Page 43 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he streets of Inverness pulsed with quiet energy—locals weaving through routine, tourists pausing to check maps or snap photos. Heather had never walked these streets before. Never traced the edges of her family’s history with her fingertips.

The city should have stirred something in her—roots, memory, connection. Instead, she drifted like a ghost, untethered.

She meandered toward the River Ness, watching the water rush past in a steady, endless current.

It reminded her of the burn that cut through Glenoran’s land, the way the water permanently moved, even when everything else felt still.

She leaned against the bridge’s stone railing, the city’s hum flowing around her.

Would her mother have brought her here? To this very bridge?

Would she have pointed out the best spots for tea, woven stories from the stones beneath their feet, made this foreign place feel like home?

Heather swallowed the thought and kept going.

She let herself move without a plan, following the river’s curve, cutting through narrow streets lined with historic buildings.

The stonework, the history—it made her think of Glenoran.

She wondered if Flynn had worked on any of these buildings too—if his hands had shaped more than just her family’s estate.

She wandered past historic stonework, the scent of pastries in the air, and ducked into a quiet bookshop.

The hush of paper and wood wrapped around her like balm.

She ran her fingers along the spines of books she couldn’t quite justify buying—she had nowhere to put them—but she still lingered.

A few streets over, she spotted a display of wool scarves and sweaters, tartan patterns neatly folded behind the glass.

She hesitated, fingers brushing against the soft fabric of a shawl.

It was deep green, edged with delicate weaving, lighter than she expected but warm to the touch.

Would it feel like home—or like a borrowed costume from a history she wasn’t sure she had a right to wear?

Everything about her life lately felt borrowed.

The house, the land, the history. Even her name felt like something she wasn’t sure belonged to her anymore.

She had never worn her family’s tartan before—never even thought about it.

But standing here, with the fabric soft under her fingertips, she wondered if it would feel more like belonging than pretending.

Eventually, she found herself at a small café and nursed a cup of tea by the window. No Glenoran. No Flynn. Just warmth and steam and a rare hush inside her chest .

Outside the window, the world moved on without her—locals with familiar paths, visitors with camera straps and wide eyes.

People who belonged. People just passing through.She’d always seen herself as the latter.

Just passing through. But Glenoran was still in her mind, an unfinished thought, a question she wasn’t ready to answer.

She told herself Glenoran was temporary.

A stop, a project, a place to finish what had been left undone so she could move on.

And yet.

The artifacts came to mind—the flag held by someone who had stood in this country centuries before her, and the letter written by hands that had long since turned to dust. She thought about the quiet ache in her chest when she walked through Glenoran’s halls, the way she couldn’t seem to distance herself from it, no matter how much she tried.

And she thought of Flynn. How he treated Glenoran like it mattered, like the land had a pulse. How he looked at her like she belonged there, even when she wasn’t sure she did. She let out a slow breath and took another sip of tea. Maybe she wasn’t just passing through.

Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t belong.

Maybe she just hadn’t found home—yet.

Heather lingered at the cafe for a while, nursing the last of her tea, watching the world pass by outside.

The city had been a welcome distraction, a much-needed reprieve from the weight of Glenoran, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was drifting toward something she wasn’t ready to name.

Heather wanted to shut herself off. To stop feeling. Stop thinking.

But that’s the thing about spiraling—once it starts, you don’t get to decide when it stops.

With a sigh, she pushed back from the table, grabbed her bag, and returned to where she parked outside Dr. Morrow’s office.

The drive back to the Thistle Haven Inn was quiet—green hills rolling past as the sky shifted into the dusky hues of early evening.

When she pulled into the small gravel lot of the inn, the air had turned crisp, the scent of damp earth and distant wood smoke curling around her as she stepped out of the car.

The inn’s warmth wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside.

The soft clink of dishes from the dining room, the low hum of conversation—comforting in contrast to the cold unraveling of her afternoon.

