Chapter 31
Nothing feels so terrible when the sun’s shining on your skin. I took it for granted—the sun—but after spending these weeks in Scotland, I’ve learned that each day with sunshine is a gift.
I bask in it as I walk to the park, my sensible shoes tapping against the cobblestone path.
I can’t help but think about how different I feel today compared to the last date for the wedding. The bitterness toward my father has faded—not completely healed, but dulled. And on top of those feelings, there’s genuine affection now, a desire to know him better, to continue to try.
And Maggie’s no longer a stranger to me. We’ve shared so much since that first conversation. In time, I could see her becoming a friend. And Jacob—
The back of my neck warms as he comes into view.
He’s standing beside Maggie, and he’s left his kilt at home. He’s dressed in a suit now, his face solemn, his wire-frame glasses on the bridge of his nose. He hasn’t seen me. He’s looking off somewhere else, distracted.
Maggie and my father haven’t noticed me either. They’re speaking with someone who stands between them: the officiant, perhaps.
The park is beautiful. Wrought-iron gates surround a small square that’s lush and green. Nothing indicates that a wedding is being held here today. No manufactured aisle or sign. Just the arch we designed with the florist. It’s simple, just the way they wanted.
Maggie’s eyes catch mine, and she lifts a hand, smiling.
I walk faster, coming to stand beside my father. “Sorry if I’m late,” I say, and it’s only then that Jacob’s head turns.
“We got here early,” Maggie says. She holds the bouquet Jacob and I chose in her hands. She’s dressed in a white top and a staid skirt, the outfit more casual than the one she wore for the first ceremony, and my father’s followed her lead, wearing a suit without a tie.
“Everyone ready?” the officiant asks, just as my father places a hand on my arm and lowers his voice.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, beaming.
“Me too.”
The officiant begins the ceremony, and it’s only then that I allow myself to look toward Jacob.
The sun’s shining directly on him, and his eyes are fixed on me.
He’s beautiful. Striking, even in his severity: the cut of his jaw, the line of his nose, the frames of his glasses.
But it’s his softness that made me fall for him.
The moments when he’s direct and vulnerable, when he tells me what he’s thinking, when he lays every emotion out for me, allowing me further and further in.
I knew it last night, but I’m even more certain of my decision now.
I want to do the same for him.
My father and Maggie take each other’s hands, reciting their vows, but Jacob and I don’t break our gaze.
“To love and to cherish,” Maggie repeats, and Jacob’s eyes flicker, his throat working as he continues to watch me.
I want to reach for him. I want to tell him everything, but I have to wait for this to be over. I have to wait for the right moment. I made a plan last night, and every bit of it terrifies me, but I want to see it through.
I’m sorry, I try to tell him telepathically. I messed all of this up, but I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.
Jacob’s brows draw together, no doubt in confusion, but I’m going to make it clear to him soon. I smile at him, hesitantly, just as the officiant declares my father and Maggie husband and wife.
—
After we pose for a few pictures, we walk the short distance across the street to the pub. My father and Maggie lead the way, their hands clasped. They haven’t said much of anything to each other since the wedding, simply content to be by each other’s side.
My father holds the door open for us, and Jacob and I follow Maggie inside. It’s not very busy at the pub. It’s only late afternoon—too early for a post-work crowd—and we find a table in a corner. Jacob says he’ll get the first round of drinks and gets up, heading toward the bar.
We’ve already done all the hugs and congratulations, and Maggie’s looking down at her phone, swiping through the pictures we took after the ceremony.
“What time’s your flight tomorrow?” my father asks.
“Early,” I say. “I have to get there by seven.”
He nods. “Can I drop you off?”
“Oh,” I say. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“No. I’d love to.”
“We both would,” Maggie chimes in.
“And we were thinking”—my father glances at Maggie, then back at me—“when does filming for next season wrap up?”
