Page 35

I chuckle. “The sign says it's been around since 1788, hen. If it hasna fallen apart yet, it’s not gonna. This is exactly the kind of place where stories happen.”

She snorts. “Or where they end.”

A burst of heat from the woodstove flows across our table just then, and I close my eyes for half a second, soaking it in.

Outside, Maine might be holding onto the last bite of fall, but in here, it’s November in the best way—warmth, dark corners, and the low hum of conversation, tales waiting to be told.

Let them come. I’m ready.

“I’ll wait on you myself,” Rider says, grabbing two menus. “Slow time. Take any table. Except that one near the stove—it’s less ‘cozy’ and more ‘open flame hazard.’”

Amy eyes the tavern like it’s got tetanus in every corner.

Me? I’m in love.

We settle into a table near the dartboard—empty, waiting, taunting me—and I sink into the seat like it was molded to my are.

I breathe it all in. The uneven heat, the warped table, the scent of old beer and smoked something that might’ve once been food.

This. This is it.

“Hen, I mean it about lookin’ at real estate here.”

She lifts a brow. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. This town’s weird in all the best ways. Like me.”

She makes a face, but I can see the smile she’s trying not to show.

Rider drops off the menus with a thunk. “Here you go. If it sounds strange, it probably tastes amazing. Or terrible. It’s a gamble.”

I flip mine open and nearly propose to the appetizer list.

“Gyro tacos? Smoked duck poutine? Cheesesteak bao?”

Amy’s nose scrunches. “Do you think ‘ranch-averse deconstructed wings’ are legal?”

“If they’re not, we’re callin’ the Love Committee.”

She chuckles.

"That's a real thing here," Rider informs me. "They make all the regulations about love-related issues in town, like appropriate paint shades for use on buildings and signs, or how large a heart can be on a banner above Main Street."

Amy looks around the tavern like she smells something a little off. "I take it you're outside town boundaries and are therefore exempt?"

He barks out a laugh. "Something like that. The Bilbees have been here longer than the Luviews, so we're grandfathered in. More like great-great-great-grandfathered in."

"Let's talk about this menu," I suggest, looking over the options. "Never been to a pub that offered black bean rangoon with chipotle sauce."

“I get bored,” Rider says with a shrug. “I travel, I eat something I’ve never had before, I come home and try to make it with better seasoning. That’s the menu.”

Amy points to the page. “Did you invent truffle aioli curly fries with kimchi ketchup?”

“Damn right I did. You’re welcome.”

A handful of guys, apparently regulars, at the bar hoot at a touchdown from a 1974 American football game re-playing on the screen above them. One of them pumps a fist, as worked up as if the game were live.

Rider flips his notepad. “What’ll you two have to drink?”

“Finest Scottish whisky ye’ve got.”

Amy whips her head toward me. “It’s two o’clock!”

“Aye, but it’s seven in Scotland.”

“You can’t just change time zones to suit your alcohol cravings.”

“It’s not changin’. It’s honorin’ ma roots.”

Rider nods. “I’ve heard worse excuses. One Scotch. And for you?”

Amy sighs. “Water. Plain old common-sense water.”

“House specialty,” Rider assures her, scribbling. He pauses, eyes narrowing a little. “Wait a minute. You’re Hamish McCormick. Ginger striker.”

I nod, not even pretending to be humble.

“Damn. Sorry to hear about the knee.”

Amy immediately leans in. “Please don’t mention that to anyone.”

"Uh, everyone knows Blavek took out his knee."

"Not the knee," Amy hisses. "That we're here! We're in disguise."

Rider points his pen at me. “You should tell him that. His mouth is doing a lot of the advertising.”

Amy turns to me slowly. “You told people?”

"NO!"

"I mean his accent. Six-foot-four guy wearing a knee brace, with a thick Scottish accent, isn't going to blend into the background. The minute Rachel Hart hears you're in town–"

"Met her already," I tell him. "Nice woman."

"Hmm. Who else did you meet?" His eye narrows. "No one named Nadine Khouri?"

"No. But does she have a sister or a daughter named Annabeth?"

"More like ' Hand abeth,'" Amy snaps.

Rider groans. "If you met Annabeth Khouri, you are already all over her Instagram feed. And let me guess, she offered to 'do you' for free?"

Amy facepalms so hard, the menu slides off her lap.

Rider chuckles. “I’ll grab your drinks. Try not to propose to the gyros while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

As he walks off, I stretch my leg out under the table, the shorter brace much better than my old one, but still rough. I glance at the empty dartboard, then back at Amy.

I’ve got a whisky on the way, a menu full of culinary chaos, and a woman across from me who somehow hasn’t strangled me yet.

Life is good.

Rider returns with the drinks and sets them down with the grace of a man who’s lifted beer kegs as cardio.

“One Scotch. One water.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, pen poised, waiting for our food order like we’re holding up the sacred flow of time itself. Busy man serving tourists. He's close to sighing.

My stomach chooses that exact moment to bellow like a Celtic war horn.

Amy pushes her menu toward him. “I’ll have the Korean barbecue sliders with a side of the truffle fries.”

I clear my throat. “Gyro tacos for me. And the falafel bites ta start. And if ye’ve got any of those wee pretzel sticks with the mustard dip, toss ’em in.”

Rider scribbles like a man who’s heard worse.

We lean back, soaking in the pub atmosphere. The woodstove crackles. The TV behind the bar shows a quarterback wearing bottoms that haven’t been manufactured since disco.

Then the door swings open with a long, reluctant creak.

Two men step in.

