After dashing off my entry that morning, I’d broken my own rules, stuffing the journal into my bag and slipping the key onto my key ring. Chalk it up to impatience. I was curious to see whether my little fortunes would change now that I’d essentially given in. I was hoping for more straightforward and less, well, cheeky.
Evidently it was not to be.
Parked downtown, with a few minutes to spare before eight-thirty, I decided to take a little peek. And judging by this morning’s leftovers, it looked as if the gummed-up cliché was here to stay. And while I now realized that all those previous fortunes did eventually make sense, hindsight wasn’t a whole lot of help right now.
It was impossible to tell whether “life will surprise you” referred to the little shockers of the past week or new ones still to come. Which meant I was stuck playing defense. I hadn’t the vaguest clue how to go offensive with my life and “surprise it back”—although I would have dearly loved to one-up Fairy Jane. Talk about your double whammies! So rather than dwell on something that would, I had no doubt, come clear eventually, I decided to sneak another peek into the past.
Hunching down in the semidarkness of the front seat, I let the magic happen and then flipped through the pages until I’d found my place. Reading by the pearly glow of streetlamps, I lost myself in someone else’s life....
27 February, 1908
I’ve been called the family changeling as long as I can remember. And it isn’t simply my chestnut locks and deep brown eyes that have garnered me the nickname. While my siblings are each elegant, accomplished, and engaging, I am clumsy, overly candid, and unfashionably academic. They worry I will end up a spinster, and honestly, I can’t fault their assumptions. The men who interest me are much the same as I, and consequently, we are bound never to move past an awkward introduction, for neither of us have a fondness for small talk or dancing. Somehow, I need to sift through the glamorous trappings of New York society to find a kindred spirit. And once I’ve found him, decide precisely how to seduce him. It seems best to treat this as any experiment, recording both successes and failures on the path to getting practical results.
I couldn’t help but admire her strategy. I hurriedly flipped the page, eager to read on.
1 March, 1908
I’ve come to wonder whether my nickname might be more literal than I could have possibly imagined. What other explanation can there be for a diary in which some words disappear and some are left, seemingly for the purpose of offering advice? Is it possible that fairies are at work here? Surely not—this is New York, not the wilds of Britain, and yet no other solution presents itself.... I’ve not yet felt it necessary to use the diary’s key, but today, I think I must. I wonder if it will be any use. I need some time to consider this mystery—perhaps an afternoon in the library might shed some light on the matter. I look forward to discovering a plausible explanation. My only regret is that my proposed experiment must unavoidably be put on hold.
This could have been me a century ago! I glanced at the clock. I would have loved to keep reading, but several minutes had already passed, and I didn’t want to miss any of the band’s SXSW performance. I was going to have to come back to this later. Talk about your riveting reading—I was hooked!
I joined the parade on Sixth Street, thronging along with festival music-lovers in search of a great band and a couple of adult beverages. Maggie Mae’s was already crowded, and I hollered for my rum and Coke, rather surprised to be heard over the din, paid my tab, and spent the next ten minutes worming my way through clusters of people, looking for any kind of breathing room.
When Gabe and Beck finally did show, holding hands and tipping their heads together, I lifted my free hand in a wave, feeling quite delighted with the world.
Gabe dropped Beck with me and beelined for the bar to order their drinks.
Beck leaned in and said loudly, “Gabe never suspected a thing.” She tried for the smoldering gaze of a femme fatale but came off more Cyndi Lauper.
Then Gabe was back, toting a couple of Guinnesses, as a voice sliced through the dull roar, stretching out to reach every corner of the bar. “Ladies and gentlemen, Maggie Mae’s is proud to host South by Southwest Showcase Artist Loch’d In!”
Standing on tiptoes, I’d only caught the barest glimpse of the band when a tall, sturdy cowboy of a man in a black Maggie Mae’s T-shirt, Levi’s, and boots showed up at my elbow, tipping his head down to speak into my ear.
“Nic James? There’s a table reserved for you and your guests at the front.”
