Sparks in Scotland (12 page)

I nodded, swallowed. Hope was a living thing in my heart—hope that Graham was feeling this connection as strongly as I was. I'd told myself I wasn't going to plunge headfirst into this . . . thing with him. Yet here I was, finding myself unable to stop staring into his eyes.

So much for my self-proclaimed ability to maintain my distance. I gave a mental head shake. Still, it was hard to do so when Graham was opening up to me, letting me into his world. And that picture was pretty good evidence I wasn't alone in this feeling. That kind of earnestness couldn't be faked.

“Did ya have beliefs as a kid?” he asked me.

I rubbed my fingers along the stone wall at my right side. “I believed in
everything
when I was little. I would stay up late, waiting for fairy lights in the big tree right outside my bedroom window. I even swore I saw unicorns in the woods.” I bit my lip and huffed a breath of laughter. “To their credit, my parents didn't try to cram reality down my throat. They let me explore. They fostered my creativity.”

He nodded. “I like yer parents, Ava. They're good people.”

“They really are.” I was so lucky. In this moment, I realized once again how fortunate I was. Happy home life, on a vacation of a lifetime, talking with a handsome boy.

Graham nodded toward the water. “Yanno, this place always felt magical to me, even if it was just a fairy tale.” He glanced at me, his eyes open and honest. “That sounds silly, I'm sure. A guy talkin' ' bout fairies and such.”

“No, it doesn't.” I leaned toward him. “There's this park near our neighborhood where I like to walk sometimes. The path winds through the trees, and you just feel . . . connected to your surroundings. How is that not magical?”

“I believe it is.” He reached over and brushed my forearm, and my throat tightened. “Can't wait to show ya my favorite spot tomorrow. If anyone will feel the magic there, it'll be you.”

I couldn't wait either.

Chapter
Twelve

T
he bus ride to Inverness
didn't take long. It helped that the Highland views out my window were captivating. I wasn't sure I'd ever get tired of seeing those craggy hills, the moss-covered stones, the mountains that roared to the sky and punctured the clouds.

And the views inside the bus were pretty compelling too. My gaze was drawn back to Graham's profile again and again, and I drank it in. Imprinted it to memory—the high cheekbones, the straight line of his nose, the firm jaw. That small dimple that popped in his cheek when he grinned.

Every conversation I had with Graham made me connected to him even more. I couldn't stop thinking of him as a cute black-haired boy, running around Loch Ness hoping to find evidence of Nessie. It made my heart squeeze with delight. Not
to mention how cool it was that he and I were so alike.

I'd never imagined there were guys like him in the world. Then again, I'd had to travel over three thousand miles to meet him.

“How did you like Loch Ness?” Mom asked me. “Can I see your sketches?”

I grabbed them from my bag and showed her. She oohed and aahed as she flipped from page to page. Dad peered over her shoulder and gave me a nod of approval.

“You did a great job,” Mom gushed. “I like how you captured the movement in the trees across the water. I can tell your skill is improving.”

“Thanks.” I beamed from their praise. Summertime was great for giving me the extra time to work on my craft. During the school year, I didn't have much time to simply sit at my easel for hours.

Steaphan navigated the bus to a parking lot, then pulled to a stop and stood. “We're here! I think yer gonna enjoy today's festivities. The Highland Games are an important part of Scottish culture. Let's go watch some caber tossing and get fish-and-chips, aye? When that's done, we'll check into our inn. This evening is free time to explore Inverness on yer own.”

One by one we got off the bus. Excitement rippled in the air as crowds made their way toward the park, and I heard music and cheers and talking pouring from all around. I saw tents set up along one side, and tourists laden with cameras who milled around the grounds. The sun was out in full force, with wispy clouds off in
the distance. I tied my jacket around my waist and pushed up my sleeves. Beautiful afternoon weather.

“We're lucky to be around when Inverness is hosting their Highland Games,” Mom explained. “They only do it one day a year. Should be a lot of fun!”

