Page 36

Amy

I now know more than I ever wanted to know about European history in the post-WWII era and how football saved the continent.

At least, that's Hamish's interpretation.

To his credit, he’s making it compelling. Something about strategy on the pitch mirroring political alignment. I tune out slightly during a passionate aside about cross formations and Cold War symbolism, choosing instead to admire my truffle fries like they’re a Renaissance painting.

“I’m tellin’ ye,” he says between bites of gyro taco, “that match in ’66—it’s no’ just a game, it’s history. It’s unity. It’s?—”

“It's delicious,” I interrupt, stealing a bite of his falafel. “Tell me more about how hummus healed NATO.”

He snorts and gives me a look that makes my stomach flutter a little harder than the aioli can account for.

Rider returns to clear plates with a grunt of approval at the empty pretzel basket, then slides the dessert menu onto the table.

“Got new stuff on there,” he says. “The chef’s experimenting.”

“Is it fusion?” I ask warily.

“It’s dessert. It tastes good. Don’t overthink it.”

We take our time reading through the offerings. No chocolate lava hearts. No cinnamon kisses. No raspberry tarts in the shape of lips.

Nothing is pink, red, or heart-shaped. No glitter.

It’s... glorious.

I order the fig-and-walnut bread pudding with cardamom cream, though it’s hard to pass up the maple creme br?lée.

Hamish gets the stout brownie with whisky caramel drizzle, and I also ask for a coffee.

Regular, not artisanal, not in a mug shaped like a cartoon character, and definitely not served with a paper straw adorned with romantic affirmations.

It comes in a plain white mug.

“God, I love it here,” I say, taking a sip.

Hamish’s eyes soften. “Aye. It’s got a good soul.”

He’s still glowing from the meal, happy in a way I haven’t seen in a while. It’s not the showy kind of joy he puts on for other people. This is quieter. Settled.

Maybe that’s why it finally slips out of me.

“It’s the quiet that’s freaking me out.”

He blinks.

“Not hearing from my mom,” I continue. “Or yours. I thought I’d be relieved, but honestly? It’s unsettling. Like the eye of the hurricane. Like they’re planning something.”

He nods slowly, reading between the lines.

“I miss them,” I admit. “Even when they drive me nuts.”

Hamish sets his fork down, his gaze locking on mine. “We can put the elopement on hold, love. Say the word.”

My breath catches, because I know he means it.

Not just the offer. The choice.

“ I don’t want to change anything,” I say quickly. “I just… need to talk about how I feel. That okay?”

Hamish reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Of course, hen.”

The softness in his eyes wrecks me.

He stands, walks around to my side of the table, and wraps me in a hug—warm, strong, steady. The kind that settles everything inside me, even the parts I don’t have names for.

Then he kisses my temple, brushing his hand through my hair.

“Come play darts wi’ me.”

I laugh into his shoulder. “That’s your solution?”

He pulls back slightly, totally serious. “Aye. It’ll take yer mind off the heavy stuff, and help ye think clearer.”

“You believe darts are therapeutic.”

“I believe throwin’ sharp objects at a wall helps more than people will admit.”

He has a point.

We move to the dartboard corner, dim and warm, with a scuffed wooden floor and chalkboard score tallies on the wall. Hamish grabs a set of darts from the rack nearby and hands me three slender metal bodies, colorful plastic flights on the back like tiny wings.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ve seen people play in movies, but I have no idea how it works.”

Hamish practically glows. “Right. So. Ye’ve got a standard dartboard.

Twenty numbered sections, arranged in no’ any logical order.

Each section has a single, a double, and a treble ring.

The bullseye’s in the center—outer bull’s 25 points, inner bull’s 50.

Most games start with 501 points, and the goal is to get to exactly zero.

You subtract points based on where yer darts land. ”

“That’s… math. Don't make me do math on a full stomach."

“Easy maths. We’ll keep it casual. Take turns, three darts each per round.”

He walks me through it slowly, showing me how to stand—one foot forward, body relaxed, dominant hand holding the dart like a pen. He throws first, hitting a triple 20 like he’s been training for this moment his whole life.

“I’m not gonna be good at this,” I warn.

“That’s no’ the point,” he says, stepping aside. “This is about thinkin’ with yer hands while talkin’ with yer heart.”

I throw a dart. It hits the wall two inches from the board and bounces with a clatter.

“Okay. Maybe not that literal . ”

We laugh together as I re-aim and try again.

By my third round, I actually hit the board. Not a good number, but it sticks.

“That’s it!” He’s as proud as if I’d just mastered a triple bank shot in pool. “Yer a natural.”

