Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

“Be sure to switch, and you’ll be fine. It’s maybe a twenty-minute walk. Impossible to miss.”

“And getting back?” Clearly I should have stayed in Dornie, but I’d been too chicken, and of course I’d been desperate to avoid any potential awkwardness ... or any more than strictly necessary.

“I’ll ring up one of the innkeepers down the road from the pub and ask them to drive you back ’round.” She waved away the uncertainty plain on my face. “It’s not a bit of trouble. We do the same for them. Not as often, mind, but who’s counting?” She winked merrily. “You’re all checked in here, so ye just have time to go on up to your room, freshen up a bit, change your shoes,” she paused for effect and eyebrow raising, “and get back down to the lobby before the car pulls ’round outside.” Now she smiled, no doubt waiting for me to obey.

A change of shoes (and underwear) and a slick of deodorant and lip gloss took longer than expected, and I missed my chance to tag along on the last castle tour of the day. But not yet ready to venture off to the Dog and Bagpipes, I chose to wander the castle grounds on my own.

The green of the hills and the showy flare of sunset colors was breathtaking, but my eyes were drawn to the mirrored beauty of Eilean Donan caught—trapped—beneath the water. Locked in. And then it clicked, and my brain went numb, thrumming with the frightening truth that in this spot, at this moment, I’d locked myself in. Tonight it really was now or never.

I could already see the moon, a bright crescent, rising in the sky, and a matching one reflected far away beneath the surface of the water. Like two separate worlds, one real and one imagined. Like my own schizophrenic whirlwind of real life versus dreams come true. Standing in the misty chill of early evening thousands of miles from home, the luster on my grand gesture was beginning to tarnish amid the harsh climate of fear. But there were hours yet till the clock struck midnight, and in an odd twist, I was off from the castle to find the prince.

Time skittered past, and like magic, I ended up in front of the Dog and Bagpipes, staring in disbelief at the pub signage, decorated, as one might expect, with a dog playing the bagpipes. There was no mistaking the place—how could there be? Music was filtering out through the slightly cracked door, and a warm yellow glow shined at the windows, beckoning me in out of the twilight and chill. Into a world of awkward. I stepped back, wrapping my sweater more tightly around me. I wasn’t ready.

I needed a little boost, a little inspiration ... a sign.

Unzipping my bag, I pulled out the journal and ran my hands over its familiar cover. A little chat with Fairy Jane was probably impossible—who knew how long I’d have to huddle outside waiting for an answer. Digging deeper, my hand closed over my cell phone, which I’d neglected to power on after the flight. I remedied that oversight. It was midmorning in Austin, and I could probably catch Gabe or Beck, but there was nothing left to say. Honestly, I just needed to cowgirl up and get ’er done.

A tiny red beacon started winking at me—the message light. A text message had been sent a couple of hours ago, as I was whipping through the Scottish countryside on my merry way to here.

Mssg from Leslie: Text us with Darcy deets ... L&L P.S. And demand make-up sex!

Believe it or not, it was the nudge I needed. Taking a deep, courage-gathering breath, I let it go and watched it billow out on the breeze, sparkling in the pearly glow from above.

Turning to face the pub door, I said a little prayer, offered up an appeal to Fairy Jane and any and all magical creatures willing to intercede on my behalf, and with a fluttery breath, pulled it open. 

Even standing in the shadows, just over the threshold, the awkwardness hanging heavy over my head right beside the huge potential for failure, I could feel the tension start to ebb away. For now I was still anonymous, but I felt welcomed just the same. The flickering glow of a peat fire, the raucous laughter of pub regulars, the clink of glasses raised in toast, and the lilting sound of a young female voice accompanied by a fiddle—all of it felt right. The chill slid out of me, but I stayed by the door, cursing my lack of planning for the second time in recent memory. I hadn’t a clue what to do now. I admit, I’d been hoping I’d catch a glimpse of Sean and suddenly be struck with an ingenious segue between our awkward good-bye and this, the unexpected hello.

But I didn’t see him.

My hands darted about like dragonflies, feathering over the clamoring parts of my anatomy in their turn. My throat, with its jackrabbiting pulse, my chest, with its runaway bass drum beat, and on to my stomach, where anxiety was starting to churn things up ...

And then I saw him.

Time stopped for just a moment, and then the room was spinning once again in a kaleidoscope of color and sound, all of it a blur but him. He looked exactly as I remembered, but sooo much sexier. My nausea spiked with the memory that I’d let him slip through my fingers and must now hang my future on the hope that he—much unlike me—wasn’t a grudge holder. Holding court across the room, he was relaxed and confident, the apparent golden boy of Dornie village.

Whereas I was skulking in a corner, a full-fledged stalker. We didn’t fit, the pair of us. Two people could not possibly be more different. And yet, I wanted him. And I needed to convince him, right here, tonight, that I’d bobbled things and really and truly deserved a do-over. Because if I walked out of here now, I wouldn’t be back; I wouldn’t have the courage to try this again. This was it.

As the ballad ended amid much whistling and applause, my eyes strayed toward the band and quickly recognized Sean’s band mates.

“Anyone else now?” called the drummer—Ian, if I remembered right—in a clear, carrying voice. I scanned the pub as he did, looking for takers, before glancing back to him. Eyebrows raised, he warned, “Otherwise you’ll be having to listen to Sean again, and I wouldn’t trust him to have any new material.”

