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Maybe Carter?
I watch her face as her brow knits in confusion. “Why Carter?” Her mom sends more messages before Ophelia can type anything else out.
The writings... they sounded like YOU
I searched your room after I read them
Found your journal
Ophelia and I look up at one another simultaneously, our eyes locking. More texts come through.
All the main messages
The ones that meant something
They were direct quotes
From you
At once, Ophelia and I come to the same conclusion—the phone forgotten. Almost the whole time I was messaging Leah, I was reading Ophelia’s innermost thoughts.
“You were talking to me.” She stares at me.
I say back, “I was reading your journal entries. I was getting to know… you.”
“I mean… kind of.” She goes into nervous chatter, texting her mother a quick thanks and goodbye. “Like, it wasn’t me writing the messages, but… those weremywords you were reading.”
“And I loved them all. It wasn’t your mom’s profile pic that made me click on it. It was her words.”
“My words.”
“Your words,” I echo back.
I want to propose. Almost. I should at least share how I feel about her. I reach out, grabbing the hand that doesn’t hold the phone. “Ophelia?—"
Gian’s voice booms over the table, drawing our attention. “Hello, fellow Scots! How are we on this glorious day?”
The moment gone, I drop her hand from mine. “Gian!”
I’m looking at a Scottish version of the man I know. I recognize his polished black boots, but I’ve never seen the fitted gray and black Tartan pants he wears or the matching tartan tie that hangs over his crisp white button-down.
Ophelia doesn’t take a beat to even look at the man before flinging herself into his arms. “Mr. Gian! You’re here.”
“You mean,you’rehere! And early, too.” They hug tightly. I stand to shake his hand. He eyes the closeness of our seats. “Look at you two lovebirds canoodling in the Inverness Lion’s Gate Pub.”
Ignoring his jest, she pats her hands on his chest. “I missed you so much! I still can’t believe you’re here!” She pulls out a chair. “Come, come. Sit down. Sit down.”
“I’ll get you a drink.” I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as I pass him to go to the bar to retrieve his extra dirty martini with four olives. Neither acknowledges my departure as they sit, instantly chatting at a speed I couldn’t keep up with anyway.
A beautiful bartender who looks to be in her late thirties tosses her long blonde hair over her shoulder, greeting me with a cheeky, “Well ‘ello there. Aren’t you easy on the eyes, lad?” She leans on the bar, revealing ample cleavage. “What can I get you?”
I give her Gian’s order. She laughs. “I’d have pegged you for an IPA man, myself.”
“I am,” I say. “It’s for a friend.”
“Oh, a lady friend,” she grins.
I’ll tease Gian with that ammunition later. “Actually, it’s for?—”