Chapter 26 #2
"And I'll add another announcement," I say, looking directly into the camera. "Following Amy's one-year, fully paid maternity leave, I'm delighted ta share that my uncle has promoted her ta vice president of branding and public relations at Anterdec Holdings."
Gemma stares at me. The analytics staffer stares at me. I can feel Uncle James glaring at me all the way from State Street in Boston.
"Our family is forever in Anterdec Holdings' debt," I say, and I mean every word. Uncle James and I can sort out the details later because right now I need to get the hell out of here and be where I'm meant to be.
I stand up.
I pull the remaining earpiece out and unclip the lapel mic. I yank the wire from under my jacket the way I should have pulled it two hours ago when Amy's first text hit my phone. I look at Roshani.
"Thank ye. Truly. Fer everything."
She nods. Her eyes are bright.
"Go meet your son, Hamish."
I turn and run.
Across the studio floor, past the cameras and the cables and the stunned faces of every staffer who has watched the last fifteen minutes unfold.
Past the production gallery, where Malcolm stands frozen behind his glass wall with his clipboard pressed against his chest like a shield.
Past Gemma, who is leaning against a doorframe with her arms crossed and a smile so wide, it changes the geometry of her face.
"Run, Mr. Happy," she calls after me. "Run."
The stairwell. My knee—the knee that ended my playing career, the knee Dr. Jelshi rebuilt with titanium and patience and a goofy smile—screams as I take the stairs two at a time.
I don't care. I haven't run like this in over a year.
My lungs burn and my quads fire and my dress shoes slip on the concrete steps.
I grab the railing and keep going, up, up, four flights, five, until I hit the roof door with my shoulder and burst into the London night.
The helicopter is there, rotors turning. A pilot gives me a thumbs-up through the windshield. The skyline stretches in every direction—the Shard, the Eye, the Thames winding silver through the city—and the wind hits my face and whips my tie sideways.
I'm standing on a rooftop in London about to fly to my son and nothing in my life has ever felt this clear.
My phone buzzes as I cross the helipad.
Jody: HAMISH WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST DO? I have 147 messages and more pouring in. Call me IMMEDIATELY
Da: Your mum is crying so hard she can't breathe. Never seen her this happy. A boy! We love you. But she thinks you ruined your life with that speech. You can always sell ice cream with me and take over. Darren's a numpty anyhow
Darren: MATE You just blew up the internet. Mum's going to tell you she knew it was a boy the whole time
Vince: brOTHER. That was the most legendary thing I've ever witnessed and I saw a guy bench press a dead horse. Get home safe
Also Vince: You owe me fifty bucks from the bet about the gender PAY UP
Shannon: Hamish McCormick, you just made every woman in the Western Hemisphere cry. Carol is a puddle. Mom won't let go of the baby. Fiona is threatening to name him something Scottish without your permission. Get on that helicopter NOW
I climb in and buckle the harness. The rotors spin faster. The noise fills my skull, a roar that drowns out everything—the broadcast, the studio, the contract, Malcolm's threats, the career I built and the one I just detonated on live television in front of over a billion people.
The helicopter lifts.
London falls away beneath me. The studio, the desk, the chair that Malcolm chained me to—all of it shrinks into the grid of streetlights below, and then the clouds swallow it, and I am above everything.
I call Amy.
She answers on the first ring. Her voice is thin and spent and the most beautiful sound in the world.
"I'm so sorry—my phone battery died! Mom grabbed a charging bank. But Hamish!"
"I'm in the helicopter. James's jet from Farnborough. Six hours."
"Oh, my God." She's crying, or laughing, or both.
"We're about to be loaded into the ambulance.
You just told the entire world your uncle promoted me to VP?
You made that up, right? James fired me.
Greg saved my job, but... James made you read that stupid resort statement and you manipulated him right back? "
"It's real now."
"You did make it up!"
"Uncle James will sort it out. A billion people believe it's true."
"You can't just announce someone's promotion without—"
"I can and I did. Consider it a push present. Ye deserve far more, but beatin' Uncle James at his own power play will have ta do fer now."
She laughs, but it turns into a sob.
"He looks like you," she says. "He has your jaw. And your hands. These enormous hands for such a tiny person. And he's angry, Hamish, he came out furious! Screaming, fists clenched. Your mother says that's the McCormick temperament, and I believe her."
"A boy," I whisper. The word fills the helicopter cabin, bigger than the engine noise, bigger than the dark night. "We have a boy."
"We need a name."
"Aye. We do." I close my eyes. "Bronwyn's out."
"Bronwyn is extremely out."
"I'll think on it. Six hours is a long flight."
"Hamish?"
"Aye?"
"What you did on the broadcast. Naming Malcolm. Telling the truth about what he said to you. You didn't have to do that."
"Aye, I did."
"Why?"
"Because our son is going to grow up and someday he's going to face a man like Malcolm Rees—someone who has power over him and uses it ta try ta make him small.
And when that day comes, I want him ta know what his da did.
I want him ta know that ye can be afraid and still tell the truth.
That ye can lose everything and still be standing.
That the people who threaten ye with unfair consequences are countin' on ye ta stay silent, and the most powerful thing ye can do is speak. "
The line is quiet except for the helicopter noise and Amy's breathing.
"That's the best thing you've ever said," she whispers.
"Aye, well. Malcolm told me ta have less banter. So I went wi' more."
She laughs, and the laugh turns into a sob, and the sob turns into a laugh again, and my chest aches with how much I love her.
"I love ye, pet. Both of ye. I'm comin' home ta kiss ma wife and meet ma son and figure out what's next fer us. Whatever it is, we're doin' it together."
The call ends. London is gone. The ocean is ahead.
And in Boston, in a living room that smells like blood and sweat and plastic and lavender rice packs and the unmistakable newness of a life that didn't exist an hour ago, my son is breathing, held by his mum, surrounded by his grandmums, tying us all together in new ways.
My son.
I close my eyes and let the helicopter carry me home.