“About a week before Thanksgiving,” I say. “Everyone usually wants to be done by then, so they can be home for the holidays. We’ll still be working, but we’ll all be back. Reviewing footage and editing it so it’s ready to air in the spring.”
“And do you have plans?” my dad asks. “For Thanksgiving?”
“Not really.” I don’t usually do much for the holiday.
I typically go over to Mom’s house. We’ve never been big on celebrating it, but Bobby and his kids have all these traditions they grew up with.
They usually make all this food, and they put football on the TV, and sometimes they leave to go run for some reason.
“Maybe we could come visit then,” my dad says. “I’ve never experienced an American Thanksgiving before.”
“Me either,” Maggie says.
I blink. “You want to come for Thanksgiving?”
“Or any time,” Maggie says quickly. “If the holiday would be too stressful, we can come another time. Whatever’s convenient for you.”
My father pulls at his collar, his gaze averted, looking down at the table.
Just a couple weeks ago I’d have interpreted his movements as a sign of disinterest. I’d have thought Maggie was the one pushing all of this, but I realize now that he’s nervous. He’s nervous I’m going to say no.
“I’d love that,” I say, and my father’s head pops back up. “Thanksgiving would be great.” I pause. “I live in a one-bedroom apartment, so I wouldn’t be able to be a great host, but—”
“We’ll rent a place,” my dad says. “And you don’t have to do anything. I’ll cook.”
“And I’ll help,” Maggie says. “We’ve never cooked for Thanksgiving before—”
“Me either,” I say. “But we’ll figure it out. We can just make whatever we want, really.” I smile at my dad. “Actually, I’d love to have your biryani again.”
His eyes light up. “Yeah?” He nods. “I can make that.”
He looks so eager, so excited. It makes my throat tighten with emotion.
“Perfect,” I say. “I can’t wait.”
They pull up their calendars, trying to figure out which day will work best for them to fly out, and Jacob returns to the table, balancing three drinks in his arms. “I couldn’t get them all,” he says. “There’s one left at the bar.”
I scooch my chair back. “I’ve got it,” I say.
I use the opportunity to duck into the bathroom, to wipe the sweat off my upper lip. It’s almost time, and I’m jittery. Anxious.
I pull out my phone, rereading the note I wrote for myself, then head back out, grabbing my drink off the bar and returning to the table.
They’re all already sipping from their beers. Jacob’s laughing at something one of them has said, but when I return to the table he sobers up, his smile disappearing.
My throat constricts.
“I wondered,” I say, “if it’d be all right if I gave a toast?” I look at Jacob quickly, my heart beating fast. “I know Jacob did one last time, but I’d like to do this one, if that’s okay.”
My dad smiles wide, nodding.
I turn back to the notes app. “Sorry, I’ll be reading it out. I haven’t memorized it or anything, but it’s…it’s a poem.” I laugh, a bit self-conscious. “I know I’m not the poetry expert here, but I thought I’d try, and…”
The words die in my mouth as I catch Jacob’s expression, his jaw slack, his full lips parted.
My face heats, and I take a deep breath, trying to force my nerves to settle. “Anyway,” I say. “I wrote this for you.”
And then I start. It’s bad, I know that from the very first line, but I keep going, pushing past the fear and embarrassment and anxiety I feel.
Two souls parted, by distance or circumstance or time
Find each other in this moment, forever intertwined
Their love is the result of choosing each other
A bond formed through hardship and joy and grief
Though the journey here was long
With roadblocks and breakdowns and sheep
Someone releases a muffled laugh, and I grin, keeping my eyes on the screen.
Love cuts to the core of who we are
Exposing every fear and flaw
At times, that fear might overwhelm us, might tempt us to go far
But even when we run, when love is real it stays true
And I know this love is stronger for all the trials it’s been through
Though we may still be afraid, love can help us be brave
We can be scared together, no matter what we might face
And so, I raise this glass for love both old and new
Wishing joy and happiness in this next chapter for all of you
I release a breath and finally look up. Maggie’s eyes are shining, and my father looks a little choked up, but it’s Jacob’s reaction I want to see most. He stares at me, his earlier shock no longer present. His jaw is firm, his mouth closed, and his eyes don’t reveal a thing.
