Echo(24)

She’s muted noise, and everything around me tunnels as I focus on the eyes looking up at me from within the grains of the paper. Dapper as always, in a vested, tailored suit, no tie, and top buttons unfastened. The very essence of Declan, unkempt in a classy way. His face, a couple days unshaven, and I can remember the way the bristles felt against my lips when he kissed me. The way I would find comfort in running my hand along his jaw.

Setting my fork down with ease, my pulse slows in admiration and shock. I hone in and examine every curve and line of his face.

That used to be mine.

No more though.

He loathes my very existence, wishes me dead, prays for it. But that filters out and what remains is the lovingly harsh way his hands felt on my body. The good of Declan takes over my thoughts, and I rush back in time to when he would look at me with his powerful eyes that told so much in the depth of emerald. They would nearly illuminate and brighten when his emotions of adoration were on high, and dull out, blackening when desire and his need to claim and control would ignite. This man is built in impermeable layers, but I was the one he allowed to seep in. I guess the same could be said in reverse because I let him in as well.

Isla’s touch on my arm pulls me away from my love.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” I say with a slight shake of my head.

She nods to the photograph in the magazine. “No need to apologize. With looks like that, you can’t help but become distracted.”

Laughing, I agree, “Yeah.”

“He used to live in Edinburgh before moving to America years back. A perpetual bachelor that the lassies would fawn over.”

“You know him?” I question.

“Of him,” she clarifies. “The McKinnons were a prominent family here, but tragedy struck and they soon found assuage in the US. But recently, Declan, the son, returned.”

“Hmm,” I hum, feigning nonchalance.

“He lives here in Gala, you know?”

“What happened?”

When she gives me a wondering look, I clarify, “You mentioned a tragedy.”

“Oh, yes. Declan’s mother was murdered in their home. Callum, his father, soon left, but Declan stayed in Scotland for a while. I think I read somewhere that when Declan finished his studies at University, he moved to the States and went into business with his father. They’ve both been living in America until Declan’s recent return.”

I want to correct her, tell her that Declan parted ways with Cal and was making a strong name for himself as an international real estate developer, but I’d rather her not know my link to him.

“He attended St. Andrews at the same time Prince William did,” she adds with enthusiasm, but I don’t care about the trivial anecdotes she seems to take pride in.

Anxious to be alone, I take my last bite of egg and excuse myself. “Do you mind if I take this with me?” I ask about the magazine.

“Of course not.”

“Thank you.”

When I close the door to my room, I sit down at the small desk near the window and open the article with Declan’s photo. Alone with my love, I run my fingers over his face and pretend it’s real. I shut my eyes and try to smell him, but there’s nothing except the lingering fragrance of my perfume in the air.

I look back at him and then begin to read the article that the photo accompanies. I feel my smile grow the further I read. And when I discover a charity event where Declan will be the guest of honor, I know this is an opportunity that I must take full advantage of—and I will. I continue to read the piece that boasts about the charities Declan supports and advocates for.

I note the function where he will be honored is being held this Saturday evening at his alma mater, and start scheming.



AFTER READING THE article a couple days ago, I went ahead and made my day trip to Edinburgh, but not after making a few phone calls. The foundation that Declan is being honored for and has become one of the main financial contributors to is one that strives to offer valuable education to under-privileged children. Knowing there will be so many eyes on him at this event, I think it will be the perfect opportunity to talk to him. I doubt he would cause a scene, but rather be forced to be cordial for the good graces of the attendees. He’d have to stand there and listen to me. So I went ahead and became a donor myself, and the sizable check I wrote secured me a seat at the event.

As I stand in front of the full-length mirror here in my hotel room in Saint Andrews, I run my hands down the lace overlay of my navy dress. The thin material hugs my petite form, just barely skimming the floor. I wear my hair down in soft waves to hide the still-grotesque wound on the back of my head. I continue to pick at it daily, and it’s grown in size. I don’t want it to heal because it’s the only physical thing I have to represent Declan. His gift to me, created by his own hands. He gave it to me, and I refuse to let it go. It serves a multitude of purposes: it’s my vice, my pain reliever, my trophy, my reminder, my solace. My love, branded into my flesh, and I own it happily.