Surprise flustered me, had my eyes darting toward Gabe and Beck, both of whom were staring curiously back.
“Hello again, Austin!” Sean’s voice piped through the speaker system had me whipping my head around to see him, center stage, guitar in hand. “Welcome to South by Southwest!” The only hint that Sean even noticed the Texas-sized helping of cheers and applause was the hint of a smile as the drummer synced them up with the one-two-three clicking of sticks. Opening with a pounding-loud drum solo and a sizzling guitar riff, the music held me in its thrall. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard the song—or even the fifth—but hearing it here, amid the noise and the lights, live and in person, with memories of last night zipping and twirling through my mind, I was lost. I didn’t even realize the cowboy had lingered, waiting patiently for me to get it together.
“This way,” he prompted, gesturing toward the stage. Beckoning Gabe and Beck with wide, “do you believe this?” eyes, I turned and let him lead the way.
As we wound our way closer to the stage, the music was building to an impossible crescendo, and my pulse was struggling to keep pace. When the words finally came, overlaying the music, I wasn’t prepared, and nearly stumbled into someone’s lap. As distracted as I was, it was lucky I didn’t settle in.
The same voice that had serenaded me with backup from a mariachi trio was now singing his own wildly seductive lyrics at a professional venue. And people loved him. Seeing him like this, immersed in the music and the crowd, it was impossible to look away. In scuffed jeans and an emerald green polo, he looked like a celebrity. And then I realized—here he was a celebrity.
I was vaguely aware of Beck tugging on my sleeve, urging me to sit, so I sat, still staring, mesmerized by Sean’s fingers skimming, impossibly quick, over the guitar strings. He made it seem effortless, and it was obvious that his focus was reserved for the crowds. He wasn’t grudging with his dimples either.
An unfamiliar little curl of jealousy was quickly and thoughtfully tamped down. Evidently I needed to get used to the idea that when Sean was performing, he belonged to the crowd.
Certainly I never thought I’d find a man who’d reserve all his smiles for me, but maybe I thought they’d be given out more sparingly, or with less obvious sex appeal. I realized I was being unreasonable, feeling slightly dizzy and overwhelmed, like a little girl at a carnival watching the rides spin in the dark with a tummy full of funnel cake.
Deliberately I let my eyes fall closed and pretended, just for a minute, that I was the girl I’d been a week ago, with a life relatively free of complications. I could feel the bass vibrating into me as the guitar notes hung in the air and the last lyrics skimmed the surface of my consciousness. And then the song ended on a long lonely note, a promise hanging in the air, echoing in Sean’s voice. My eyes fluttered open and came into focus, homing in on the Complication himself.
The band played a couple more songs, wowing the crowd and ratcheting up my qualm-o-meter, before breaking for a quick intermission. They’d demonstrated they could shift seamlessly from edgy rock to British band punk to haunting melody, and it was all brilliant. I had no doubts that this band—Sean’s band—was going to make it big. The rest of the world was going to know their names. Sean’s voice would be forever imprinted on the minds of many. He’d never belong only to me.
“Fill us in on the ‘lost Wednesday.’ ” Gabe’s voice broke through my subconscious as I pondered my dubious sharing skills.
“Um, okay,” I agreed, blinking the room back into focus. “I’m now the proud owner of a Weird shirt.” I smiled, oozing forced optimism. “Sean bought it for me, and I wore it yesterday. I’m official!”
Gabe cut his eyes around at me in disbelief. “Lucy! You’ve got some ’splaining to do!”
A laugh bubbled out of Beck as I answered. “What?”
“You’ve never worked up the gumption to buy your own Weird shirt, but suddenly you’re letting some guy—a virtual stranger—do the deed?”
I glanced at Beck, whose lips remained sealed despite the unexpected euphemism.
“Yesterday tipped the scales.”
“But you were already wearing it yesterday.”
Damn. I’d hoped that little detail would slip by him.
“True.” Stalling ... stalling ... “But my whole week has really been kinda out of the ordinary. I figured I’d earned it.”
