Chapter 2
FINN
THIS WAS, WITHOUT A DOUBT, the worst flight of my life.
I thought the flight from Glasgow to Halifax was direct, and it was supposed to be—but the plane had some technical issue, and we had to stop somewhere in Newfoundland. I’ve been sitting in this godforsaken airport for hours now, hungry and irritable and in desperate want of a shower.
Despite the lack of seating, the seats in my immediate vicinity remain empty—I suspect I am radiating ire. My body language is sending a message clear as day: not friendly, approach with caution—or actually, do not approach at all.
I’ve been told, on a number of occasions, that I have an attitude problem. That started at fourteen, and I could probably pinpoint the exact calamitous moment. But while I had my own shit going on, my reasons for acting out were always the same: it’s not my fault that people are fuckin’ morons.
Nobody ever seems to like that answer.
I have other more pressing problems at the moment though—besides my shite mood, and my current flight status.
The most pestering issue is that women seem to want me for one thing, and one thing only.
And while I know I’m particularly skilled at that one thing, it’s starting to make me feel hollow.
Like something real, something long-term, might never happen for me.
To rub salt in that particular wound, I am now en route to stand in my brother’s wedding.
When are you going to find a nice girl, hmm, my wee Finnie? This was becoming a semi-regular question from my mother, ever since Alistair and Florence got together. I roll my shoulders, irritated as fuck at merely the thought of having to discuss any of this with my Mum.
I love my brother dearly, but he is, and will always be, the golden boy. And he’s had no bother finding steady girlfriends over the years. I don’t want to say I’m envious, but I can’t figure out exactly why that’s the case—I’m certainly just as good looking.
It’s… it’s not right Finn. We’re not a good fit, you and me.
Gemma’s voice comes slamming through my thoughts, on replay since the incident had happened last week.
No matter which way I spin that conversation around and around in my head, I can’t figure out where it went wrong.
Except for me, maybe I’m wrong somehow. Not a good fit.
Hence my shite mood. And therefore my shite behaviour.
I haven’t felt this low in a long, long time.
I toss more salted almonds—that I purchased in desperation and paid an arm and a leg for—into my mouth. The only thing I can be grateful for is that I am suffering this miserable layover alone, and not flying with my mother, who went ahead to Canada a few weeks before me.
Alistair had asked me to convince Mum that he wanted to show her around his new home before the wedding. I had enlisted my aunts to help me nudge her in the right direction.
I love my mother, but she can be a lot—and letting her be Alistair’s problem for the majority of the summer seemed like a good deal to me. Since she seems to be my responsibility the rest of the time.
But then my brother had informed me that he wanted me there a few weeks beforehand, so we’d have time to spend together before the wedding insanity began. I could tell he was keen—keen to see me himself, keen for me to see Canada and where he lives, but also keen for me to get to know his bride.
I already know that I like Florence, even from afar.
It’s easy to tell the two are a good pair: she reminds me almost of myself, getting into trouble and forcing my brother to loosen up a little bit.
While she seems to bring spontaneity—and maybe a little chaos—into Allie’s life, I get the impression my brother gives her stability and calm.
He told me over the phone after he proposed that once they got together, it was easier than breathing. They just got each other.
I couldn’t fathom what that felt like.
I rub at the right side of my neck. As a licensed physiotherapist, I should know better than to fall asleep on a plane with my neck at a weird angle.
I shake off the slither of envy that I get thinking of my brother, as well as the salty aftertaste of Gemma’s rejection, and join the growing queue to get back on the plane, which I can only hope will get me the hell out of here and take me to Nova Scotia.
HOURS LATER—MANY, MANY HOURS later, including another short flight from Halifax to Cape Breton—we finally land in the early morning hours.
And it’s even later for me, sleep deprived and on Glasgow time.
To my horrified irritation, several people clap when the plane lands.
I curse everyone on this godforsaken aircraft and finally disembark.
I had called my brother before leaving Scotland and offered to get a cab to his place, so he didn’t have to come fetch me so early in the morning. But he had laughed and said it would be unlikely I would find one.
An Uber, then, I’d argued.
There are no Ubers here, Finn. He’d only chuckled again, like that was something ridiculous, but that seemed unimaginable to me. What century were my older brother and his bride-to-be living in?
I grab my suitcase from the conveyer belt and stifle a yawn. The arrivals area is tiny, and it doesn’t take me long to find my brother, standing tall in the nearly empty airport.
We look similar, I think. His dark hair is not quite as long as mine, or quite as wavy.
He’s less than an inch taller and just shy of four years older—both qualities he’s lorded over me since we were children.
He has bright green eyes, while mine are more hazel; my jaw is a little more square, more like the men on my mother’s side of the family.
Or so she tells me—she only has sisters, and her dad was gone before my brother and I were even born.
Hi, Allie boy, I say, shoving all the comparisons down and pulling him in for a hug. He seems perfectly alert and ready for the day, but I guess he’s used to the irregular hours with his job as a police officer.
I force down the stab of something again like longing—my perfect, hero brother, who got the chance to start over in Canada.
Hiya Finn, he says back, ruffling my hair as if already showing off that he’s less than an inch taller than me. I try not to scowl. Something about being around my brother always makes me feel like a boy again.
I bat his hand away, but this only makes him chuckle.
I’m glad you’re here, he says.
Why, you need a buffer from Mum already?
He barks out a laugh at this, leading me out of the airport and towards the car, before asking, Has she gotten more neurotic in her old age, or have I imagined it?
I nod solemnly. That she has. And about time you took some of it head-on. This comes out a little more bitter than I intend, but Alistair doesn’t comment on it.
We load my bag into the back of his Jeep, and I step around to get into the car—but open the door to find the steering wheel on what I thought was the passenger side.
Will you be driving then? Alistair’s voice sounds amused, grating on my already irritated nerves.
Fuck. Wrong side of the car.
I slam the door shut and make my way around to the actual passenger side, or at least the passenger side in this country anyway, before my brother pulls us out of the parking lot and away—driving on what I consider the wrong side of the road.