She went straight to her room, shrugged off her coat, and collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

For the first time all day, she let herself feel it—the exhaustion creeping into her limbs, pressing into her bones. She closed her eyes and let the weight settle. And then, her phone buzzed. Heather frowned, pulling it from her pocket and glancing at the screen.

Hey. Can we talk? Call me if you’re free. —Ivy.

Her stomach clenched. She should ignore it.

She should set the phone down, roll over, and let it ring out.

But old habits don’t die. They just settle deeper, like a weight you learn to carry.

And Ivy’s voice had always been the only thing that made the weight bearable.

Maybe it was the way the afternoon left her feeling adrift, or perhaps the realization she’d had by the river—that no matter how much she tried to distance herself from the past, it always found a way back.

Moments later, her phone lit up with Ivy’s name. Steadying herself, Heather answered.

“Hey,” Heather said softly.

“Hey…” Ivy countered.

Heather took a deep breath and listened to Ivy’s voice on the other end of the line. Her heart ached with the weight of everything unspoken between them. She had wanted this conversation, but now that it was here, she didn’t know how to process the emotions it stirred up.

“I know I messed up, Heather.” Her voice was quiet. Soft. But not her usual kind of soft—the kind that drew people in, made them feel chosen. This was different. A calculated softness. Heather knew the difference. And still, she listened.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I realize how much I’ve been trying to fix things for you, to take control and make decisions for you. I should’ve just let you figure things out on your own.”

There was a long pause, and Heather could practically feel Ivy gathering the courage to keep going. “I slept with Sam.” Heather’s throat closed. Ivy exhaled shakily. “I don’t know why I do it.”

Heather stilled. She hadn’t expected that level of honesty. Ivy never said things like this—not without an angle.

The words trembled, laced with something fragile. “Why I always think my body is the only thing I have to trade. Why I think it’s the only way people will give me what I need.”

Heather’s fingers curled around the blanket. Her throat burned. Her heart hated how familiar this all was—the pivot. The moment Ivy turned her mistake into a wound.

“I thought if I just promised him what he wanted, he’d take you out—get you to open up, move on. I thought I could control the situation. But I see now how wrong that was. I thought I could make things better by controlling what others did, by using what I had to get what I wanted.”

Heather felt a sharp pang in her chest, the memory of that night coming back in waves.

She had felt cheap, like a pawn, like her best friend had treated her like a project rather than a person.

Ivy’s actions had made her feel as though she wasn’t enough—like she needed to be fixed and that the solution was always someone else’s choice.

“I’ve always done that, Heather,” Ivy continued, her voice cracking.

“Used my body, used my appearance, to get things, to manipulate people into giving me what I want. I’ve never known how to get people to care about me any other way.

But I see now that I’ve been doing the same thing to you.

I thought if I could control the people around you, I could make you better, make you happy.

But it wasn’t about you; it was about me feeling like I was doing something for you, even if it meant crossing boundaries. ”

She stared at the window, breath misting against the glass.

She should be furious. But Ivy’s voice still wrapped around her like a lullaby—gentle, dangerous, and far too easy to believe.

She wanted to reach through the phone and tell Ivy she wasn’t broken, that she wasn’t alone, that she was more than just her looks.

But hadn’t she done that before? A thousand times?

And hadn’t Ivy always taken it, always nodded and thanked her, and then done it all over again?

She had wanted this and wished Ivy to understand what she’d done. But hearing it aloud—hearing the regret—made her chest twist. It made it real. She was angry. But she was also tired. And tired hearts forgive too easily.

“I don’t know if I can trust you yet,” Heather said, voice smaller than she meant it to be.

“You’ve made a lot of decisions for me.” Heather swallowed hard, her heart heavy.

She knew something wasn’t right with how Ivy orchestrated everything with Sam, but hearing Ivy say it so openly and honestly made it real.

Ivy was admitting, in a way she never had before, that her attempts to “fix” Heather had been selfishly motivated.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Ivy whispered, ashamed of her confession. “I thought fixing you would fix me. That if I controlled the people around you, it would make me feel needed. But it wasn’t about you—it was about me.”