“Good enough,” Beck pronounced cheerily, leaning in on her elbows. “So Sean’s the lead singer slash man on guitar, right?” Her eyes were dancing, her lower lip was tucked between her teeth, and she was glowing a radiant, otherworldly pink.
I nodded, returning her smile. “That’s him.” Then I darted in with a question of my own. Letting my eyes flick back and forth between them, I said, “Looks like you guys are getting along pretty good.”
Gabe shot Beck a glance of irritable affection and answered first. “We are,” he said, “but Beck wants me to keep my membership active on We Just Clicked and quiz her with the same questions I fire at potential matches. Naturally it’s irrelevant that I have no interest in any of these potential matches.”
Beck slid her index finger through the condensation rings on the table and countered with careful nonchalance. “I’m just curious to see whether he would have picked me out of a lineup,” she clarified, faced with Gabe’s and my blank stares. “And so far, I’d say it’s going pretty well ... ?” She made this into a question and lifted her eyebrow, waiting for Gabe to weigh in.
“It’s hard to say since you won’t ‘lock in’ your answer,” Gabe said with a wry twist of his lips.
“I’d think that would impress you, Mr. EPIRB. I want to weigh my options, choose wisely. The question isn’t quite as cut and dried as Olga seems to think.”
Faced with my avidly curious stare, Gabe elaborated while Beck sat quietly, her lips pursed and waiting. No doubt for my condemnation of Olga.
“Olivia’s question,” Gabe informed me, “was, ‘If you had to be an animal, which would you be?’ ”
Evidently unable to stand it any longer, Beck leaned in to interject, “She also asked, ‘Which flavor of ice cream would you be?’ An animal I get, but ice cream? What’s the underlying question there—‘Would you choose to be whirled with nuts, fruits, or some other ill-conceived mix-in before being frozen and eventually consumed? ’ ”
Grudging smile from Gabe, twitching lips from me. “She probably meant to ask my favorite flavor, not which one I’d be. And what’s wrong with a dolphin?” Gabe was clearly smitten, not giving a flying fig about the questions so long as Beck kept answering them.
“I don’t particularly care for that high-pitched squealing way they communicate. Imagine listening to that all day.”
Gabe and I shared a look, neither of us really believing we were having this conversation in a Sixth Street establishment during a SXSW showcase intermission. But Beck’s voice was ringing out through the din with you-better-believe-it attitude.
I couldn’t help it, I had to ask, “What sort of creatures are on your short list?”
“The naked mole rat is currently a front-runner,” she informed us. Faced with our no-doubt matching expressions of horrified curiosity, Beck added, “What? Hairless and buck teeth doesn’t appeal to you? Fine. I’m joking. But you know, they live in colonies—one queen and bunches of little worker mole rats doing sexual favors. Doesn’t sound too shabby.”
“Picture yourself as the queen,” Gabe insisted. “I dare you.”
Beck smiled sweetly and started shaking her head, as if she could avoid the image locking on by simply staying in motion. “I’d rather picture you as a worker rat. Stick your teeth out,” she insisted, grinning, reaching up to cup her hand under Gabe’s chin to pull him in for a spontaneously happy kiss.
I tried to hold back my smile as I waited for Gabe to look my way. Once upon a time we made a pact outlawing PDAs, particularly in the company of each other. And while I might have broken it many times over in the course of the past week, I hadn’t yet broken it in front of Gabe, so I was still one up.
But my smug smile fell quietly away as they were both instantly distracted by something behind and above my head. As I tipped my head up and around, I got a sudden, unexpected view of Sean’s face before he swooped down to bestow an impressively thorough PDA of his own.
When I finally tipped my head back down, I was gasping, shaky and unsettled. Looking deliberately away from Gabe and Beck, I noticed there were any number of other pairs of eyes gazing at me with amused interest. Note to self: A PDA with a rock star is like polishing off a huge hot fudge brownie sundae—unbelievably decadent, sweet and satisfying, but capped off with a queasy, what-did-I-just-do sort of feeling. Not for the faint of heart.
