Under Loch and Key

by Lana Ferguson

Ever since I set foot in Scotland, I can’t seem to get over how beautiful it is. The land itself seems to be alive all around me—almost as if I can feel the hum of life in the air and beneath my feet. The colors feel more vibrant, the sights and sounds more lovely, and I can see it, I think. Feel it, even. Why my father was so wistful when he spoke of his homeland.

“You’re no worse than a man,” Rory tsks. “You know that?” “You lot had centuries of being lecherous bastards,” she says primly. “It’s all about equality now, mate.”

She smells like something soft and sweet, her shampoo maybe—but she tastes like honey and sunshine and every good memory I’ve ever had, however few. How can I possibly push her away when she’s the first thing I’ve allowed myself to hope for in years?

You are not who you are because of where you come from; you are who you are because of where you choose to go.”