There was a long, heavy silence between them as if both were absorbing the weight of Ivy’s words.

“I don’t know how to fix this, babe,” Ivy added quietly.

“But I want to try. I want to respect you and your choices from now on, and I won’t try to control things anymore.

I see now that I’ve hurt you in ways I never meant to, and I’m so sorry. ”

Heather’s throat tightened, her mind still grappling with Ivy’s vulnerability. It was difficult to reconcile the Ivy she had known—the one who always seemed so self-assured and dominant—with the one she was hearing now, the one who was finally confronting her insecurities and weaknesses.

“I just don’t know if I can trust you right now,” Heather admitted, her voice quiet. “And I don’t know how to move past it.”

“I know,” Ivy said softly. “I understand. And I’m not asking you to forgive me right away. I just wanted you to know that I see my mistakes and want to make them right. Whatever you need, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here. … please know that I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Heather exhaled slowly, her chest tight. “I’ll need time, Ivy. But… I’m glad you’re finally being honest with me. It’s a st art.”

“Yeah,” Ivy agreed, her voice still carrying a note of uncertainty but also hope. “It’s a start.”

Heather took a deep breath, her fingers tracing the edge of the window frame as she gazed out at the street below. “I’m not sure what comes next, Ivy. But I’m willing to try…to move forward, I guess. One step at a time.”

“I’m sorry,” Ivy’s voice was softer now, raw in a way Heather hadn’t heard before. “But I promise.” Heather closed her eyes.“I’ll be better,” Ivy whispered. “For you, Heather. For us.”

Us.

That one word shattered whatever wall Heather had been trying to build.

Heather’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected Ivy to be so vulnerable, which caught her off guard.

She closed her eyes, the weight of everything—her father’s house, the artifacts, the distant echoes of her past—pressing down on her.

She knew they had a long road ahead, but maybe, just maybe, they could start again.

“I believe you,” Heather said quietly. There was a long pause before Ivy’s voice, lighter this time, came through.

“Thanks, Heather. I’m here, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” Heather replied, her heart feeling slightly less heavy. “I’ll reach out.” As they said their goodbyes, something shifted. Not big, but real. Like a door cracking open to let in the faintest light. Heather set the phone down.

She felt… uneasy.

Or maybe just empty. It was probably a mistake—Ivy asking for forgiveness and Heather giving it too easily. But for tonight? She wanted to believe it. She needed a break, a little distraction to let her thoughts settle. So she stood, brushed herself off, and headed down to The Highland Hearth .

She needed something simple. Something warm. Something that wasn’t Ivy.

* * *

The familiar warmth of the pub wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside, the low hum of conversation blending with the lively strum of folk music that made Heather’s foot tap along with the rhythm.

The atmosphere was cheerful and welcoming, and peace settled into her bones for the first time in days.

She ordered a hearty plate of bangers and mash at the bar, then found a cozy seat near the window to watch the world go by.

The bartender—a tall man with kind eyes and a gentle grin—caught her smile and leaned in. “Enjoyin’ the tunes, are ye? Hope you’re free come Beltane—we’re throwin’ a ceilidh.”

Heather looked up, curious. “A ceilidh ?”

“Aye, that’s right,” he said, wiping the counter. “Music, dancing, good fun.”

She’d never been much of a dancer, but something about a ceilidh felt different. Like it belonged to the story she hadn’t meant to walk into. “I’ll think about it,” she replied. “Sounds fun.”

The bartender gave her a wink. “Ye won’t regret it. Ye’ll fit right in. I’ll save you a seat if ye decide on comin’.”

The thought of letting go—even for a night—made her heart lift.

Something spontaneous. Maybe even something healing.

She took another sip of her drink, the music’s rhythm filling her with a quiet sense of belonging.

As the night went on, Heather felt lighter, the music and the pub’s warmth washing away some of the heaviness that had lingered for so long.

Maybe the ceilidh was exactly what she needed.

Not to forget—but to remember who she was, outside the ache.