“Sean MacInnes.” The words went right over my head as his hand settled around the back of my neck, his fingers skimming through the little wisps of hair there. He reached his hand out first to Beck, then to Gabe. “Good to meet you. Glad you could come along with Nicola. We’re set to do one more song tonight, and then shall we all have a drink? On me.”
Gabe’s “Sounds great,” and Beck’s “Definitely” were garbled in my head.
“Excellent.” Sean’s voice speared through my mental fog, and I turned again to look at him, realizing too late that I might be carelessly tumbling into a PDA ambush. “Back in a sec, luv,” he said, offering only a wink this time. A wink that made every nerve ending stand up and salute.
Thank God the happy couple didn’t try to chat, because I was ill equipped for small talk at the moment.
Back up on stage, Sean stepped up to the microphone. “This is a new song for us, recently written, hardly practiced, so I’ll ask that you bear that in mind.”
As his voice carried through the crowds, softly persuasive and achingly beautiful, it occurred to me that Sean was like a magnet working on my personal compass, throwing me off, sending me in directions I’d never intended to go, with no guide to follow. I could only assume that eventually there’d be a point at which I could go no farther. And there’d be no going back to the way things had been. It was that day that worried me.
After Thursday’s journal overload, Friday morning was refreshingly Fairy Jane Free. I’d stayed up late last night, poring over the entries outlining the Changeling’s experiments and discoveries—her thoughts on Jane Austen and the magic of the journal (inconclusive), and her scientific approach to finding a man (success!). Fascinating reading.
Personally, I wasn’t yet ready to go another round with Fairy Jane, having not yet cracked the code on her last little directive. And beyond that, I didn’t have anything to say, at least nothing I wanted to reveal. I wasn’t too proud of the fact that I’d choked a little my first night out of the gate with Sean, the two of us as a couple. I’d been overwhelmed and hadn’t handled things particularly well. But that was a thing of the past. Today I was once again swept up in the wowza factor of this relationship, and it was infectiously exhilarating.
Even running into Brett in the hallway didn’t faze me. Admittedly I didn’t spout off about Hooky Wednesday, the Weird shirt, the sex, or SXSW, but I almost wished I could. It all sounded so good in my head! We even made plans to go to lunch next week—as friends (at least on my end). I figured I’d just play things by ear. And in the event that those awkward silences had a flirty undercurrent, I’d decide which part of the fairy tale to tell him over our separate checks.
In honor of the changes in my life, I whipped up papaya-coconut cupcakes with mango pastry cream after work, and I must admit, they were very tasty. I felt very tropical parked in the purple papasan, beneath the odd assortment of novelty lights and that perfect ice cream scoop of moon. The Pendleton blanket I was curled beneath was sort of cramping my style, but you have to roll with the punches. That might as well be the motto of Friday night karaoke at Laura and Leslie’s, and yet, I had to admit the calendar’s latest quote had me a bit on edge. It read, “ ‘Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.’ Emma.” I couldn’t agree more: I’d never been big on surprises simply because you couldn’t plan on surprises. I did my best to just sit back and relax. Sean had been thrilled to come along with me tonight, and the girls took to him from the get-go—he even managed to snag Leslie’s approval.
“Tell me this,” she demanded of Sean, “are your intentions with regard to Nicola honorable?” With raised eyebrows she warned, “Consider your answer carefully.”
I missed his answer, but judging by the cacophony of laughter and Leslie’s “that’ll do, pig” attitude, it was spot-on. Hardly a surprise.
It seemed my fledging relationship was nearly perfect. And yet ... I had this odd feeling that something was off.
Sean was in his element, effortlessly charming and at the same time strategically self-deprecating. Listening to him work the patio, one could almost imagine that he understood these women’s frustration with men and that he empathized with their decision to switch teams. And then he’d offer up an encouraging wink, a boyish grin, or a playful lift of his brows, and it seemed—to me as a spectator—as if they froze a moment in frantic, ponderous thought, wondering if they’d made the right decision. It was like magic ... or momentary hypnosis ... just how far a dollop of charm could carry him.
