Chapter 12 #2
We pick up Jack and Lark at SFO at four-thirty.
The air out here is a mix of jet fuel and exhaust and, underneath it, the briny salt smell off the bay.
Cars are double-parked the length of the curb, horns blaring every thirty seconds, and a traffic cop is blowing his whistle at an Uber that's been sitting too long.
Isabelle is standing next to me near the pickup area, arms crossed, scanning the crowd. The Chronicle shoot wrapped up about an hour ago and she changed into jeans and a white blouse with the sleeves pushed up, her hair loose around her shoulders instead of in its usual kitchen bun.
She turns to me suddenly, her expression hovering somewhere between nervous and annoyed. "I still can't believe you didn't tell me they're famous."
I laugh. "Jack is my insane disaster of a brother and Lark I've known for ages. I don't really think of them that way."
"He's a literal Formula 1 driver," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the arrivals area like Jack might emerge at any second in a cloud of tire smoke and glory. "And I have Lark's music on Spotify. Like, multiple songs. It's a big fucking deal, Alex."
"Are you going to be starstruck?" I ask, grinning at her.
"No," she says, lifting her chin defensively. "I think the only people I'd be genuinely starstruck around would be Julia Child, Jacques Pépin, or Rick Moranis from Ghostbusters."
I turn to stare at her, certain I misheard. "Did you just say Rick Moranis in Ghostbusters?"
"Yes I did," she says primly. "I found him very attractive in that movie. The whole nerdy accountant thing, the glasses, the awkwardness. It worked for me."
"Beaumont, you are full of surprises." I shake my head, amused by this information. "See, if I'd known that's what you were into, I would have worn glasses and talked about tax returns the other night."
She laughs, and the look she gives me is pure trouble. "Well, maybe you'll get an opportunity to test that out."
That fucking perks my interest and I'm about to respond when I hear "Alex!" and look up to see Jack waving from the arrivals exit.
He's wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low, the brim shadowing most of his face in what I recognize as his standard airport disguise.
He's Ferrari's number one driver and on track to win his first championship this year, which means airports have become an absolute minefield for him.
One wrong move and he's surrounded by people with phones out, asking for photos and autographs and generally making it impossible to get anywhere.
Lark is beside him, black hair tucked under a matching cap, laughing at something he just said. She's been selling out venues across the country for the past two years, and her songs have that sticky quality where you hear one once and it lives in your head for a week.
The sunglasses and hats help maintain some anonymity, but nothing really hides it with those two.
There's an energy they carry, a magnetism that makes people look twice even when they can't quite place why.
A couple of girls near baggage claim are already nudging each other and reaching for their phones.
I meet them halfway, weaving through a family with too much luggage and a businessman on his phone who doesn't bother looking up. Jack pulls me into a hug, clapping me on the back hard.
"Hey man," he says, stepping back and looking me over with the critical eye of someone cataloging changes. "Look at you all tanned. Napa agrees with you."
"Well, sunshine and good wine," I say. "Life doesn't get much better than that."
"See, that's what I'm always trying to tell our brothers," Jack says, shaking his head like this is a longstanding grievance.
"Theo's up there in the rain with his flannel and his Subaru, Dom's brooding in a gym somewhere, Calvin forever stuck in a book, and you're out here living your best life in wine country. "
"Someone in this family has to," I laugh, and it's so good to see him. We text constantly but it's not the same as having him here, in person, where I can actually see his face and hear his laugh.
Jack and I are the youngest of the Midnight brothers, and we were the closest growing up, though whether that was a good thing depends on who you ask.
Our mom used to call us the terrible twosome, which she meant with love but also with the weary resignation of a woman who had been called to the principal's office one too many times.
Between the two of us we hold the family records for groundings, stitches, broken bones, and times our parents had to come get us from places we had absolutely no business being.
I turn to Lark and kiss her on the cheek. "How's the tour recovery going?"
"My voice is back, my feet are destroyed, and I've been sleeping fourteen hours a day," she says, squeezing my arm with warmth. "But the tour was so glorious I'm already itching to do it all again. Also, FaceTime just isn't enough, Alex. We've missed you."
"Missed you too," I say, stepping back and gesturing toward Isabelle, who's standing a couple feet behind me with her arms crossed, looking almost shy in a way I've never seen her look in the kitchen.
