproof jacket.

“Mountain safety,” he tells me, his eyes serious and his warm fingers still wrapped around mine. He doesn’t let me go, not even minutes later. Maybe he’s had enough of me hanging back, dragging my feet behind him like a surly teen on a trip she doesn’t want to be on — which, I remind myself, is what I actually am. Whatever it is, Rory’s grip around me tightens until I’m beside him, Captain Porthos darting between our legs as though this is what he’s always wanted, as though me being there has made this journey even more fun for him.

I watch, my heart a rapid beat somewhere north of my rib cage, as Rory pulls out his binoculars again. This time, however, instead of announcing another five miles or another three hills to climb, he passes the binoculars over to me, pointing in the direction I should be looking.

There’s a pleased smile on his face that’s irresistible, the kind of smile that would be infectious if the person on the receiving end of it had any concept of happy emotions.

Rory sits on the grass, watching avidly as I draw the binoculars to my eyes. All around us are towering mountains and for a while, I don’t see anything other than the bleak vastness I’m confronted by. I’m not even sure I’m looking in the correct spot. But then, through the copse of pine trees on the far side of the mountain ahead of us, I sense movement. Something stirs between the trees, and as I slowly slide the notch on the binoculars to zoom in, I discover in an instant what I’ve been brought here to see.

Up high in the pine trees, sheltered by the mountain range, is a wide nest fashioned from chunky sticks and long twigs. The heads of two fluffy bauble-shaped chicks bob up and down, crying for food. And protecting them, with its beady eyes watchful in the distance, is a giant beast of a bird. The moment it spreads its powerful sail-like wings, my mouth falls open; those wings could break a man’s back in half.

I stare at the scene for a long time, my mouth still opened in awe.

“What is it?” I whisper, as though talking any louder would break the spell, would make the birds fly away. “It’smassive.”

“Eagles — golden eagles,” Rory says with a thread of paternal pride, as though he’d hand-reared them himself. “Very rare here. They settled last month and the chicks hatched almost a week ago. Only a few of us know about it but it’ll be big news soon. They’ll all be traipsing up north with their giant cameras, all the wankers wanting their money shot forBirdwatching Monthly.” His voice softens slightly. “But for now it’s our secret, and I’ve come here every day just to watch. I thought you’d like to see.”

There’s a candid majesty and grace to the eagles that makes clambering up steep hills and almost falling to my death kinda worth it.

Rory strokes Captain Porthos’s head soothingly, his booted legs dangling at an almost vertical drop over the side of the peak. It doesn’t seem to faze him, the way I deliberately step a long way away from the edge in an act of self-preservation to avoid vertigo and, you know, general death. Rory’s relaxed here, in nature’s elements, his hands flat on the soil of his family’s ancient homeland. It’s as though he knows instinctively that this is the one place to which he truly belongs, that this is the land that’s filled his blood and knitted his bones.

Imagine that. Imagine belonging so resolutely to somewhere on this earth, somewhere you can call home. Imagine knowing deep in your heart exactly where home is the moment you even think the word.

I’m so jealous of Rory.

“This is where you’ve been,” I mumble, feeling stupid because I’d assumed his absence had been something more nefarious than birdwatching. “Watching birds.”

“Eagles,” he repeats pointedly, as though to indicate he wouldn’t have wasted his time if they’d been common city pigeons. “There are only four-hundred breeding pairs in Scotland and I’d never seen one before. Aren’t they beautiful?”

In one fell swoop, it’s like everything I ever assumed about Rory Munro has been dashed, scored out and markedwrongin blinking red lights. It rocks me to the core, that alien wrongness, like my judgment has been so off-kilter. Because never did I think Rory could care about anything other than himself. Never did I think Rory could acknowledge or appreciate beauty when it’s in front of his face.

Mechanically, I settle behind Rory, a safe distance from the edge, and return his binoculars. “Look!” he exclaims in a hushed whisper, pointing toward the sky. He doesn’t seem to realize how shattered my world has become, how dazed and sightless I am. “She’s soaring. She’s on the hunt for food.”

My gaze flickers to the gray sky, but without the aid of binoculars, all I see is a dark smudge. Instead, I glance at Rory, noting the excitement shining on his face, his long fair eyelashes grazing the binoculars, the purse of his soft, pink lips.

I’m so attracted to Rory that looking at him breaks my heart. There’s such tragic, aristocratic beauty to him. He’s so proud and blond and boyish, with a massive estate and a castle to his name, and, as much as I want to, I could never… we could never…

God, I wish I had more self-respect than to drool over a boy who’s treated me like crap for a year. The inner push-pull of hormones is overwhelming. It’s not him that’s out of my league but the reverse — or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

I’d do anything for Rory Munro’s validation.

He’s the king of my heart and he knows it.

He didn’t even have to try.

When he draws the binoculars back from his face, Rory doesn’t seem at all surprised to find me watching him. His lip curls slightly. “See something you like?” he asks, his permanent smirk on the verge of blooming into a full and dazzling smile.

I don’t deny it. I don’t want to anymore.

“Yes,” I say, testing it out, and Rory’s cold eyes widen, express emotion, almost imperceptibly. He hadn’t expected that response.

The only sound between us is the patter of rainfall and the soft whine of Captain Porthos. We’re on top of a peak. Around us, the world is vast and full of sky. If I’m unable to admit the truth in a place this empty and desolate, where we can pretend we’re nowhere on earth at all, then I’ll never be able to get over what Rory Munro does to my heart.

Energizes it. Beats it.

Makes it come alive.

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