It had definitely gone the distance with me. But as devil-may-care as he appeared, I got the impression that Sean hadn’t abandoned that original “now or never” mind-set and its associated urgency. He’d seemed anxious to tell me something earlier, but Leslie had shanghaied him the moment we’d crossed the fence line. I hadn’t had a moment alone with him since. With the whole weekend stretching empty ahead of us, he should have plenty of time. For lots of things.
It was during a pleasant little daydream that Leslie sidled up and perched herself onto the edge of my papasan. For anyone unfamiliar with papasan geometry, it’s a circular chair with spherical depth—no edge and no perch. Leslie started sliding immediately. And speaking as the girl at the bottom, it was a slippery slope indeed.
“He’s got a cute ass,” she informed me, gesturing with her margarita glass. A bit of the rim salt tumbled down to join the cupcake crumbs on my blanket.
Glad to have settled on a topic we could both agree on, I turned eagerly in his direction. My gaze fell first on the profile of his face, etched with shadow and light against a twilight sky. He turned at that moment, as if sensing our eyes on him, and sent a curiously amused smile back in our direction, toasting us with a longneck beer.
Leslie leaned in farther until she was hovering over me, precariously balanced on her hipbone. Avalanche conditions.
I’d psyched myself up for the papasan extrication—one fluid motion, up and out—when Tawny Brown, a rare talent in the backyard karaoke set, stepped up to the microphone.
“Okay, ladies. I know you’ve been waiting. Our token male of the evening, Mr. Sean MacInnes,” she swept her hand around him like he was a showcase on The Price Is Right, “is going to give us a little sample of what a man can do with our equipment.”
Wild and wolfish whistling ensued, and Sean took up the gauntlet, accepting the microphone from Tawny. I took the opportunity to extricate myself from the papasan.
“I’m gonna go warm up by the grill,” I told Leslie before scooting quickly away.
Selecting his song from the machine’s playlist, Sean turned back to his audience, the quirk of his lips hinting at unrepentant cockiness. Not really wishing to have this performance interrupted by a chat on what sort of havoc animal fats could wreak on a person’s system, I didn’t quite make it all the way to the grill, instead choosing a spot midway between the Ls.
When the music started, I didn’t recognize it, and Sean seemed to be reveling in his little mystery. His lips stayed quirked with the secret right up until, with a clear, bright voice, he launched into the jaunty, unfamiliar lyrics, singing of sailors and marines.
Now I was definitely baffled. But as Sean kept singing the lyrics he clearly had memorized, I kept thinking it was going to come to me. And then, just before the refrain, it did. South Pacific.
Leave it to Sean to come up with a song that playfully paired “dandy games” with “dames.” My hand fluttered to my mouth as I let my eyes stray from Sean to gauge the gals’ reactions. Mostly they seemed impressed. Whether with his voice or song choice, I couldn’t say.
And as he finished the last, rapid-fire verse with a flourish, down on one knee with his hands spread wide, the lesbian karaoke crowd went wild. Sean was an undeniable success.
“Not too shabby, mister,” Tawny praised with a good-natured wink, once she’d taken back the microphone. “Now if you could just get our karaoke virgin up here ...”
Sean’s eyes beelined to mine, and Tawny’s followed leisurely, confident in the failure of this casual challenge. It only took one lift of his brows and one single shake of my head for that idea to die a dismal death. Tawny was the first to accept it.
“Don’t sweat it, sweetie,” she told him. “It’s an impossible dream. Girl ain’t never gonna sing.” And with a good-natured tsking of her lips aimed in my direction, Tawny set her sights elsewhere. “So who’s up next? Seems Laura and Leslie have all the show tunes—who knew those girls were so gay?” I was off the hook, out of the spotlight, right where I wanted to be.
Free of the spotlight himself, Sean headed in my direction, his grin sliding over me as lovely as twilight.
