“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.