In a moment, Jack was beside me again.
“Would yeh like to meet her?” he said, catching me peeking up at the stage. “We can go up now, before her car comes.”
I shook my head. “No. I—I can’t bear facing her again.”
We walked along toward the exit. “What happened, Emma? You wouldn’t tell me that night in Philadelphia. And you’ve never put anything on your blog.”
“I swore to myself I’d never mention it again. And I haven’t.”
His voice dropped a little. “What could be so terrible? Did you vomit on her or something?”
I paused beside a blue-striped tent near the exit.
“Nothing like that. It’s just—I’d waited in line for her the whole day, and when I finally got up to speak to her, she was so kind. She smiled up at me, and I wanted to tell her everything. To confess what I was about to do, and to ask her where—where she thought I should look to find my Fraser.”
I had to stop for a minute and catch my breath. I was ashamed to realize my eyes were tearing up, just at the memory.
“In the end, there were just too many questions. I opened my mouth to speak to her, but instead of saying anything, I just burst into tears. She handed me a tissue, very kindly, of course, but I still turned and ran away.”
Jack gave me a bit of a strange look. “Emma,” he said. “I thought writers were bad about living inside their own heads! You worry too much. Listen, people cry about my characters all the time.”
I sniffed a little. “Really?”
He paused a minute. “Well, not really. I can’t say anyone has actually burst into tears over my writing. But I get it. As a fellow author, I really get it.”
I took a deep breath. He was right. It was time to find my way past it.
“Anyway,” he went on, “she’s marvelous. You’ll love her. Please let me introduce you.”
Looking up at him, something else surged in me. The hero worship that had haunted me for so long would never really leave, but for the first time, I was conscious of feeling something else in its place. I thought back to the kiss—the kisses, really—he’d given me at the bookstore. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure I wanted to share any of the time we had left with someone he thought was so lovely.
Even if I thought she was lovely, too.
“No—no, I don’t think so,” I said, and turned and walked toward the exit gates.
To:
[email protected]
From: PCAlthrop@l*thianandb*rders.p*lice.uk
September 13
Miss Emma Sheridan,
This is to acknowledge receipt of your email, including your booking number and itinerary for your return to Chicago, Illinois, United States of America on September 14.
We have been in touch with our Stirling colleague PC Doris Potts, and appreciate your timely follow-up with our office. With receipt of this email, you have met all requirements as outlined by that precinct.
Please remember to check in with one of our officers at the Edinburgh terminal prior to your departure. Failure to do so will result in a permanent notation to be placed on your United Kingdom immigration file.
Thank you for your cooperation,
Police Constable Lawrence Althrop
Jack had let me use his phone to check my email. I’m pretty sure he was as relieved as I was when I read it out to him, as we drove into the dark. The soft warmth of the summer afternoon had given way to a cool wet evening with an edge to it that I recognized. A swirl of leaves blew across the windshield as the car pulled out. It would soon be fall. I realized with a jolt that it would be the only season I’d not lived through in Scotland.
I had no idea when Jack’s flight was due to leave, but my flight was scheduled just before noon the following day. However, the celebrations after the Games had gone late into the night. We’d been stopped at the gates at our first attempt to leave, and dragged into the Beer Garden tent by Geordie and a collection of the winning tug o’war team.
Every time we’d tried to head out, Jack had been drawn back into the merriment again, to raise a glass to someone’s triumph on the present-day Highland battlefields. That Jack was drinking Irn-Bru (Scotland’s other national drink, according to Geordie), was our saving grace, in that it allowed him to finally elude the grasp of the scotch- and beer-slowed revelers sometime after two in the morning. The sounds of the celebration roared on in one of the tents behind us as we slipped away at last.
When we got to the car by the Castle, he’d apologized for the late start.
“We’ll not have time to stop home at this hour, I’m afraid. It’s a bit of a journey all the way down to Edinburgh. I can make up a wee bed for yeh in the back seat, if ye like,” he’d said, but I waved the offer off and sat beside him. The chances were I’d snore less sitting up, anyway.