“Well, well,” he’d said, that familiar voice now a low rasp that did something uncomfortable to my stomach. “Look what the cat dragged back from the big city.”
“Graham Kincaid.” I’d crossed to the bar, trying to ignore the way my heart was suddenly pounding. “You’ve got muscles now. When did that happen?”
“Somewhere between you leaving and coming back, apparently.” He’d grinned and slid a glass of wine across the bar without me having to ask. “Missed you, Agnes.”
And that was it.
Three words, spoken casually, like they didn’t matter. But the way he’d looked at me when he said them—like I was someone he’d been waiting for without knowing it—had cracked something open inside me and I hadn’t been the same since.
Of course,I’d thought, the realization settling into my bones like coming home.Of course. There you are.
The next few months had been the best of my life.
The first time he kissed me was on the rocky shores of Loch Mirren, the sunset gilding the water with a soft golden light. He’d been mid-sentence—something about the pub and a failed attempt at cooking—when he’d stopped, looked at me, and said, “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s all right.”
“It’s all right,” I’d whispered, and then his mouth was on mine and the world had fallen away.
We spent the rest of the summer tangled up in each other. Long walks that turned into longer conversations. Late nights at his flat above the pub, learning each other’s bodies with that joyful laziness you have when you think the mornings will never come.
I’d never been so happy.
“Gran, you need to rest?—”
“I’ll rest soon enough.” A ghost of her old wry humor flickered across her face before fading into something grimmer. “I’ll restforeversoon enough. But first, you need to listen to me, child. Really listen.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“I’ve watched you this summer.” Her grip on my hand tightened with surprising strength. “I’ve seen the way you look at him and the way he looks back. Like you’ve finally found the thing you’ve been searching for your whole life.”
Tears pricked at my eyes. That wasexactlyhow it felt. After years of fumbling through brief relationships that had never quite fit, of kissing boys who read big booksbut never made my heart race, I’d come home and found Graham waiting. Graham, who’d been there all along.
“I wore that look once,” Gran continued, her voice softening into memory. “With your grandfather. The day I met him, I knew. Just knew, in my bones, that he was the one. We had two years together, Agnes. Two perfect years. And then the loch took him.”
“Gran—”
“A storm that came out of nowhere. That’s what they said. The water was calm when he set out, and then—” She broke off, coughing, and I reached for the water on her bedside table.
She waved it away.
“My father died two and a half years after I was born. Did you know that? Drowned in the shallows, water barely up to his waist. No one could explain it. Just like no one could explain my husband, found floating in the loch on a day so calm you could see your reflection in it. Just like your father?—”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Please don’t talk about my father.”
My mum, standing by the door, made a soft mewl of distress, pulling her hand to her face.
“I have to.” Gran’s eyes were wet now, tears tracking down the deep lines of her face. “Because you need to understand, Agnes. There’s… it’s not coincidence, lass. There’s a curse.”
I wanted to pull away, to tell her she was confused, that the medication was making her say things that didn’t make sense. But there was something in her voice—a terrible certainty—that held me frozen.
“The loch takes the men we love,” she continued, tears seeping. “Every generation. Every time one of us is foolish enough to truly love a man, the water claims him. My grandmother lost two husbands, Agnes.Two.After the first one drowned, she thought she was safe. Thought lightning couldn’t strike twice. So she let herself love again.” Gran’s voice cracked. “He lasted three months.”
“No.No,” I said, repeating it to myself, needing to believe she was wrong. “That’s just... that’s just a pattern. A horrible pattern, but?—”
“It’s not.” My mum’s voice from across the room was dull, but firm.
“Your mother thought the same thing. She was so determined to break the cycle.”
Silence fell. Nobody needed to speak to understand how that had turned out.
