Again, But Better(115)

Halfway through the first chapter, I’m distracted by a young guy with longish dark hair and disarming gold-brown eyes who sits two stools away. I watch as he orders a Guinness with a Scottish accent. He turns and catches me watching. I quickly return to Harry Potter.

“Hey,” he says. I glance back over. He’s smiling at me now.

“Hi.” I pull a half-assed, embarrassed smile.

“American?” he asks in surprise.

“Affirmative,” I respond, raising my eyebrows and taking a sip of my drink. “Scottish?”

He laughs and propels us into conversation. He reminds me of a young Henry Ian Cusick (Desmond from Lost). His name is Greg; he’s studying law at Edinburgh University. He does most of the talking, especially once my burger comes. Chatting with Greg makes me think about chatting with Pilot, and for the first time in weeks, I give in and let my thoughts wander in that direction. I would rather be here with Pilot, having stupid conversations about evil chairs or how likely it is that we run into J.K. Rowling on the street tomorrow, than be laughing and smiling politely with attractive Scottish Greg.

But I’m mad at Pilot, aren’t I? Or am I mad at me? Have I forgiven myself? Did I make up for it? Can I be with Pilot and find the headspace and time to navigate a creative career? I don’t know. I’m never late for things, but Pilot makes me forget about time. Or … I forget about time because of Pilot. I hate that Pilot didn’t make sure Amy got his message.

I’m so confused.

Scottish Greg has a great accent and seems really smart, and wow, he has great hair, and he’s keeping the conversation going, and it seems like he has a decent sense of humor. But the longer we talk, the more I want to excuse myself and head back to the B and B.

“Something wrong?” Greg asks. He’s telling a story, and I’ve checked out.

“Oh, no,” I answer. “Go on. I’m sorry!”

When he wraps up, I stand from my stool so Greg can see that I’m ready to head out.

The bill’s been sitting untouched on my left, so I pull out my debit card. I do a double take when I glance at it to catch the price. There’s a handwritten note across the top of it. I blink, my heart ramming uncomfortably against my ribs.

You’re ready, if you’re ready. x

Frantically, I glance around for the bartender. It was a man earlier—but there she is, red hair knotted up, serving someone ten feet down the counter.

“Hey!” I yell down to her. She looks up and meets my eyes.

“It’ll work now?”

She nods. I pivot and leave the pub.

My pulse is still racing as I drop onto the bed at my B and B and extricate the locket from my purse … I’m ready now? I don’t feel ready. I can’t wrap my head around erasing the last four months. So much has happened that I don’t want to forget.



* * *



In the morning, the B and B hostess gives me directions to the Elephant House. It’s a bit of a walk, but I revel in the surprisingly warm weather and take in the city as I go. The architecture is all medieval-looking and walking through it is almost fantastical. When I spot the café, I skip up to it, jumping to a stop at the entrance. There’s a little sign in the window pronouncing it THE BIRTHPLACE OF HARRY POTTER.

To the naked eye, it’s just a café. There are four computers for use in the front left corner, there’s a bar to order at, tables everywhere. It’s full of windows with a beautiful view of Edinburgh Castle. But, a tingly feeling spreads over me as I step inside. This is where J. K. Rowling came to sit and birth the phenomenon that changed millions of lives. This is where she created a world that I could retreat to whenever things weren’t so great in my own reality. I order a latte and sit down at a table near the window reading Prisoner of Azkaban. After a while, I pull out Horcrux Ten and pen another chapter of my own book.

Down the road, I stumble onto one of Edinburgh’s famous graveyards. I take my time there, roaming lazily from one elaborate gravestone to the next. I stop short when I spot one in particular that reads: In loving memory of Thomas Riddell.

“What?” I yell in disbelief. I whip out my camera and snap a selfie.

When my stomach starts to rumble, I wander back onto the streets to find a pub where I can grab lunch and regroup. I settle in alone at a small table along the wall and pull out my British phone.

There’s a text from Babe.

Babe: How goes the finding yourself?

I smile and type back.

Me: This just in: I hate dealing with feelings, but Harry Potter is helping numb the pain.

Babe: Harry Potter heals all!:]

Me: True story! I’m headed to go climb a crag-mountain-hill thing soon!

Babe: Take a hoard of pictures for the blog!

Me: OBVIOUSLY! =]



* * *



It takes twenty-five minutes to find the crag, but I make it there with just the waiter’s verbal instructions to work off. At the base of it is a park of sorts. Children and dogs splash around in big contemporary fountains, and a bright sidewalk runs among big flat stretches of green grass. The crag looming ahead is rocky, green, and gorgeous. I’m going to climb the crap out if it.

I unzip my purse and check for texts again. There’s one new one from Babe.

Babe: Excited to hear about it!

Shane: About to start the hike. Cross your fingers I don’t slip on a pile of rocks, trip over the edge, and die.