I know only that we’re flying out of a private airfield to my new husband’s home in Scotland and suddenly, the realization that I don’t know when I’ll see my home or my family again hits hard, thudding in my chest.
Turning to look out the back window, I watch my family fade into the distance, Mom and Lucia still wearing determinedly cheerful smiles and while Sam waves, his face is grim. Just the sight of them and I’m teetering on the brink of a giant, sobbing collapse
Straighten up! For fuck’s sake, you’re tougher than this.
My Stern Inner Voice tends to sound a lot like my Nana’s, and that’s a good thing. If she survived seventy-five years of this family’s dysfunction, so can I.
I was in an earthquake once, in San Francisco on a girl’s trip. I grabbed the hands of my friends Tina and Jenny and we raced across the cracking concrete parking lot of the Four Seasons Hotel to get to cover, each convulsive surge of earth nearly knocking us off our feet.
It felt a lot like that tonight. My Prada heels dangerously wobbly as I carefully picked my way through the ballroom after Dadshouted about the gift of my virginity to Mason MacTavish as the crowd watched avidly. I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of watching me crumble. Inside, though, I feel like that seemingly invulnerable concrete in the parking lot, disintegrating under the force of something beyond my comprehension.
Maybe it was being away at school, interacting with other students and living a (more or less) normal life that let me forget the reality of who I was. The thought that I existed only as a bartering chip seemed ridiculous, really, when I was talking to friends who grew up in regular households with all the accompanying drama of dates and curfews and heartbreak.
***
The only thing I had done to stand up for myself tonight was to confront Wyatt.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I cornered him in the hallway; he was standing guard at the bathroom door as I came out. Dad probably assigned him to keep me from running.
Wyatt’s a big man, his nose crooked from being broken several times, including once when I reset it for him after he fought off two guys who foolishly attempted to mug us. His shoulders were rounded though, instead of the military-straight posture he always had. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Mr. Cavendish insisted that you were not to be made aware of the plan.”
“But… It’sme,”I said stupidly. “We’re- you always said we were a team. Why wouldn’t you give me a chance to prepare for this?”
He looked right, and then left but not at me.
“Why?”I said sharply. Better angry than crying.
Taking a deep breath, his tired brown eyes finally looked into mine. “Mr. Cavendish is my employer. He signs my checks. Not you.”
I turned around and walked back into the ballroom, a pleasant, bland smile nailed on my face. There was nothing left to say.
***
I wave one last time at my family and turn to face forward again, and Mason looks up from his phone with a brief, perfunctory smile. “You’ll see your family again,” he says, rapidly tapping out a text. “As much as you like.”
“Are you psychic?” My lips are trembling.
There’s a faint ‘woosh!’ as he fires off a text and then puts his phone in his jacket. “No. I can imagine though, that being abruptly pulled away from everything you know is overwhelming.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” I say formally, back straight, my old finishing school manners taking over like muscle memory. I’m embarrassed that this handsome stranger has seen me be so weak. Weepy, needy, and fragile. “I’m not usually like this.”
He shrugs elegantly. “It seems like a perfectly understandable reaction to me.” I’m absently rubbing my arms and he takes off his jacket, putting it over my shoulders. “Seattle’s chilly the moment the sun sets, much like Glasgow.” I look down at his big hands, pulling the edges of his jacket closed over me. His long fingers are right next to my breasts but this doesn’t feel sexual. Gallant, maybe. Kind, certainly.
Maybe this could be the start of something good.
***
The jet waiting for us on the runway isn’t a giant, ostentatious thing like my father’s. It’s long and sleek and looks like some sort of top-secret spy craft.
There’s a uniformed flight attendant at the entrance. He’s older, mid-forties with red hair cut short and wearing a warm smile. “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. MacTavish. A pleasure to have you aboard.”
I’m still trying to gather up the long train on my dress when Mason sweeps me up in his arms, loping up the stairs. I let out an embarrassing little squeak. He’s moving like I’m as light as a fairy princess, which I am not. I’m big-boned. My father used to call me “Sturdy pioneer stock.” He didn’t mean it as a compliment. I can feel Mason’s bicep bulge against my back and the solid feel of his chest, his warm breath on my cheek.
“Thank you, Martin,” he says, not even breathing hard, “please make sure Mrs. MacTavish has a full menu available.” Tilting his head down, he murmurs, “You didn’t eat at the reception at all, did you?”
