Writing out my preposterous hopes for the journey here gives me the same shameful chill as seeing old social media photos—Did I really post that?—not least because of the horrifically cliché Scottish brogue I’d superimposed onto McTavish before I’d even met him. I think it’s obvious that McTavish and I would not wind up on a first-name basis. Though my inspiration would still come from a drink with him, in a way, so maybe I’m clairvoyant after all.
