Page 34

Hamish

If it were up to me, I’d still be back in the hot springs, leg soaked and brain melted, watching steam rise around Amy’s hair while the rest of the world faded into the background.

But today’s not for lingering. Today’s for next steps.

We walk hand in hand down Main Street. I can't help but delight in the town's charm while also steeping in my mother's pain. I'm hurting her by eloping like this, and while I know we're in the right, it feels like we're doing something wrong.

I don't like this whole messy adulthood phase of life.

Love You Jewelers waits for us beneath its cherry-red awning, the white block letters looking crisp against the late fall sky. The bell over the door jingles as we step inside, the kind of sound that makes you think of happy endings and fluttering hearts.

It smells like pine and polish. The cases shine, each one filled with tiny emblems of forever: promise rings, lockets, wedding bands. No gimmicks, just the real deal.

“Afternoon,” comes a steady voice from behind the main counter.

The man doesn’t look up right away. He finishes what he’s doing first. Seems to have ritual in his bones. When he does glance up, it’s with a nod that says he’s seen a thousand couples walk in and still gives a damn about the thousand and first.

Tall and wiry, he’s dressed in a tailored blue suit and a shirt with a subtle blue and purple check. He must be a bit of a rebel, because he’s not wearing the expected red, white, or pink, yet he radiates a calmness that I find appealing.

Finally, he steps out from behind the counter. "You must be Hamish, and Amy? Nice to meet you in person," he says smoothly, shaking my hand, then Amy's. "Moore Mottin."

Introductions over, we get on to business.

“Perfect timing. Finished the engraving this morning.”

“We read yer mind.”

Moore produces a box from under the glass. Red leather, no velvet nonsense.

Amy leans in beside me as he opens it, and for a moment, the whole shop feels still. Sacred.

Two gold bands.

Classic. Strong. Ours.

She reaches for hers first, turning it in her fingers. I watch as she tilts it to read the engraving.

Her breath catches.

“Oh,” she whispers, tears filling her eyes.

I stay quiet.

“ Your love makes me a better man ,” she reads aloud, voice half wonder, half question.

She looks up at me like with the strangest look.

“I meant it. Mean it. I’ll always mean it,” I tell her.

Her smile trembles, wide, wobbly, and warm. “What a beautiful thing to say.”

“Every word.”

She stares at me a second longer, then groans. “Oh, no.”

“What?”

“I never thought you were going to be sincere. I thought we were going jokey.”

She picks up my ring, tilting the band so I can see.

I’ll always be your scrunchie , it reads.

The room loses all its oxygen for a beat, then I burst out laughing.

Amy hides her face in one hand. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“I can. Tha’s what makes it perfect.”

“I was trying to be funny! You were the one cracking jokes every five minutes, so I thought we were keeping it light. Then you go all sincere and now I look like an unserious person!”

“Lass, I’ll wear this fer the rest of ma life with pride. Scrunchie pride.”

She glares at me through her fingers. “You better.”

Moore, stone-faced behind the counter, clears his throat. “I’ve seen worse,” he offers helpfully.

Amy groans. “That’s not a comfort, Moore.”

“This is why I try not to talk to customers unless it's about jewelry,” he replies, abashed.

I take her hand and gently, reverently, slip the band onto her finger. Her hand shakes, just a bit.

“I’d wear anything you gave me. Even if it said ‘Insert finger here’ with a wee arrow.”

She laughs.

“Come ta think of it, that would make a verra nice tattoo, right above your?—”

Moore clears his throat. Damn. I need to learn to speak more quietly.

"Katie from Wedding Protectors said that if there are any issues with the rings, to let me know.

We want one hundred percent satisfaction here at Love You Jewelers.

The gold is a blend of Scottish and American yellow gold, with a hint of rose gold to represent your hair, in the classic Scottish Luckenbooth ring design, just as you asked, Hamish. "

"It's beautiful," Amy says.

"Really?" I'm more nervous than I thought. "It's verra traditional. Brick says it's outdated and Cora told me I was an old man in disguise."

"It's definitely going to be clunky on my finger, but you picked it. And it represents your heritage." She kisses my cheek.

Moore eyes her engagement ring with the look of a man who truly loves what he does. "We modified the design to make it a bit more modern, at Hamish's request. This will complement your engagement ring nicely.”

Her phone buzzes and she pulls it from her bag, thumb flicking across the screen. “Nessa. Confirming we’re meeting at Bilbee’s for a drink at four.”

My stomach chooses that exact moment to make a sound like a beast waking up from hibernation.

Amy looks at my midsection. “Was that…?”