“I feel like the board is a metaphor for my emotions.”

“Complicated, circular, and everyone’s tryin’ to hit yer inner bull?”

“Exactly.”

I take a breath, watching him toss his next dart like he was born doing it.

“I don’t want a country club wedding,” I say quietly. “And I definitely don’t want a giant event at Edinburgh Castle.” I shudder. "All those people."

He nods but doesn’t speak, just waits.

“But… it feels weird not to have them here. Our families. Even if they’re difficult.”

Another dart hits the board with a thunk.

“Feels like we’re taking this huge step in a vacuum.

Like we’re celebrating in a soundproof room,” I continue with a sigh.

"I am so torn! I feel like a jerk for hiding from Mom and Fiona, but that means there's no dads here, either.

No Shannon and Carol." My eyes tingle with tears, the back of my throat going tight.

Hamish retrieves the darts, passes them to me again. “Then we make space for the sound, love. Ye say what ye need. As loud as ye want.”

My hand closes around the darts, a little warm from his grip.

I don’t throw right away.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

He exhales through his nose, slow and heavy. “I’ve never gone this long without talkin’ ta Mum. Not even by text. Even when I moved out, even when we were fightin’, there was always something. This? This is different.”

Behind him, a small group of men trickles into the tavern, all middle-aged flannel and backwards ball caps. They head toward the pool tables and start racking up balls, low murmurs and the click of cue sticks filling the space between us.

Hamish glances back at them and grins, nodding toward the table.

“This place,” he says softly, “reminds me o’ family. A bit crooked and fallin’ apart at the corners, but it’s been around forever. Ye can rely on it.”

His voice shifts—quieter, thoughtful.

“But ye canna live in a tavern forever. It’s a rest stop. A good one, maybe even a necessary one. But sooner or later, ye’ve got ta make space for the rest o’ yer life. Fer new stages. New choices.”

He turns back to me.

“Fer us.”

In that moment, I feel it again—that unmistakable pull of being seen. Understood. Loved, not just in the easy moments but in the hard ones, when all you’ve got is a trembling hand, a tight throat, and a dart that might hit something true.

I throw. It lands with a satisfying thwack , not even close to the bullseye, but solid.

Like us.

“Nice throw,” he says with a warm grin, nodding at the board. “Ye’ve got a steady hand.”

I snort. “I’m aiming for emotional catharsis, not accuracy.”

He steps up for his turn and nails a triple twenty like he’s ordering breakfast.

Showoff.

Then, without a word, he moves behind me. Not crowding, but close. His chest at my back. One arm sliding around my waist, the other reaching down to guide my hand, gentle fingers curling over mine.

“Let me show ye,” he murmurs, his breath against my ear.

Everything in my body decides to short-circuit.

His grip is firm and patient, steady as stone, warm as the woodstove behind us. He adjusts my elbow slightly, his palm resting over my knuckles.

“Focus on the spot,” he says. “Block everythin’ else out. Just breathe. Then release.”

I try.

I try to focus on the dartboard.

But all I can think about is him.

The sheer physicality of the man—muscle and motion, steady breath and golden skin and a jawline sharp enough to draw in an art class. Professional athlete, still in peak shape. Built like a statue someone forgot to put a toga on. But it’s not just his body that undoes me.

It’s everything.

He’s kind, good with kids and soft with small animals. Always looking on the bright side. The kind of man who tips generously, who checks in on older neighbors and never forgets where he came from. He’s made more than enough money to support a whole block of families but never brags about it.

He’s mine.

I twist in his arms and kiss him, hard and fierce, with no warning.

He freezes for a second, surprised, then kisses me back with everything he’s got.

When we finally break apart, I turn around, eyes locked on the board. I raise the dart, breathe in, let go?—

Thunk

Dead center.

Bullseye.

He lets out a low whistle. “Holy hell.”

I smile.

“Maybe emotional catharsis is the secret.”

A single clap is followed by Rider’s dry voice from behind the bar.

“Nice shot.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Thanks,” I say, cheeks heating.

Now I’m hyper-aware of the handful of other patrons. The men playing pool. A woman at the bar watching the 1974 NFL game. Rider refilling someone’s Guinness with casual precision—but still, the eyes are there.

They fade quickly, though. The dartboard waits patiently for another round, but I lower my hand and slip back to our table, heart thudding in a mix of pride and embarrassment.

Hamish is grinning at me like I just won an Olympic medal.

Before we can speak, the tavern door creaks open, letting in a gust of cold air and two people I immediately recognize.