“I’m fucking with you, Abby. Yes, ‘us people’ are well familiar with the rain. I guess she’s just had enough of it for one lifetime.”
“Seems like you should probably prioritize your marriage over the weather, though—” My hands fly to my mouth. “Oh my God, I apologize again. I think there’s something about this car that’s making me talk. It’s like a high-speed confessional booth.”
“In that case…” Lachlan revs the engine and the car lurches forward.
The force of the acceleration pushes me against the seat and I let out a little scream. “I’ll tell you anything! I know who really killed JFK!”
He laughs and takes his foot off the gas, but before he can speak, another apology burbles up from inside me. “Lachlan, I really am sorry I said that. I barely know you. It wasn’t my place at all. Your business is your business. Insert other platitudes here.”
He turns to me with a distinct look of frustration. “Let’s get a few things straight: I want to be your friend, okay? I think you’refunny, and, as you’ve so shrewdly figured out, you are currently my only option. But if we’re going to be friends, you’re going to need to stop walking on eggshells every time we have a chinwag. Have you ever met someone Scottish before? I promise, we can take whatever you throw at us. My situation with my wife is, frankly, worthy of ridicule. Just as I expect you to let me take the mick out of whatever tragic American you’ve left pining for you in Boston.”
I laugh in an attempt to cover up the fact that my insides have seized up. I pray he doesn’t ask any follow-ups, because today’s been hard, Steven-wise; I spent my lunch break drafting the email telling everyone the wedding was canceled. I’d been putting it off for ages, because it ranked just below “cleaning the shower drain with my toothbrush” on a list of tasks to look forward to. Today was the first time I felt I could write something that didn’t include the wordsfucking bastardin every other sentence, and even though I managed to overcome this hurdle, I’m not sure I wouldn’t crumple to pieces now at the first line of inquiry. Thankfully, Lachlan doesn’t press.
“So far my favorite thing about our friendship is how many times you’ve had to clarify that you want to be in it,” I say.
He laughs. “Honestly, Abby, you’re really making me work for it here. I thought all you Yanks were supposed to be friendly to the point of annoyance?”
“I’m afraid I’m just annoying without the benefit of friendliness.”
“We can revoke your visa for that.”
We pass a few minutes in silence, and when I look out the window, I realize we’re heading straight into the city, which is unexpected. I’ve learned through a combination of Google and gossip that most of the players live in enclaves in the wealthysuburbs north of city center, but Lachlan pulls up to a high-rise right on the Mersey River, which is so wide that it feels more like a harbor. The building is in a district of old warehouses and dockyards that has been transformed into an artsy riverfront area, complete with the obligatory gastropubs, bright murals on ancient brick walls, and abstract iron sculptures about the sea or ships or storms. In many ways it feels like Boston, like home, and I feel a gut punch of longing.
Lachlan maneuvers the car into the building’s underground parking garage, and when we get into the elevator, he takes out a fob and taps it on the sensor next to “PH.”
“The penthouse, really? So predictable.” I’m rolling my eyes at him, but inside I’m thrilled—this is already so much more exciting than anything I could have imagined when I boarded that plane.
“I know, I’m such a cliché,” he says. “But don’t I get bonus points for actually living in the city instead of some boring-arse gated community with all the yummy mummies and their rich husbands?”
“I’m going to tell your teammates you said unkind things about their neighborhood.”
“But nice things about their wives,” he says with a wink.
It’s a quick ride up to the eighteenth floor, but long enough for me to marvel at where I am and, more surprisingly, how calm I am. This is Lachlan Ramsay. He’s played in a stadium of eighty thousand people. He has a shoe deal with Adidas. And now I’m walking into his palatial penthouse apartment in—and I cannot stress this enough—a slightly sweaty Beatles T-shirt and spandex tights.
“I’m still moving in, so it’s not quite done. Like the bare walls—not going for such an intensely minimalist look, but thedecorating is still a work in progress. Don’t suppose you moonlight as an interior designer?”
“Yeah, but you can’t afford me.”
He’s right that the walls are a bit sterile, but the rest of the flat is, in a word, spectacular. It’s a gigantic, open-plan room with twenty-foot ceilings and industrial ducts and all those cool, hipster artist’s loft vibes. One entire side is a wall of windows facing west onto a roof deck, where the setting sun glints off the Mersey and the peninsula beyond. The dining table, a massive slab of oak braced with black iron brackets, is in front of the doors to the roof deck and looks like it could have been hewn just yesterday and carted down from some primeval Scottish forest. In the opposite corner of the floor, two steps lead down to a sunken area where plush couches and armchairs frame the biggest screen I’ve seen outside of an IMAX theater. The kitchen is all stainless steel counters and modern appliances, and the final corner of the room is a little sort of library, with built-in floor-to-ceiling shelves and squat leather armchairs. I walk over to the library corner. “Oh my God, is this one of those globes that—” I find the hinge and yank up the Northern Hemisphere. “Yep. Exactly as I thought. Scotch collection inside. Very cool, man. Classic move.”
“We’ll be adding ‘Scotch’ to your list of banned words. If you are referring to God’s chosen elixir, it’s just whisky, spelled without anE.The good stuff, which my people have perfected. If you refer to it as Scotch, I will make fun of you for being American.”
“But IamAmerican.”
“And therefore worthy of ridicule.”
“Fair point. Whisky-no-E,offside-no-S.”
“Good, you’re learning. Feel free to pour yourself a glass.”
“I actually don’t really like whisky, with or without theE.Never have.”
Lachlan’s cry of anguish is both pitiful and adorable. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” He riffles around in the bottles before pulling one out. “Here. This is a good choice for baby’s first whisky. Twelve years, aged in sherry casks. Very little smoke. It’s a perfect first step on our journey toward making you a connoisseur. Acceptable additives include a splash of water and one—one—ice cube.” He waves the bottle at me. “May I?”
Every time he saysweorour,a little shot of adrenaline spikes through me. It’s such a refreshing change to hear those words in a positive context, rather than “We need to figure out how to divide our joint bank account.”
Lachlan beckons me to follow him to the kitchen counter, where he fixes my baby whisky. “Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”