“Aye. Apparently gettin’ married makes me hungry.”

“We haven’t gotten married yet.”

“Close enough. Commitment-induced hunger.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Moore, where’s the best place in town to grab a bite?”

Moore’s mouth twitches in what might actually be a smile. “If you want fresh and local, The Food Alchemist is your best bet. Fusion, upscale, farm-to-table. You’ll love it.”

I open my mouth.

“But,” he adds, anticipating me, “they're a dinner-only place. You want something now, don’t you?”

Amy and I nod in perfect unison.

He chuckles. “Bilbee’s Tavern has a great menu these days.

Rider’s gotten into some real foodie experiments lately—seasonal menus, scratch-made sauces, the whole deal.

Still serves burgers and wings, but don’t be surprised if your side of truffle fries comes with rosemary aioli.

And their braised tofu tastes like pulled pork. ”

“God bless this man Rider Bilbee.”

“But it’s definitely a sports pub,” Moore continues, motioning for us to remove the wedding bands, then slipping them back into the red box and bagging it up. “Nothing fancy. Television screens, darts, pool. Bit of everything.”

“Darts? Now ye’re speakin’ ma language.”

Amy gives me a look. “You get so competitive about darts.”

“Tha’s ’cause I’m good at it.”

“You said that about skee-ball. And axe-throwing. And that game where you try to catch the metal ring on the hook.”

“I’m good at those, too.”

She just laughs and takes my arm as we step outside.

The breeze greets us with that clean Maine scent—part dirt, part pine, part potential.

As we walk, we pass Love You Coffee, its sidewalk sign advertising a drink called Oat of My League, featuring oat milk, honey, and CBD oil.

A couple sits outside in heart-shaped chairs, sharing a whipped cream monstrosity between kisses.

Next door, Love You India is putting out a sandwich board with lunch specials like tikka wraps and samosa sliders, cumin wafting through the air. My stomach grumbles again.

We’re turning the corner, hand in hand, when the speakers attached to the lampposts suddenly come to life.

“WLUV, your soundtrack for love,” the announcer purrs as “You Make My Dreams” by Hall & Oates kicks in.

Amy snorts. “Seriously? That's Boomer music. Bet my mom and dad have the lyrics memorized.”

I shrug, swinging our hands a little as we walk. “Better than ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’.”

“Just wait. That’ll be next.”

“I’ll dance in the middle o’ the street if it is.”

“Hold you to that, retro boy.”

As we head toward Bilbee’s, the autumn light makes everything shimmer a little. I’ve got my woman at my side, a ring in my pocket, and darts in my future.

Amy slows, eyes narrowing as she looks up at the tavern’s sign.

“Why does the goat look like it’s attacking Valentine’s Day?” she asks.

“It’s brilliant. That goat—he’s a warrior of love. But he’s no’ attackin’, he’s establishin’ dominance.”

The painted red heart beneath the goat’s hoof looks like it’s seen better centuries.

Amy crosses her arms. “Is the whole building... tilted?”

I take it all in—the crooked windows, the leaning porch, the old hand-painted sign, and the heavy oak door with a rusted handle that’s somehow still functioning. Then I breathe deep. The scent of woodsmoke and something vaguely yeasty is like a hug from my past.

“Smells like a real pub. A place where heartbreak goes ta get drunk and come out stronger.”

She arches an eyebrow. “It smells like firewood.”

I open the door and hold it for her. The warm air inside hits us instantly—woodstove heat, sour beer, and something fried in oil last week. My heart practically sings.

Amy steps inside cautiously, as if the floorboards might give way beneath her. One creaks so loudly under her boot that she startles.

“Are we sure this place is up to code?”

“Aye. By the grace of the Maine fire gods and at least one extremely negligent building inspector. That’s how all the good places survive.”

Inside, the tavern is dim but cozy, the flicker of the woodstove casting lazy shadows across the floor. The chairs don’t match. The tables are battle-worn, maybe literally. There’s a guy with a beard so long, it might have its own post code, passed out in a booth near the back.

It’s perfect. We wait to be seated.

Behind the bar, a large man with an eyepatch and tattoos running down both arms looks up from drying pint glasses.

Amy leans in. “That’s the owner, right?”

I nod. “Aye. I'd guess that’s Rider Bilbee. The guy Moore told us about.”

She stares. “He looks like he fought a bear and the bear lost.”

Rider catches our eye and gives us a nod that could be interpreted as either welcome or warning.

Amy shivers slightly.

I stretch my shoulders. “I love this place already. It’s got character.”

She looks around at the slanted ceiling and the wall of spirits behind the bar. “It’s giving collapse vibes.”