“I didn’t make you—you did it of your own accord. It’s Instagram worthy for you, but I keep it classy for my clients.”
“Ugh, if you start talking about keeping your brand cohesive on social media again, I’m going to tour the Highlands without you,” I say, striding away from the stone and toward the cave’s entrance. I duck past the dripping water at the opening as I hear Dakota trail behind me.
“It’s important, Bonnie. Influencers and companies find me through Instagram. I can’t have a picture on there of me pretending my arm is a penis.”
I whip around, halting her in place as I plant my hands on my hips. “It’s because my arms are longer than yours, isn’t it? You’re too ashamed to have your fake penis next to my fake penis.”
“Yes, Bonnie,” she deadpans. “That’s exactly right. I have fake-penis envy.”
I snap my fingers and smile. “I knew it.” I reach out and take her hand in mine. “Come on, now, we have much to see.”
We decided to visit a few spots in the Highlands today. We have plans to go to Inverness and explore later on, and when we can really squeeze in some time together, we want to hit up Edinburgh. We aren’t just here to work and find ourselves. We’re also here to take in the country.
And that is what today is about: exploring with my best friend.
My eleventh-grade English teacher was obsessed with England. A real lover of Shakespeare. He would drive us crazy with anecdotes and vacation pictures of him splashed around England.
Mr. Dorsey in a red phone booth.
Mr. Dorsey in front of Buckingham Palace.
Mr. Dorsey in the countryside.
Mr. Dorsey at Stonehenge.
At one point, Josh Flanders stood up in the middle of a slideshow of Mr. Dorsey prancing in an English field with sheep and told the man to get a life. Josh was sent to the principal, but mentally I applauded him. Who on earth would be so obsessed with another country?
Ahem
Slowly raises hand
Yeah, I get it now.
I so freaking get it.
Ugh, poor Mr. Dorsey. I want to write a letter to him and tell him . . . “I see you.”
And then I want to write him a letter describing in intricate detail the way the heather on the hills sways rhythmically with the wind, almost like it’s dancing.
To make my point: I’m obsessed with Scotland.
I came to that realization about five minutes ago, when Dakota slowly pulled around a bend on a narrow road that opens up to a valley. My heart caught in my throat as the landscape unfolded before us.
After pulling off onto a lookout with a bench, we sat in the car and quietly stared for a few good minutes before I got out of the car and breathed it all in.
The fresh air was the first thing to ignite my senses. So pure.
The second thing was the soft sound of a trickling brook winding and weaving through the valley. Not big enough to be a river, but powerful enough to set the soundtrack for the view in front of us.
The third thing was the contrast in bold colors Mother Nature has chosen to bless us with. A palette of whimsical childhood hues clashing together, making the soil pop, the clouds dance, and the peaks claim authority over the land.
The only word for it all: breathtaking.
“Wow,” Dakota says as she pulls a travel cooler with our lunches out of the car.
“I know. I think we found the spot.”
“We did.” She chuckles, and we both take a seat on the wide bench.
Before we left Corsekelly, we stopped at the bakeshop for some savory pies—both opting for cheese and onion today—and of course some shortbread, because what’s one more helping for my hips?
“Isla was right about this place,” I say, taking a bite of my pie and enjoying the hearty and acidic flavors of the cooked onion. “I’m so glad she told us about it.”
“Me too,” Dakota says quietly.
I know that quiet.
That quiet is a result of her thinking heavily about something.
That quiet has been present through almost our entire drive.
Yes, we were taking in the views and listening to traditional Scottish music, but she usually comments on a few things, at the very least. There was no commenting this time.
I bump her with my shoulder. “What’s going on in that head of yours? And don’t tell me nothing. We’ve been friends since the fourth grade—I know when you’re thinking too hard.”
“Do I really give it away?”
“Smoke comes out of your ears. I like to think of it as sort of a Batsignal, but just for me.” Cupping my hands around my mouth—pie balanced precariously on my lap—I say, “Alert, alert, Bonnie, help is needed. Help is needed.”