“That was lovely,” Maggie says.
“I…thanks.” My face still feels hot, and I turn from Jacob, meeting Maggie’s gaze. “I know it was a little cheesy, but I wanted to just…say how happy I am for both of you.”
“It was really nice,” my father says.
Jacob doesn’t add anything. He’s still staring. Not moving.
But suddenly there’s a loud screech as Jacob pushes back his chair and comes to his feet. Then he turns, walking toward the exit and out the door.
My eyes follow him through the window, and my mouth goes dry.
The first thought that floats through my mind is that my poem was so bad it offended him. What was I thinking? Trying to make some sort of statement, send him some sort of message with a poem? I don’t know the first thing about poetry. I probably made things worse, insulted him, and his field, and—
“What is he doing?” I hear Maggie ask, but I don’t hear anything else. I get up, following the same path he took, rushing out the door.
He hasn’t gone far. He’s only a foot away, facing the street, his back toward me.
I rub a hand up my arm. It’s gotten chillier; the sunshine from before has faded, the sky cloudy and gray.
“Jacob?” I take a step toward him. “I’m sorry. For the last time we talked, and for all of that in there and—”
He turns around, his jaw working. “Was that about us? The poem?”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s nothing like…nothing like the ones you wrote, but I was trying to say…
yes, it’s about us. And them too. But also us.
I was trying to tell you—” I stop, swallowing.
“You told me you were afraid, but I didn’t tell you how or why I’m scared.
And I’m so scared that this won’t work, because it’s just…
I thought I knew what that looked like. Trying to keep a relationship going when you’re that far away.
I thought I knew exactly how that would end, but I don’t want this to be over before we’ve even started.
I don’t want to be afraid alone. I want what you said. ”
“What did I—”
“I want to be scared with you.”
His mouth parts, releasing a ragged exhale. “So, I can visit you?”
“Yes.” A tear escapes my eye, and I laugh, the sound a bit watery. “I want you to come to L.A. And I want to come back here. I want to be with you, even if we have to figure out what that looks like with the distance, and I…I want all of it. I want all of it with you.”
And just like that, his careful expression slides off his face. His eyes blaze with hope and desire and joy, but I barely take it in because he’s reaching for me. His hands at my waist, pulling me toward him, his mouth on mine.
I taste him—us—the beer we both drank, the salt of my tears.
His thumb traces over my cheek. “Don’t cry,” he says, a whisper against my lips, but I can’t help it. More tears fall, and he wipes them away, watching me tenderly.
“I’ll give you the poems back,” I say, and he laughs, surprised.
“What? Why? They’re yours.”
“You can use them,” I say. “For your collection.”
He shakes his head, kissing me softly. “I’ll write more.” He smiles, gentle and sure. “I have all the inspiration I’ll ever need right here.”
And now I push up onto my toes, sliding my mouth against his. Because he’s absurd. Who says stuff like that? This man. Poetry professor and bagpiper and the stranger at the pub who saw me, who allowed me to be completely myself, who pushed for the truth and received it so well.
My hands climb into his hair, and he makes a sound against my mouth, a huff of breath. Something like…a laugh?
I pull back, confused, but his eyes are glued to a spot over my shoulder. I twist around, trying to find what he’s—Oh.
My father and Maggie are watching us through the window. Maggie’s grinning from ear to ear, and my father’s gaping, surprise written across his face.
I turn back to Jacob, and he lets out another laugh, sheepish and adorable at the same time. “I guess we have some stuff to explain to them,” he says.
“Yeah.” I reach back toward him, kissing him quickly. “I guess we do.”