Scott finds the sports section and begins to browse. What might be a good distractor from Heather? Hillwalking? Too tame, beside he’s done the best UK peaks now. Climbing? His shoulder injury might put paid to that. Scuba? There’s something about launching himself into the deep unknown that just doesn’t appeal.
Biking. That’s it. He pulls the pamphlet from the rack and flicks though the pages. Road cycling has come on in leaps and bounds since he bought hybrid bikes for himself, Lucy and Brianna. Now they come with titanium plates and Shimano gears and all manner of modern accoutrements. Might that be his next thing?
He flicks though the pages detailing roadside repair techniques, kit lists, reviews and adverts and finds an article on epic long-distance rides catching his eye. The Silk Road Mountain Race has a centre spread dedicated to it. Scott remembers this being mentioned in Morocco. He pulls the pamphlet into view. The Silk Road Mountain Route is apparently an ultra-endurance, self-supported bikepacking race across Kyrgyzstan that covers roughly 1,700 kilometres through some of the most remote and mountainous terrain in Central Asia. Scott peers at the images of hard-nosed riders with cricket ball shaped calves and ironman physiques tackling high mountain passes. Could that be him, dressed head to toe in lycra, sporting an ergonomic helmet, his eyes protected by wraparound sunglasses in fluorescent yellow?
His mind starts whirring with essential purchases and a strategy. He could start out with a local club, refurbish the old road bike from his student days, scope out some routes, use his sports watch to gauge his progress. It’s beginning to evolve into a plan. He is so engrossed in his idea, he doesn’t initially register his phone until a nearby reader projects an audibly frustrated ‘tut’. He grabs his phone, intending to mute the communication and continue with his planning, but a quick glance confirms it to be Heather. They officially exchanged numbers outside the hospital last week shifting them from distant associates communicating on Messenger to something more intimate – something like friendship.
‘We’ll probably never need to be in touch, of course,’ she’d said, ‘but given you were the first one here last night, I think it might be prudent for us to share numbers.’
She said it matter-of-factly, as if it was no big deal. As if the eleven-digit number wouldn’t haunt him every time he unlocked his phone. All week he had debated. A quick message might be all it took. A check-in on Georgia, for example. That would seem eminently reasonable given the circumstances, surely? But always, something stopped him. He knows what Lorraine would say:You like this lady and I’m pretty sure she likes you. So, tell her how you feel. Explain your background. Give her a chance to make that choice for herself.Lorraine never understood the sanctity of the promise he made to Lucy that day. She seems to consider it reversible for the right woman. Besides, what woman would truly love him given what he knows: Lucy’s accident, and thus her death, were entirely his fault.
That had been his resolve this morning, yet now a message has come in, he can’t help but pounce on it.
“Got brain freeze after eating an entire tub of Baileys ice-cream.” Is her first message.
Odd.
But grey dots indicate there is more on the way. He slips the biking magazine onto the table, pulls up a chair and waits.
“Seems I implicated myself when drunk at Georgia’s birthday. Looks like I’m hosting a Thanksgiving party in a couple of weeks. Apparently Trey would like you included on the guest list.”
Scott knows Heather well enough now to understand that any friend who stood by Georgia when the chips were down, will have all their wishes fulfilled entirely. Mattress toppers and more.
He opens his browser and searches “Thanksgiving”. The power of Google tells him it’s the third Thursday in November. He’ll be in Glasgow that week. A quick trip over to Edinburgh would be eminently doable. He thinks back to that evening, the night of “the perfect fit”, and feels an element of culpability. Heather had been pretty much press-ganged into drinking well over her limit, and he knows he’s to blame for that. So, he does what any decent guest does. He accepts graciously and makes an offer.
“Sounds great. Can I bring anything?”
She should know the answer is no, don’t worry, I've got it covered. But if he’s coming to understand anything about Heather, it’s to expect the unexpected.
“That would be fantastic. I’ve no idea what I’m doing. Maybe you could make dessert?”
He resorts, once again, to Google. “Thanksgiving pudding” has one predominant search result: pumpkin pie. Where the hell do you source a pumpkin pie in the UK? His final search of the day confirms his worst fear. You don’t buy it – you make it.
But he is Scott Reynolds. He embarks on knife edge adventures without thought. He’s the best actuary this side of the Thames. So, he can’t show his fear.
“Nice one,”he types.
He signs out the biking magazine and returns home to strategise.
FRESHMAN PARENTS' ONLINE FORUM: ST ANDREWS UNIVERSITY
Happy Thanksgiving to all those celebrating. This year, I am thankful for my DS’s surrogate family who are hosting his Thanksgiving in Edinburgh.
Sweet! Happy Thanksgiving.
That’s such a nice thing to do! Hope he has an amazing day.
Can’t wait to see him – and you – on video link later .
