Isla laughed. “Maybe when I retire and I’m too arthritic to hike, I’ll convert one of the rooms in the Deerhound into a portrait studio.”
“Or a little gallery,” I said. “You could show off the best of Braeburn.”
“That’s the dream.”
We reached the tent, and before I’d even taken my seat, Jo had shoved a plate of haggis in my hand—a crumbly mound of spiced oats and meat. It wasn’t that it looked bad—it just looked like alotat a moment where stress was taking up so much space in my stomach that I had no appetite at all.
Isla laughed at the look on my face, catching it on camera. “Just try not to think about the fact it’s cooked inside a sheep’s stomach.”
I shot her a side-eye. “That’s not as helpful as you think.”
“You’ve got this. I promise. Close your eyes and down the hatch.”
I picked up my fork, scooped a pile of haggis onto it, and jammed it into my mouth before I could overthink it.Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow. The taste was…interesting, new and unusual and?—
“Next plate!” Jo announced, swapping mine out before I’d even had time to finish my rating card.
“This one has my signature raspberry jam mixed in for an added sweetness,” a woman said cheerily as she looked up and down the table at the panel of judges.
Raspberry and sheep’s stomach? Oh boy.
“It’s basically like Thanksgiving dinner,” Isla said as I stared down at the plate.
I scooped a forkful, jammed it in my mouth, and swallowed it. My stomach burbled. How many of these were there again?
Isla stopped in front of me and snapped a photo. The inside of my mouth had turned sour. I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth. Was I going to be sick?
No.
No.
I was fine. Another forkful in.Chew. Chew. Chew. Swallow.
“Next plate!” Jo called, and it continued on like that for far too long. But somehow, blessed by the gods of the Highlands themselves, I managed to get through every single plate and submit my rating cards before the force of my burbling stomach required that I hurry away.
This wasn’t nerves. This wasn’t nerves. This wasn’t nerves, I chanted with every step.
I’d never walked so fast in my life, darting between the crowds as I headed for the port-a-loos. The last thing I wanted to be doing was hugging a plastic toilet, but the haggis was roiling in my gut, and I could tell it was about to make a reappearance. I didn’t know if it was the unusual combination of flavors, the sheer volume of haggis consumed, or the fact that I was still so stressed making sure each part of this festival went off without a hitch, but the back of my throat already tasted like bile.
I darted around the corner at the end of the street and BAM!
A line.
I groaned, feeling my face drain of its color. I wasn’t going to make it.
“Lena?” Isla called after me. “Are you okay?”
Jo followed her around the corner, concerned. I waved my hand in front of my face like a fan, but the heat was eating its way across my body, my skin prickling as I swallowed down the nausea.
“M’fine,” I croaked.
I wassonot fine. I clasped one hand over my mouth, the other pressed to my stomach.
“She’s gonna be sick!” someone yelled. And then suddenly there were hands on me, steering me to the front of the line and straight into one of the port-a-loos. The door slammed shut behind me, and I leaned over the toilet, heaving up every last bit of haggis.
Raspberry jam was now on my shit list.
When I stepped out of the bathroom ten minutes later, I was shaky and a little clammy, but better overall. Mostly because my stomach was empty.
