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“Time?” he echoes dully. “For what?”
“To forgive myself. To accept that it was a mistake and that I don’t need to be defined by it.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not fair,” he whispers.
“It’s what I need. I need to go, Brooks—”
“Just give me a minute. If you’re going to cut me out, just give me one more minute before I lose you.”
I give him his minute.
Sixty seconds where we sit on the phone in silence, listening to one another breathe.
Then I hang up.
And cry.
16
BROOKS
AGE 19 (TWO YEARS LATER)
It’s fucking cold.
Freezing fucking cold.
Glasgow in December. Obviously one of my more genius ideas. Set right behind smoking and leaving my gloves behind at the hotel.
I rub at my hands once again to warm them up with my cigarette trapped between my lips. My thumb aches in the cold as I bend it to flick at my lighter, the warm flame dancing along the hollow cover of my hand as I light the stick.
Sucking in a thick billow of nicotine, I groan in relief. The bitter burn of the cigarette sets a fire inside my body, warming me from the inside out.
Shoving my lighter in my pocket, I keep my hand tucked inside, not willing to sacrifice both hands to the frigid air. I shift on my feet, keeping the blood pumping through my veins, hoping like hell it doesn’t freeze over in the negative temperatures I’m idiotic enough to brave for a fucking smoke. I didn’t even need it that bad, hindsight and all. Five minutes ago, I thought I’d die without it. Now, not so much.
I’ve spent the past three hours living my best sardine impression, stuffed inside a local whiskey bar with every other asshole stupid enough to venture out for the promise of good scotch. Sweat mingling up my nose, turning the copious amounts of drink in my stomach.
I’ve been on my feet all day, exploring Glasgow with my camera stuck to my face.
It’s a beautiful city with buildings dating all the way back to the twelfth century. The stone in the structures still standing; worn but holding onto their wearied charm. They’re ominous and dark and classic and everything I love to photograph. History there to be discovered right before your eyes.
It helps that this beauty in the architecture is surrounded by the greenest grass I’ve ever laid eyes on. Even in the cold, I forced my feet from my shoes to feel the grass between my toes.
“One more drink,” a girl farther down the street slurs, her thick Scottish brogue making her hard to understand.
I lift my head to watch her and a friend’s silhouette approach, their focus solely on the bar I recently vacated.
“One teeny tiny whiskey and then we can go home.”
“Promise?” a soft American voice answers.
“Sure,” the Scot lies, and I duck my head to hide my smile.
“Guid evenin!” The voice carries toward me, and I lift my head to wave my hello, but my hand freezes midway.