The first looks like he builds log cabins with his bare hands and throws the trees over his shoulder for fun. Paul Bunyan vibes. Long, dark hair. Thick beard. Plaid shirt, obviously.

The second? Bigger. Clean-cut, square-jawed, with the intense, unreadable vibe of someone who’s taken a lie detector test and passed it by intimidating the machine.

Rider glances up from the bar and gives them a chin nod. “Kell. Dennis.”

The two nod back in that same stoic, small-town way .

They head for the bar. Kell says something I don’t catch, and Rider starts assembling a to-go order. I catch the word “falafel.”

Amy leans in. “Do they look like action figures to you?”

“Like if G.I. Joe joined a lumberjack commune.”

Dennis looks over at us, long, direct, and assessing.

Amy straightens.

Dennis says something to Kell, then walks over.

I sit up. Can't be too prepared in a pub. Anything could happen.

He stops beside the table, posture straight, voice low and calm.

“Excuse me. Are you Hamish McCormick?”

I nod. “Aye.”

“I thought so. I saw you play in Stuttgart and again in Munich while I was stationed in Germany. You had a hell of a cross game.”

“Appreciate that. Those were good matches.”

“Great control under pressure,” he adds, with a tiny smile. “Glad to see you here. Hope the recovery’s going okay.”

I pause. That’s not a casual fan question. That’s a been-there, know-the-body, understand-the-stakes kind of line.

I nod again. “It’s comin’ along.”

He gives a slight, respectful incline of his head. “Good luck. And welcome to Love You.”

With that, he turns and walks back to the bar.

Amy picks up my whisky and takes a sip.

“Hey!”

“What?” she says, completely unbothered. “You were busy being famous. I was busy being thirsty. If we have to be constantly interrupted by your adoring fans, I need something to take the edge off.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Ye ken it’s got a bite.”

She winces. “It tastes like smoked tears.”

I grin, watching Dennis and Kell at the bar.

This town just keeps unfolding in the strangest, best ways.

I stand, my brace taking a few seconds to catch up to my muscles, but once it does, I limp over to the dart board.

It's simple, no more and no less than anything you'd find in a UK pub, tucked back near billiards tables.

It's barely two in the afternoon, so the only other people here are eating a late lunch or drinking an early dinner.

A group of old geezers are going to get neck strain from watching a game on the telly.

No one's entertaining themselves with the fun activities, so while we wait for our food, I look at the board next to the darts set-up.

Leagues. Dart leagues. Posted neatly with names like The Pointy Hearts and Love at First Flight .

Dear God, they have dart leagues here.

Amy thinks my talk about real estate and Love You is me messing around, that I’m joining in the town’s own joke.

But I’m not.

There’s something here I can’t quite put my finger on. A pull. A steadiness. Like if I stood still long enough, roots might start growing out of my shoes.

Maybe it’s just nerves.

Maybe it’s easier to throw myself at dartboards and menus than to sit with what’s really going on with my knee, my career, my mum.

The sportscasting job hangs in the air between me and every version of myself I used to be. The Hamish who woke up at 4:30 a.m. to train. The one who played through injuries. Who lived for the pitch.

And who now doesn’t know if he’ll ever make it back.

Add in the rift with Mum, and the silence in my chest feels deafening.

But Amy?

She’s the one thing that doesn’t feel uncertain.

She’s my constant. My curveball. My best idea and worst influence. And standing in this weird little town with a knee brace and a growing warm glow, I know exactly what I want.

Something solid.

Something that lasts.

Something I can grow into with her.

And this place? It might just be the soil.

“Food,” Rider calls out. I pivot as he approaches our table with a big serving tray.

He sets the Korean barbecue sliders in front of Amy with a grunt. “Sliders. Truffle fries.”

Amy raises an eyebrow as she sniffs. “Do I detect rosemary?”

“Only if your nose works.”

Then he puts my plates down: gyro tacos, falafel bites, and a mountain of pretzel sticks with a neon-yellow mustard sauce. That's a lot of turmeric.

“Ye’ve done the Lord’s work, mate.”

Rider just grunts again and heads back to the bar with his empty tray.

Amy eyes her plate, then plucks a fry. “This smells like a carb coma waiting to happen.”

I pop a falafel bite into my mouth, savoring the crunch. “Then let’s make it a damn good one.”

I get the sense that, like the pubs back home, Bilbee's Tavern isn't just a place to have a drink or eat a meal. It's a gathering place. A hub for the town. A center of civic activity. You don't come here to have a cocktail or a beer; you come for the comfort. The belonging. The sameness.

Places like this need to exist. They're as important as a new school or another coffee shop. A senior center or a sushi restaurant. Everyone needs a place where they can enjoy the flow of life outside their home, and Bilbee's has provided that now for two and a half centuries.

In UK pub terms, it's but a wee toddler in age, but for the United States, it's ancient.

As we eat, a glow of contentment rushes through me, making all my muscles melt.

The whisky, the food, the darts, the scent of woodsmoke–it all makes me feel so good.

I'm marrying the most beautiful woman in the world, someone who's stood by my side during the worst moments of my life, and we're having the best–

"1966: A Nation Remembers,” a Sky Sports / ESPN Classic...

The narrator's voice startles me and I turn toward the telly over the bar.

"Amy! Look!"

"Sky Sports!"

"Aye, Sky Sports, but it's ma favorite classic sports documentary, about England vs. West Germany! We have ta watch it."

"The whole thing?"

"Aye. It's only an hour long. Plenty o' time ta finish eatin', watch the show, then play some darts before Nessa and Matt join us."

She sighs. "You have it all planned out."

"Aye, pet. I love this town more and more."