Page 2 of One for the Road
“I don’t think you should be alone.”
But I am alone, I wanted to say.Glasgow. Skye. It doesn’t matter.
My siblings were the only ones who reached out to me now. Family duty and all that. Who knew it only took professional ruination to find out who your true friends were?
If you’re asking stupid questions, you already know the answer. I could hear my dad, his stern voice taking up the empty passenger seat like a spectre.
My Glasgow friends were all ones I’d met in medical school. The kind who stuck together out of habit and circumstance. Frequenting bars from our uni days on the weekends, recounting the woes of our underfundedhealth service and the weird smell that always lingered in Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary over drams of whisky.
Now I’d become part of the conversational checklist at medical conferences. “Did you hear Alistair Macabe blew up his own life? And how about that new endoscopic platform . . .”
Not that I cared.
I didn’t need friends.
Who had the time or inclination to foster new relationships as an adult, anyway? I barely had time to nurture the ones I had. And even those I eventually found a way to fuck up.
You have to be selfish if you want to be successful; don’t make my mistakes.
I blinked Dad’s voice away, as though I could scrub the memory clean with enough rubbing alcohol, only half focused on Callum’s voice as he said, “I know the will reading came as a surprise, but I think it will be good for you, even if it isn’t what you planned. Taking over Dad’s surgery means you can stay here . . . with your family.”
Dad’s surgery. The words settled in my blood like shards of ice, and I refused to look at my passenger seat, at the will. I didn’t need to read it again. I had it memorised.
And to Alistair, I leave Kinleith General Practice. Make me proud, son.
Make me proud, son. Because I hadn’t already. I mean, I’d always known that. My dad’s permanent expression had been a disapproving scowl, but to have it confirmed on paper hurt far more than it should have.
I’d spent every minute of my adult life barrelling toward one goal: becoming a senior partner at my own GP surgery before I hit forty.Four years before my dad had earned the accolade. Because if I couldn’t please him, I’d be damnsure to outdo him. But then he had to go and fucking die and steal that from me too – the opportunity to earn it for myself. Everything I’d worked for, years of late nights, working on the weekends, kissing the arses of senior doctors, personal sacrifice – all for nothing.
I swore I could already hear the village’s rumour mill running:Wee Alistair Macabe couldn’t cut it in the big city after all. . .came running back to Skye with his tail between his legs.
“I need some time to think it through,” I told Callum distractedly, my attention captured by the tourist – a woman – jumping out of the Beetle’s driver seat into the pissing rain. She rounded the car and opened the boot. Had she broken down?Fucking great.
Callum replied, but I wasn’t listening as I watched the Beetle driver through the quick slide of my wipers. She raced back to the driver’s side and returned with a torch. It was really coming down out there. Barely five p.m., but the swollen clouds had turned the sky the moody grey that was a constant plague on Scotland’s west coast. Despite the rain, I could see now that steam poured from the engine, and she wafted at it with small, frantic hands. Yeah, she’d definitely broken down. Would it be a dick move to just leave? Try to drive around her? The gap between her car and the grass verge was tight, but I could maybe do it.
In Glasgow, I would have left without a second thought. Probably wouldn’t have even noticed someone stranded on my commute. I’d have my headphones in place, nose stuck in my phone. Just the way I liked it.
My brothers would help, though.
Mal, my younger brother, would probably be able to fix it with his bare hands, or use brute strength to push her to the nearest garage. Callum, Kinleith’s vet and small-townhero, would have somehow charmed the car into working. Only a quick grin and a little click of his fingers required. Not me. My knowledge of cars began and ended with the colour-coded fuel pumps.
Palming the gear stick, I eyed the steep grass verge bracketing the dirt track. My four-wheel drive could definitely stand a few minutes of off-roading . . . but,shit.
I thumped a fist off the wheel. “Callum, I gotta go.”
“We have to talk at some point.” He always sounded tired when he talked to me.
“Yep,” I agreed, knowing I’d put off that conversation for as long as possible. I hung up without another word, then edged my vehicle as close to the Beetle as I could. I lowered my window. “Miss?”
Either she didn’t hear me or didn’t care because she didn’t glance up. She had the small torch clutched between her teeth while her fingers fluttered over the engine, clearly having no idea what to do. Only a thin pink anorak protected her from the rain, the front unzipped, and it whipped around her body like a parachute, ready to drag her into the air.
Early spring on Skye could be just as bad as autumn.
I cleared my throat. Yelled, “Hey, miss!”
She finally noted me, offering a single hurried look over her shoulder. It was too dark to clearly make out the colour of her eyes. Still, they settled on me, wide and a little irritated. She took the torch from her mouth. “What?”
“You’re blocking the entire road.”