Our tour group filed toward the entrance with the rest of the crowd, and Steaphan paid our entry fee. By unspoken agreement, we all stuck together—funny how a couple of days made us feel connected. Graham was talking to my parents, and while I couldn't understand what he was saying over the crowd noise, I still watched him for a moment, drawn to the light in his eyes and dimple in his cheek. Then I turned my focus to the site before me.

Whoa.

The area was a large open field with portions bracketed off. A long row of young girls dressed in their finest dancing clothes were currently kicking and swinging their legs. Their arms were thrust in the air as they danced proudly. People in the crowd clapped and cheered, and the bagpipes roared and lilted.

Our group moved to an area that wasn't as crowded and observed the dance competition. The girls wore a look of concentration on their faces; their bright-colored kilts bounced with every kick of their legs.

I took out my camera and grabbed some action shots. With the sun pouring across the field, everything was illuminated perfectly.

“Your mom and I are going to grab food,” my dad said. ­“Hungry?”

“I'm still full from breakfast,” I told him, turning my camera on its side to take portrait-framed photos. “I'll stay right here, okay?” I knew with the crowds this large, my parents would want me to hang out with our group.

“Okay, we'll be back soon!” Mom and Dad waved and left toward the food tents.

I put my camera away and hung close behind Tilda and her folks, who were speaking rapidly and pointing at the dancers. When Tilda saw me, she beamed and moved back to my side.

“Hello, Ava! This is great, yah?”

I nodded. “I could never dance like this. I'm not nearly coordinated enough.” At her frown, I rephrased, “I'm very clumsy. I trip a lot.”

“Oh, I see.” Her eyes twinkled with laughter. “Yah, I love to dance. But . . . I have never danced like that.”

“What kind of dancing do you do?”

“I am . . . modern dancer, I think is how you say.”

I blinked in surprise. “Really? How cool! I took dance lessons when I was a kid, but I was very, very bad. My mom finally stopped making me do it.”

When I was five, I'd watched some old dance movies and decided I wanted to learn how to do that. Mom signed me up for six months of dance lessons . . . where I found out that (a) I was far too uncoordinated to ever look graceful at dancing, and (b) the
practice was really, really boring and repetitive for me. No, dancing wasn't my thing, but I could appreciate the art and beauty for those who did it well.

Graham's laugh hit my ears, and I turned my head automatically toward it. His teeth flashed as he threw his head back and chortled at something his dad said.

“You . . . like him, right?” Tilda said in a low voice to me.

My first instinct was to downplay my crush. I gave a casual shrug. “Sure, he's a really nice guy.”

Her lips quirked. “Yah, he is. And . . . very handsome too.”

The music ended, and the crowd broke out in cheers and claps. I joined in, as did Tilda. The winning dancers were announced, and we applauded the girl who won first place, who had tears in her eyes and a broad smile on her sweaty face.

The dancers left, and I saw a row of guys in shorts and tank tops start stretching. Must be time for track events.

I kept my face neutral, aimed toward the field, and answered, “Yes, he is very handsome.” Heart thudding, I continued, “I do have a little crush on him. Not that anything is going to happen with it, of course.”

“Why not?” Tilda sounded genuinely confused.

I looked at her and saw that confusion in her eyes. “Because he lives here and I live in America.”

“And you have no phone or computer in America?” There was a teasing lilt in her voice.

I chuckled. “Yes, I do, but . . .” Anxiety knotted my stomach,
and I took a step toward her so I could speak in a lower voice. “I can't tell how he feels. I think he likes me too, but it might not be as much as I like him. And I don't want to get hurt again, caring about someone who won't miss me when I'm not around.”

Laying it all out there, making myself say the words, was strangely cathartic in and of itself. The tightness in my chest eased up a bit.

“Oh. Yah, I see.” Her eyes turned sad. “I have had boyfriend where . . .” She stopped to think about her words. “Where I like him more.”

“Exactly. I had a boyfriend like that, and when we broke up, it was awful, even though I knew he was never going to like me as much as I liked him.” I gave a heavy sigh. “And I'm worried—”

“This will happen again,” she finished. “That is scary, yah? But . . . I see in his eyes. He watches you when you do not see. Many times, I have seen this.”