"This is Isabelle," I say. "She's the brilliant chef behind the pop-up I've been helping with. She had a free afternoon so I invited her along."
Lark's face lights up and she reaches for Isabelle's hand, shaking it warmly. "So nice to meet you! Alex has mentioned you. He says your food is unreal."
Jack steps forward and extends his hand, and his grin turns absolutely wicked. "Sorry about your dad, by the way. Alex says he sounds absolutely insane. You must really hate Alex for agreeing to the whole spy thing."
I groan. "Jack—"
"You know, it was pretty rocky at the start there," Isabelle says, and she's laughing now, relaxing slightly. "In fact, he's still on my shit list in some ways. But slowly climbing out."
"Hey," I protest, looking between the three of them. "I am actually Isabelle's spy at this point. I show her every message before I send it to her dad. I'm like a double agent. It's quite noble, really."
Isabelle smiles. "To be fair, he has been doing that, so I can't really be mad at anyone but my father. Who, like Jack said, is insane."
"Oh, you have to tell us the whole story over dinner," Jack says, grabbing Lark's bags and slinging one over his shoulder as he heads toward the SUV. "I love a good insane father saga."
"Deal," Isabelle says, falling into step beside us. She glances between me and Jack as we walk. "You know, you two don't look that much alike. Apart from the height."
"We're all adopted," I say. "But I think our parents must have put in a specific request at the agency. Tall genes only, please. No exceptions."
Her eyes widen slightly. "I had no idea."
"Five brothers, all adopted, all inexplicably tall," Jack adds, shifting the bag to his other shoulder as we weave through the crowd of people waiting for pickups. "It's like they were building a basketball team."
"Well, you'll have to give me all the dirt on Alex," Isabelle says to Jack, and I immediately regret every decision that led to this moment. "I feel like there's a lot I don't know."
Jack's grin goes absolutely feral. "Oh, I can give you dirt. Though unfortunately most of Alex's dirt is also incriminating to me, so it's a delicate situation. A lot of mutually assured destruction."
"Jack and I used to get into a little bit of trouble," I say quickly, hoping to control the narrative before Jack gets to the really good stuff. The stuff that makes me look like an idiot.
Lark snorts. "A little bit? You two are the reason Dark River's sheriff knows the Midnight family by first name."
"Are we talking skipping class kind of trouble?" Isabelle asks, looking between the three of us with growing interest. "Or something more creative?"
Jack tilts his hand back and forth in a so-so gesture. "Middle ground. A few fights, some light trespassing, one memorable incident involving the town's water tower and spray paint. Then of course there was the car incident."
"That was all you," I say.
"It was a collaborative effort and you know it." Jack turns to Isabelle with an earnest expression. "We stole this car."
"Jack, you—"
"Okay, fine, I stole a car," he says, cutting me off without missing a beat.
"It was actually the second car I stole, which sounds worse than it is.
But this one belonged to a bully at our school, so we were really more like vigilantes than criminals.
Robin Hood but with grand theft auto. No harm to any innocent citizens, though plenty to ourselves. "
"He's now referring to the time he broke my collarbone in a dirt bike incident," I say.
Jack waves a hand dismissively. "That was an accident. I just wanted to see how fast we could go down Spruce's hill. How was I supposed to know there'd be a fence at the bottom?"
Isabelle is laughing now, her whole face lighting up. "Wow. Alex has been holding out on me. This whole time I thought he was mildly insane but fundamentally responsible."
"The responsible one is Theo," Jack and I say at exactly the same time, which makes Lark shake her head and Isabelle laugh harder.
"Dominic is a close second," I add, popping the trunk of the SUV. "Calvin third. And then waaaay down at the bottom is Jack and me. But I'm slightly above Jack on the responsibility scale."
"Debatable," Jack says.
"Not debatable at all," I say, and wink at Isabelle.
I notice a woman about Isabelle's age walking toward us, beaming, with a sticker-covered duffel bag over one shoulder and the kind of outfit that looks like she raided a vintage shop.
She's wearing bright yellow pants, a cropped band t-shirt, and at least seven necklaces layered at different lengths.
Lark catches my gaze and turns to wave her over.