Page 66 of A Memory Not Mine (Sanguis Amantium #1)

Chapter sixty-one

Mira

I n the weeks since I’d gotten back, I’d been dodging Anne and Dillon.

Texts left unanswered, calls returned half a day late.

I couldn’t bring myself to face them— not yet —not with this strange mix of sorrow and self-loathing still sitting so heavy inside me.

I knew I needed to pull myself together—at least enough to pass for functional.

Because if I didn’t, I was one surprise knock away from an impromptu wellness check.

And that wouldn’t end well.

Not with me pacing around in a bathrobe, hair unwashed, looking like the ghost of seasonal depression come to life.

So I leaned into a tradition we held dear. ‘ Friendsgiving’ had been ours for years, and with my parents gone now, it was the only Thanksgiving that still felt like it belonged to me. So this year, I didn’t bother trying to get out of it. I told them I’d host.

We’d do it the day after Thanksgiving, like always, and they could both crash at my place afterward.

No driving home in the dark, especially not after what I already suspected would be way too much alcohol.

It was the right thing to do. Even if I felt like a shell of the person who used to love planning this kind of thing .

I’d spent the week before Thanksgiving cleaning the house, readying the spare bedrooms, and making endless trips to the store.

I’d volunteered to handle the turkey, the dressing, and the mashed potatoes.

Anne was in charge of baked goods—her rolls and both pumpkin and apple pies.

Dillon, true to form, claimed the green bean casserole and a salad no one would touch but everyone would feel better for having on the table.

My wine cooler and liquor cabinet were fully stocked.

Still, when I looked at the bottles—mostly in that fifteen-to-twenty-dollar range—I couldn’t help but think of Baird.

And like some nouveau riche wine snob who’d been spoiled too quickly, I found myself sneering at my once perfectly fine collection.

He’d introduced me to real wine. And my heart sank again when I thought of all the little ways he’d changed me.

Thanksgiving Day rolled around, and once again, I spent the day in my bathrobe. This time, though, I started the morning with a donut and a glass of Scotch as I settled onto the couch to watch the Macy’s parade, followed by the dog show.

It was what I always used to do with my parents—minus the self-loathing and the whisky for breakfast—so I figured I’d keep the tradition alive, in my own warped way. The first Thanksgiving without them, I felt their absence more strongly than ever.

The turkey was already brined, tucked into a five-gallon bucket in my fridge like some morbid science experiment waiting to be roasted. I was so alone on this day, without my parents, there was a hole in me that was getting deeper by the minute.

At one point, I even Googled “upcoming holidays in Scotland,” hoping to find some shared, neutral occasion I could use as a casual excuse to text Baird. The only thing that came up was the day after Christmas—Boxing Day .

What even was that?

Didn’t matter. It was still a month away. Maybe I’d hold on to it like a conversational life raft until then.

Just as well. I’d stay right where I was—on this couch, in this robe—stewing in a slow boil of resentment.

Resentment at myself for finding a hundred reasons not to believe in what I felt.

And at him for letting me spiral without even checking to see if I’d landed on my feet.

I wondered if there was an expiration date for hating yourself like this.

Or if some part of me would always be what I’d seemingly become—a woman half-drunk before noon, angry at a man halfway across the world, and angrier still that I’d loved him and never told him.

Because yes, he was right.

I loved him.

And supposedly, he loved me too. Above all else. But some part of me still refused to believe it—everything he’d told me. That our love was fate. That he loved me so much, it terrified him.

Because if all of that was true…then how could he just be there , in his world, silent?

Not even a text to ask if I was okay. Didn’t that say everything? Didn’t that prove I hadn’t meant as much as he claimed?

I continued to nurse the bottle of Scotch and wallow in misery for the rest of Thanksgiving Day, and by the time I fell asleep on the couch, the bottle was empty.

I woke up Friday morning with a hangover and just two short hours until Anne and Dillon arrived.

After I put the turkey in the oven, I shuffled through the house, picking up the empty Scotch bottle and the half-eaten box of stale donuts, wiping down counters and tabletops with the mechanical efficiency of someone trying hard not to feel anything.

The bathrobe—stained and sagging with defeat—went straight into the hamper. I stepped into the shower and let the water beat down on me, hoping it could rinse off more than just the sweat and sadness clinging to my skin.