Widespread groans, hearty jokes, and shouted encouragement were offered up all around, but I barely noticed. It had just occurred to me that suddenly I was in a time crunch: If I waited any longer, Sean would be on stage and out of reach indefinitely. Never mind the suspense, I honestly didn’t think I could handle the grueling physical symptoms of waiting any longer.

As if prompted by an awfully pushy invisible hand, I shuffled forward and felt my heart rate soar, pounding out its objection. Too bad. This was it—I was going to do it! Newly determined, I headed toward the makeshift stage where the band was waiting to accompany the vocal stylings of the next performer. Which I’d just now decided was going to be me. That’s right: I was volunteering. To sing. In front of complete strangers. No doubt bearing a striking resemblance to a zombie in a sweater and sensible shoes.

Within seconds I was facing a couple of Sean’s band mates and a complete stranger with a fiddle, slightly slack-jawed (me, that is, not them) and stumped as to what to do next. Recognition flickered in their eyes (except for the fiddler), and slow grins seeped onto their faces.

“Are ye here to sing, then?” This from Ian (I think).

“If that’s all right?”

“It’s bloody great,” he assured me, and his cohorts seemed to agree. I stared for a moment, thrown a bit by their effusive encouragement, before forcing a smile on my face. My shocking lack of talent would melt those grins off their faces soon enough. “Do ye have a song in mind?”

I opened my mouth, ready to blurt anything just to move this along, but nothing came out. Probably because nothing came to mind. Out of all the karaoke songs I’d memorized against my will over the last six months, none of them seemed appropriate for this moment. My mind flitted over show tunes, one seeming even more ridiculous than the next, and I briefly considered—and vetoed—a Katy Perry tune. I was stumped and losing courage fast.

I glanced away from the band, out toward the crowded pub, where strangers were whispering and wondering. Whipping my head back around, focusing hard on not hyperventilating, I let my mind tumble over possibilities.

What songs did I even know all the lyrics to? And which of those did I have a prayer of not massacring? I couldn’t think of a single one ...

And then I did.

I blurted it to the band before I could change my mind, and while my request garnered a few smirks, no one questioned it. This was really happening.

I felt suddenly compelled—honor bound—to give them a little heads-up. So before I turned around to face the music (so to speak) and my first audience (who knew it’d be on foreign soil?), I screwed my face up a little in apology and admitted, “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“I can assure you, we’ve heard worse.” As words of encouragement, they sucked, but at least they came with a wink. I shrugged. Nobody could say I hadn’t warned them.

I watched them count it down, poised on the balls of my feet, quivering with nerves and fear and queasy anticipation.

And then my time ran out. And I spun. And started to sing.

Obviously I felt like an idiot belting out the theme song from Shrek, particularly surrounded by musical talent and following a lovely, lilting Scottish ballad, but what could I say? I knew the words, and that was a huge plus.

I’d blurred my vision so I wouldn’t have to look at any one person’s full-body cringe, but my hearing was disturbingly sharp, and I was fully aware that my pride was in the middle of a smack-down. I could literally hear my voice being stretched beyond the bearable limits. But I couldn’t stop now, and besides, how could things possibly get any worse?

Somehow they found a way.

As the song started to quicken and move into the chorus, my head bobbing along, keeping time with the music, I felt the rest of my body start to twitch, impelled by the beat, or the exhilaration, or reckless, rampant insanity to dance.

I was not a dancer—I had no skills, no moves, no rhythm. Then again, I wasn’t a singer either, but here I was, microphone in hand, belting out the lyrics of an ogre. As an argument it was weak, and yet it proved sufficiently convincing. Before we’d hit the next bit of the chorus, I had moves, and I was sharing them with everyone. All I could do was hope to God no one had a camera phone. Not to mention the cold-blooded cruelty to post this little indiscretion on YouTube.

Suddenly, through my blurry haze, I heard clapping. Not appreciative clapping, mind you. Sympathetic, rousing clapping—the sort inspired by subpar performances, intended to offer up encouragement. I took it as a sign of good karma and readjusted my eyes to eliminate the blur.

Skimming over faces, some with wide eyes, others with wide grins, my gaze finally settled on Sean, his eyes riveted on the spectacle I was making of myself, just as I sung, a little desperately, about needing a little “chaaange.”

It took only that one line to make me realize that somehow— magically, maybe—I’d chosen perfectly rather than arbitrarily. This kooky song felt like it should be part of my life’s soundtrack—my “big moment” track. Because even if Sean refused to take me back, even if he was appalled at my singing voice (how could I blame the man?), I’d done this. I’d taken a chance, taken a risk, gotten wild and weird all on my own. And I was proud of myself. My world was literally on fire.

Two more seconds, and it was over. I was done. The band wrapped the song, and I thumped ignominiously back to earth, a regular girl with post-performance anxiety, the fairy dust gone.

Ian’s voice replaced mine on the microphone. “Let’s have a round of applause for Miss Nicola James, everyone!” So much for anonymity. Tossing the crowd a jaunty little wave and a pained smile, I decided to make my escape before the morbidly curious decided to approach.

I turned to murmur my thanks to the band, shaking each of their hands in turn, and retrieved my bag from the floor beside me. I made my way back to the door in the same trancelike state I’d come through it and pushed out into the cool night air, gearing up for a full-on panic attack.

What just happened in there? Why did I ... ? How could I ... ? I couldn’t go back in there. Forget that I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t slow my pulse, couldn’t stop the goose bumps popping up willy-nilly, nothing to do with the cold. This hadn’t been how it was supposed to go. I’d wanted magical, not mortifying. And Sean had witnessed every horrific moment. God, how awful.