Really?

My skepticism must have come across in my expression, because she continued, “My boyfriend, he is at home. We did not begin to date for a while. He . . . needed to have time to figure out his feelings.” She laughed. “But me, I was knowing from day one.”

“So what did you do? How did you two end up together?”

A loud voice called out that the sprint was starting. We turned toward the track and saw the row of guys lined up. Their faces were stern and focused as they bounced on their heels, then lowered themselves into sprint position.

The shot fired, and they took off to the yells of the crowd.

When a tall, thin guy with fiery red hair crossed the finish line, we broke out into whistling applause. His cheeks were stained red, his huge smile practically splitting his face in two.

The next round of runners began to warm up, and we resumed our conversation.

“So, I tell him how I feel and I ask him to his face, do you like me? Because I want to be your girlfriend.”

A laugh of surprise barked out of me. “Seriously, you just asked him?”

She shrugged, a bashful grin curving her lips. “And why not? If I know I want to be with him, I should tell him, yah? And not keep it the secret.”

Huh. For some reason, I never thought about just outright telling Graham I liked him and I wanted him to stay in contact with me. But maybe I should. Why not? After all, what did I have to lose by being brave? I was a modern girl, and I didn't need to wait around for him to tell me he liked me.

My stomach erupted in a mass of butterflies, and I swallowed. So much easier said than done. Not to mention it was still making myself vulnerable. And if he said no, that he didn't want to stay in touch . . .

“I'm afraid of being rejected,” I admitted in a rough whisper.

“It is so scary,” she said, empathy clear in her tone. “But . . . when I see him, I see his interest in you. I don't think he will tell you no. I have an older sister. Her name is Sigrid. She is in univer
sity in Stockholm, and her boyfriend, he is in university in France. But . . . they have been together for over three years now. If two people want to be together, they will be.”

My gaze darted toward Graham again, and I caught him looking at me. His cheeks turned pink, and he looked away, which got my heart racing like crazy.

Maybe Tilda was right. Maybe I'd been missing some big signs just because I was too busy worrying about looking foolish or being rejected. His friend Jamison had told me back in Glasgow that Graham had a crush on me. And we'd done a lot more talking and connecting since then.

Could I really do this? Push aside my fears and just . . . tell him outright that I wanted to stay in touch? If I got too scared to admit my feelings, I could always frame it in the friendship way. Tell him I wanted to keep up to date on his band or something.

But at least I'd be showing interest and putting the ball in his court. And other people have made it work out long distance. Besides, I only had two more years of high school left. After that, I could go anywhere, do anything I wanted. Like take vacations to Scotland.

The thought made me smile.

“Thanks for talking to me, Tilda,” I said, and impulsively gave her a hug, which she returned with a warm squeeze. “I shouldn't miss the chance of something good because I'm too afraid to take a risk.”

“I am glad I am helping.”

The next hour or so went by fast. Our group got food, except for my parents, and I tried a bite of haggis for the first time. And it would also be the last time—I couldn't seem to get past the mental block of what I was eating, so my stomach got a little queasy. ­Graham wouldn't stop laughing at the faces I made and then finished the haggis for me, giving me the rest of his fish-and-chips.

I accepted them gratefully, and when Tilda gave me a look that said,
See?
I rolled my eyes in a good-natured manner at her.

The next couple of hours were fun and thrilling. Huge, ­muscle-ripped men in kilts began tossing heavy objects—weights, even smoothly buffed tree trunks (which I learned were the infamous cabers). When a contestant got the caber to flip and land on its end, standing straight up, we roared our approval.

Graham stayed close to my side, and though we didn't talk much, the air between us was comfortable and easy. The three of us had a great time, and by the time the bagpipes and drums band came on the field to signal the end of the games, I was tired, a little sunburned, but very, very happy.

The bus ride back to our B and B was hushed. I mulled over Tilda's words. She was right. If I wanted it, I should just ask for it. Maybe even tomorrow. Determination and courage filled me. I grabbed my earbuds, popped them into my phone, and turned on music to help me unwind.