“You a big fan of show tunes?” I couldn’t help but inquire.
“Big enough. And I know a little something about playing to the crowd.” Despite his wide grin, a touch of the defensive seeped into his voice.
“I’ve seen you in action,” I answered, conscious of a dual interpretation.
Dimpling adorably, he leaned in and lowered his voice to a seductive whisper. “Suppose we continue our evening somewhere else?”
My reaction time impressed even Sean, and within seconds we were back in the darkness on my side of the fence, whispering and giggling, wondering how soon we’d be missed. But as I was fumbling with the keys, babbling about my impressive collection of take-out menus, Sean clarified his original suggestion.
“I thought we’d go out, hit a few pubs, hear a few bands.”
I was still registering my misunderstanding when his words began tumbling out, over and around each other in helpless irritation. “I’d meant to tell you earlier—I’d hoped to get my flight pushed back, but I’ve exhausted all options, and I’m afraid I have to leave tomorrow.”
Wiry branches of live oak shifted above me in the wind, and I was conscious of a rushing in my ears. “Wha-aa-t?” It was all I could manage. I was having trouble processing every bit of it: the leaving, the fact that he was springing it on me in the manner of a pesky obligation, and rather critically, the tomorrow.
“I’m flying back to Scotland tomorrow. My flight’s been arranged for six months now at least, and despite—”
“Flying back to Scotland to ... visit? ” Surely this should have come up before now.
Sean looked slightly befuddled by this question. “I suppose you could say that, but—I thought you realized that I’m—the band—we’re an actual Scottish pub band—from Scotland. We flew over for South by Southwest.”
Scotland? ... Home of the mysterious, fantastical Loch Ness Monster. And, it seemed, my own fantasy as well.
Images from our Technicolor, whirlwind week flashed in my mind, a study in confusion. Had I known this deep down? Had Fairy Jane had me so distracted that I’d missed the warning signs—or deliberately ignored them? Surely he didn’t think he could just drop this bomb on me now—today—the day before tomorrow! “But ... you seem to know Austin as well as a local.”
“I’ve come for the festival several years running. And I Google.” This had him quirking an apologetic smile, and I felt the tiniest little flicker of anger licking at my insides.
“What about your motorcycle?”
“I borrowed it from a mate—the one at the wedding, with the pregnant wife.”
“And your Weird shirt?” I demanded.
He actually seemed puzzled by this question. His eyebrows drew together in confused concern, and he reached for my hand. “It’s a souvenir, luv. When in Rome ...”
I tugged my hand free as his words pelted against my heart and then fell like stones into the depths of my stomach. Oh my God.
Shades of Austen in Austin, with Fairy Jane playing the role of matchmaking Emma, Sean as the unpredictable Mr. Elton, and me as naïve and silly Miss Smith.
No, scratch that, Sean was the Henry Crawford I’d first imagined—worldly and charismatic, and I was a more gullible Fanny Price who had fallen for him against my better judgment. Not exactly flattering to either of us.
I was so utterly frazzled that my Austen metaphors were getting all tangled up in each other!
I felt strangely betrayed. Not so much by Sean as by my journal. I’d played along, kept writing, kept reading, an odd take on that trust exercise where your partner stands behind you, and you fall backward, confident that this person will catch you before you thump ignominiously to the floor. Well, stupid, trusting me, I let go and fell hard. And now even the ground beneath me had disappeared, and I was plummeting. My relationship with Sean had already been stretching every one of my limits. To add a long-distance, pond-crossing element was simply beyond me.
“Nic.” Sean’s voice pulled me back and reminded me that the pity party would need to wait. Right now I needed to buck up and get through the good-byes, rip away the fairy tale like a Band-Aid, because there was absolutely no chance for a happily-ever-after now.
“Nic, it’s only—”
Gulping in a lungful of cold, dark air, I let my eyes flicker closed for one courage-gathering second and ruthlessly interrupted him. “I need to just say this ...” It was obvious he wanted to cut in, but I hurried on, not entirely sure how long I had before I began to fall apart.