Thankfully, neither of my friends would be dressed up.

So I reached for comfort: a threadbare sweatshirt with a hole in the cuff and my oldest pair of leggings.

Still, I made an effort. Just enough to pretend.

A swipe of lip gloss, a coat of mascara—something to suggest I hadn’t entirely disappeared.

But the mirror didn’t lie. The dark circles beneath my eyes made me look as hollow as I felt. Even concealer couldn’t cover the ache. I slapped my cheeks a few times, willing the blood to rise, some flush of life to reappear. To feel something other than this numb, endless sorrow.

The doorbell rang at noon, and I summoned just enough energy to fake some animation as I pulled it open.

Two smiling faces greeted me, arms overflowing with food, bottles, and the kind of warmth I hadn’t felt in weeks.

I took the pies from Anne, followed them back out to the car for a second haul, and finally shut the door behind us, sealing in the familiar chaos.

To kick things off—and maybe keep myself from unraveling—I opened a bottle of wine, even though my stomach churned with the lingering consequences of finishing off the Scotch the night before.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” I said, forcing a brightness I didn’t feel.

We clinked glasses, and for a moment, the kitchen buzzed with the familiar rhythm of tradition.

Dillon went straight to tossing the green salad none of us would eat. Anne commandeered the oven to warm her rolls. And I lifted the foil tent to show off the golden-brown turkey like it was a trophy I didn’t remember winning.

We moved through the motions like we always had—like everything was fine. And for a moment, I almost believed it. Over plates piled high with turkey and dressing and glasses of wine that never seemed to stay full for long, we fell into our usual rhythm.

Anne filled us in on the latest antics of her endlessly enthusiastic, painfully earnest Boy Scout of a boss. Dillon, between bites and dramatic eye rolls, recounted the current saga of his love life—which, unsurprisingly, had evolved into yet another love triangle.

I laughed where appropriate, nodded, sipped my wine, and tried to keep the spotlight moving. But despite my best efforts to steer the conversation away—despite my deflections and strategically timed refills—it was only a matter of time.

Eventually, the inevitable came.

Someone said the words.

“So…tell us about your trip.”

I took a deep breath and started with something safe—my visit to Jonathan Blackwell’s office. I told them he’d seen other portraits by the same artist but couldn’t definitively name him. That part was true.

Then I moved on to Kirriemuir. I talked about meeting Evie and Morag, shared what I’d learned about rumbledethumps —which I promised I’d make for them sometime, though none of us were exactly craving a potato-cabbage situation after three rounds of stuffing.

And then, carefully, I dipped a toe into deeper water.

I told them about the reading I’d gotten from Morag’s mother, Granny Margaret. But only a little. Neither of them knew about the nightmares. Or about Bastien. That darkness wasn’t something I was ready to speak in any room, let alone this one .

“So Granny Margaret…” I said, twirling my wine glass by the stem. “She’s something of a clairvoyant matchmaker in their village. She told me I needed to be on the lookout for a man with green eyes.”

I left it at that. Not the part about him being connected to Agnes. Not the unspoken threads winding through time. Even Granny Margaret hadn’t said it outright—just that ‘he’s the piece ye be lookin’ fer’.

Anne let out a little squeal. “Is that the hot farmer?”

I nodded, a little shyly. “Baird.”

Despite the weeks of sorrow that had settled in me like sediment, despite being mad as hell at Baird for doing exactly what I’d asked him to do— let me go —I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a while.

A thrill.

Just the smallest spark of joy, speaking his name aloud. Letting it live outside the hollow of my chest. Saying it to the only two people on this planet who shared space in my heart alongside Baird Campbell—Anne and Dillon.

And somehow, that simple act—his name on my lips in their presence—felt like drawing a line across the universe.

A thread. A connection. The Venn diagram of us, overlapping for the first time. So I pressed on—to how I’d wound up on the island and on the green-eyed man’s couch.

“So, the appraiser I met with— Jonathan —he mentioned a grave on the Isle of Arran,” I began, trying to keep my tone light, conversational. “It’s about four hours from Edinburgh, once you factor in the ferry ride. I drove there the day after I’d been up to Kirriemuir.”

Anne and Dillon were listening, forks paused midair.