“He’s not the yeti!” By now I’m laughing.
“Then he’s George Clooney, and you’re Austin’s answer to Amal Alamuddin. But . . . this is a big step for you two. It’s not too big, is it?”
“What do you mean? It’s just some time away—a little farther away than usual.”
“Sometimes what looks like generosity can be control.” Kip speaks more quietly now, and something in his tone tells me he’s speaking from experience. He’s made some allusions to a significant love affair in his past that ended badly, but this is the first time he’s ever suggested any of the real details. “You think you’re being swept up in this big romance, but really it’s all about separating you from your own life.”
That’s not what’s happening at all, I want to say—but I can’t deny that Jonah likes control. I’ve been wondering whether the change in our relationship would take away the sense of danger that excites us both. Maybe I should have been wondering if the danger would instead become real.
Being with Jonah is a risk. It has been since day one. Someday I might flinch—but not today.
“You’re overreacting,” I say. “This is a trip. Just a trip, and one I’d love to take. Come on, Kip, work your magic.”
Kip shakes his head, as if to clear it. “For this, darling? You get the full-on Dumbledore.”
• • •
Unsurprisingly, everything falls into place just the way Kip said it would. Within the day, I’m able to e-mail Jonah: Hope you were serious about that invitation, because I’m coming.
Which is how I wind up spending Saturday night thirty thousand feet in the air, suspended between the sea and the moon.
Until now I’ve spent my aviation life in coach, so first class feels surreal—more like Inception than real life. Flight attendants and passengers alike speak in hushed tones as we recline in large, cream-colored seats that turn into perfectly flat beds. Free champagne arrives the moment anyone lifts a hand. We’re given blankets softer than the ones on my bed, face masks that feel like silk. Even though a transatlantic trip is already a long journey, this feels like even more daring—like traveling from one world to another.
I am flinging myself into the unknown, and trusting Jonah to catch me.
Jet lag means my arrival in Scotland is no more than a blur, just like the driver who brings me into the Highlands, onto the ferry, across the water to Skye. Somehow I manage to stay awake until we reach the bed-and-breakfast, where the kindly manager shows me to Jonah’s room, gives me the key Jonah left behind. Then I collapse into bed for a three-hour nap of the sweetest, most perfect slumber, like returning to the womb.
When I open my eyes again, I feel as if I’ve awakened from hibernation, and I’m more vividly aware of my surroundings than I’ve been in a long time.
Our room is small, and just barely on the right side of the line that separates “cozy” and “tacky.” A blue-and-green quilt covers the bed; the paintings on the wall show Highland hills blooming violet with heather. Jonah’s square, hard-sided suitcase stands in the corner, next to my lilac duffel bag. I’ve seen his stuff before I see him. It feels strange to be in Jonah’s room without him, to have come to an entirely different country to be with him and still remain alone.
Yet my solitude doesn’t feel lonely. It feels dreamlike. All my other responsibilities have fallen away. Every other source of tension is gone.
I put on jeans and a heavy gray sweater that doesn’t get much wear in Texas or Louisiana. Then I walk out from the B&B to see a wild, rocky stretch of coastline in front of me—and behind, endless rolling hills. Only a few scrubby patches of heather linger this late in the year, but the purple is beautiful just the same. Aside from a small stone cottage near the dock, not another house can be seen for miles in any direction. Even the nearby road is too narrow for more than one vehicle at a time. The breeze off the water is cool; the air smells of salt. Splashing at the shoreline makes me look for fish, but to my delight, I instead see two otters scampering in the shallows.
Some artists believe in creating every single day—writing, painting, doing whatever it is you do—to stay productive. Others believe in a concept called “filling the well.” This means stopping for a while to just take in something new, whether it’s a book you’ve never read, an activity you’ve never tried, or a place you’ve never been before. The new experiences sink deep into your consciousness and take your creativity in new directions.
If I didn’t already believe in filling the well, the stark, wild beauty of this place would convince me.
I packed a sketchpad, thinking only to fill the hours when Jonah was working. Now I can’t wait to spend every spare hour drawing. The rugged landscape—the rocky shoreline—even the way our B&B seems to snuggle against the nearest hilclass="underline" I want to capture every detail, forever.
From across the water I hear the sound of an engine and the choppy impact of waves against metal. Somehow I know, even before I turn to see the white boat coming nearer, that this is Jonah’s return. When I wave in greeting, I see him lean out—no more than an outline, at this distance—and raise his hand.
I’d thought seeing him would shatter the dreamlike quality of this place. Instead it seems as though Jonah has entered my dream.
• • •
“What did you tell your friends?” Jonah asks that night over dinner.
Unlike most B&Bs, the one we’re staying in serves food and drink throughout the night—mostly, I think, for the fishermen gathered at the other two tables. Jonah and I sit at a beat-up wooden table, near a crackling fire, with lamb stew and dark beer. The firelight illuminates the harsh planes of Jonah’s face; sometimes the flickering shadows make him look almost demonic, but at other moments, he looks as beautiful as I’ve ever seen him.
This is one of those moments.
“I told my friends the truth,” I say. “They were surprised, but Carmen and Arturo are excited for me. And Shay . . . she’s trying to wrap her head around the fact that you aren’t always as, um, reserved as you come across in the office.”
“She thinks I’m cold.”
“No, no! It’s not like that.” Shay would never be that bluntly unkind. “One of the first things she ever said to me about you was that you were the best professor in the department to work for.”
Jonah thinks that over, then nods. As well as he’s concealing it, I can tell—Shay’s opinion means something to him. I doubt he ever goes out of his way to ingratiate himself with people. So if he cares about what Shay thinks, it’s because he realizes Shay is a person whose respect is worth having. This, in turn, makes me realize he’s a good judge of character.
“What about you?” I say. “Did you tell your friends about bringing me along?”
“Most of my close friends are from undergrad. We don’t communicate every day. But I told Rosalind.”
I remember the way she smiled at me when she realized I was “Jonah’s Vivienne.” Her respect is worth having too. “What did she say?”
“She said it was about time I ‘stepped up my game.’” Jonah says this so seriously that I can’t help but laugh. Slowly, he smiles too—and yet he’s wary about something else. “You didn’t tell me how that ex of yours reacted.”
“Geordie? He said you were making him look bad, because he never took me anyplace fancier than Ruth’s Chris Steak House.” I would giggle at the memory, but Jonah’s expression seems to forbid it. He’s become stony again, and I wonder if the emotion he’s holding back is anger, or jealousy. “You realize there’s nothing between me and Geordie any longer.”
“So you’ve said. But you spend a lot of time together.”
We do. I’ve been surprised how easily Geordie and I transitioned into a platonic relationship. Then again—“We were always closer to ‘friends with benefits’ than any red-hot love affair,” I say. “You know, we tried romance on, it didn’t fit for either of us, and so now we stick to what did work. Our friendship.”