“You make me feel like a girl at a carnival—like everything is just lying in wait. But eventually carnivals pack up and move on, and everyone goes back to life as usual. I think I have to do that too.”
“Or you could become a carnie,” he teased. I glared up at him. “Seriously, Nic, there’s no one right way to do things. I thought I’d convinced you of that this week. It seems I’m not as persuasive as I imagined.” His voice had sharpened and now had an edge.
In the week I’d known him, the only other time I’d seen his eyes darken dangerously was while sitting in the canoe when I’d hinted that our little liaison was iffy at best. And it occurred to me, fleetingly, how undeniably sexy he was, even fierce with anger. I stepped closer to kiss him once, urgently, on the cheek, marveling that two minutes ago my plans had been lazy and much less chaste.
The moon was shimmering now, more than before, and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before those tears started to fall. “I thought I could change enough to make things work,” I told him, my voice rough with emotion, “but when I’m with you, I’m always playing catch-up, always wondering what’s coming next. Today’s little surprise just happens to be that you live in Scotland. Not sure how I missed that,” I murmured with a forced laugh, fighting to keep my focus. “What I’m trying to say is that I need just a tad more structure ...” In an effort to lighten the mood, I held up my hand, a half inch separating my index finger and thumb, and forced out a brittle smile. “I want the fairy tale and the happily-ever-after as much as the next girl, but it has to make sense.”
He stared at me for too long. I was yearning to fill the silence, but I couldn’t think what else there was to say. Dipping my head down, I watched the first two tears fall as his answer finally came.
“Fairy tales are magical, Nic—they don’t ever make sense. I didn’t plan for this—I flew in for South by Southwest and just happened to find you with a mushroom down your dress. You enchanted me. We’ve only had one week together, and I, for one, want more than that.”
I tipped my head down and didn’t answer, didn’t know if I could answer. I wanted the same thing, as evidenced by my thoroughly debunked Life Plan, but where our relationship was a little rough before, now it was impossible.
There was a beat of silence as Sean waited for my response, but when it didn’t come, he pressed on.
“You can’t seriously imagine that a life plan orchestrated at age thirteen is going to go off without a hitch, Nic.” I could hear the exasperation in his voice and couldn’t help but get defensive.
“So what if I did—do! ”
“Really? And what exactly did your thirteen-year-old brain have planned for you, romantically speaking?”
“Plenty!” I fired back.
“Uh-huh. Anything to compete with what we had this week?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Let me see if I have this right: It took you a week to decide that I might be worthy of the grand scheme of your life, and now that you’ve discovered I don’t live in Austin, I’m voted off? I don’t suppose this is reality TV, is it?” His smile, when it came, was tight.
My shoulders slumped, and suddenly my whole body felt heavy and listless. “It wasn’t like that.” But truly, it was, and I didn’t know what to say.
“So change your plans—edit me in,” he insisted, but I could already hear the defeat in his voice. “Come on, Nic. It’s not that far off—”
“It is, Sean,” I said, my jaw tight. “It’s too far. I can’t make that work.”
“Have it your way, then. You’re still selling yourself short, Nic, and I can’t put it right because you’re calling all the shots.”
My head whipped back up in time to see him unpinning the clan pin from his collar. I couldn’t help but remember the MacInnes motto: By the grace of God and King. Even the cheeky efforts of a fairy godmother hadn’t been enough for the two of us.
“I’d ask that you remember how magical it was,” he said, dropping the pin into my palm and curling my fingers protectively around it. “All of it, madcap and reckless. And it bloody well worked.”
As I stared down at my fist, the cold metal tingling my palm and gradually radiating outward, Sean unearthed a second offering: the disposable camera, proof of the lost Wednesday that now seemed a figment of my imagination. “I’d thought we could talk about this, but I don’t imagine that’s possible just now. Just remember, luv, you’re not the only one with a plan.”
When the kiss came, hard and bittersweet, I wasn’t expecting it. And before I’d even recovered my breath, he was gone.