Page 85 of Of Heather and Thistle
“I know,” Ivy said softly. “I understand. And I’m not asking you to forgive me right away. I just wanted you to know that I see my mistakes and want to make them right. Whatever you need, whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here. … please know that I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Heather exhaled slowly, her chest tight. “I’ll need time, Ivy. But… I’m glad you’re finally being honest with me. It’s a start.”
“Yeah,” Ivy agreed, her voice still carrying a note of uncertainty but also hope. “It’s a start.”
Heather took a deep breath, her fingers tracing the edge of the window frame as she gazed out at the street below. “I’m not sure what comes next, Ivy. But I’m willing to try…to move forward, I guess. One step at a time.”
“I’m sorry,” Ivy’s voice was softer now, raw in a way Heather hadn’t heard before. “But I promise.” Heather closed her eyes.“I’ll be better,” Ivy whispered. “For you, Heather. For us.”
Us.
That one word shattered whatever wall Heather had been trying to build. Heather’s chest tightened. She hadn’t expected Ivy to be so vulnerable, which caught her off guard. She closed her eyes, the weight of everything—her father’s house, the artifacts, the distant echoes of her past—pressing down on her. She knew they had a long road ahead, but maybe, just maybe, they could start again.
“I believe you,” Heather said quietly. There was a long pause before Ivy’s voice, lighter this time, came through.
“Thanks, Heather. I’m here, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”
“Yeah,” Heather replied, her heart feeling slightly less heavy. “I’ll reach out.” As they said their goodbyes, something shifted. Not big, but real. Like a door cracking open to let in the faintest light. Heather set the phone down.
She felt… uneasy.
Or maybe just empty. It was probably a mistake—Ivy asking for forgiveness and Heather giving it too easily. But for tonight? She wanted to believe it. She needed a break, a little distraction to let her thoughts settle. So she stood, brushed herself off, and headed down to The Highland Hearth.
She needed something simple. Something warm. Something that wasn’t Ivy.
* * *
The familiar warmth of the pub wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside, the low hum of conversation blending with the lively strum of folk music that made Heather’s foot tap along with the rhythm. The atmosphere was cheerful and welcoming, and peace settled into her bones for the first time in days. She ordered a hearty plate of bangers and mash at the bar, then found a cozy seat near the window to watch the world go by.
The bartender—a tall man with kind eyes and a gentle grin—caught her smile and leaned in. “Enjoyin’ the tunes, are ye? Hope you’re free come Beltane—we’re throwin’ a ceilidh.”
Heather looked up, curious. “Aceilidh?”
“Aye, that’s right,” he said, wiping the counter. “Music, dancing, good fun.”
She’d never been much of a dancer, but something about a ceilidh felt different. Like it belonged to the story she hadn’t meant to walk into. “I’ll think about it,” she replied. “Sounds fun.”
The bartender gave her a wink. “Ye won’t regret it. Ye’ll fit right in. I’ll save you a seat if ye decide on comin’.”
The thought of letting go—even for a night—made her heart lift. Something spontaneous. Maybe even something healing. She took another sip of her drink, the music’s rhythm filling her with a quiet sense of belonging. As the night went on, Heather felt lighter, the music and thepub’s warmth washing away some of the heaviness that had lingered for so long. Maybe the ceilidh was exactly what she needed. Not to forget—but to remember who she was, outside the ache.
Chapter 24
Heather didn’t mean to ignore the storage unit. Not really. But winter had melted into spring, and still, she hadn’t returned. It wasn’t intentional—at least, that’s what she told herself. There had always been something else to do. The renovation work took priority—the walls needed reinforcing, the roof repairs were ongoing, and the never-ending logistical headaches of permits, budgets, and the crew’s schedules had kept her hands full.
And then there was Flynn.
She wasn’t sure if he was a part of the distraction or just another thing she didn’t want to examine too closely. Between early morning check-ins and late evening progress reports, between the effortless teasing and the unexpected moments of quiet understanding, she spent more time in Glenoran’s present than its past. Maybe it was easier to fix walls than feelings. It was more straightforward to ignore the storage unit altogether than to stand in front of it and feel the weight of everything inside—the things that had beenpacked away, waiting for her to deal with them.
And so she didn’t.
Not on the rainy days when she could’ve easily driven into town. Not on the bright, crisp mornings where she had nothing but time. Not even when Flynn offhandedly mentioned that they should go through it soon.
“Whenever yer ready, Campbell.” That’s all he said. No push, no expectation. It’s just a simple statement, easy to brush aside. And she had. Because if she never went, then nothing inside had to change. Nothing had to be sorted, thrown out, or questioned. Most of all, nothing had to be remembered.
So she let spring settle over Glenoran, the trees bursting into fresh green, the scent of earth and new beginnings curling through the open windows. And still, the storage unit waited. Heather had gotten really good at avoiding things. The storage unit. The past, and for the last two days, Flynn.
She hadn’t planned on ignoring him completely, but after his last text: “Still breathing, lass?”
