“You know, I didn’t think I’d spend my last moments with you stressing out about this fucking traffic,” Kayla says, resting her head on the steering wheel. “What would happen if I just started honking?”
I look around us. There don’t seem to be any accidents, but it’s like every person in the world is on the road, lanes after lanes converging onto the bridge, the tolls slowing everyone down. “You’d go nowhere fast. And then I’d have to get out of the car and fight someone, I’m sure.”
“You’d win at least,” she says. “Maybe you could take off your shirt before you do it.”
“Always wanting me half-naked,” I chide her.
“Excuse me? Fully naked, please.”
I can’t help but smile at the sincerity in her voice. What the bloody hell am I going to do without her around? No one else brings a smile out of me like an automatic response, a knee-jerk reaction.
An hour in traffic ticks past. Kayla is losing her shit and apologizing profusely, and I’m massaging her shoulders, trying to soothe her and keep her calm. But eventually, I have to face facts.
I’m not going to make my plane.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again, and I give her a measured look.
“Once again,” I tell her, “it isn’t your fault. We didn’t know about the traffic. If anything, I should have made sure we were on the road earlier, but…it was just so bloody hard leaving the bed this morning.” We hadn’t even been screwing. We were entwined with each other, breathing, just being.
“If I could rewind time,” she says, and her voice starts to crack. It cuts into me, sharp and deep, but she quickly covers it up, shaking her head.
“I’ll call the airline and get on the next flight.” I tell her, bringing out my phone. I find my confirmation number through my email, and dial.
“Isn’t that going to cost so much extra?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But—”
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. It could give us more time together,” I tell her. She blinks slowly, considering that.
By the time we begin our slow, aggravating crawl onto the Bay Bridge, I finally get through to the airline. I apologize to the clerk on the phone, explaining the dilemma.
“Unfortunately, Mr. McGregor,” the clerk says, “the next available flight out to Edinburgh isn’t until tomorrow, even if we reroute you through Glasgow.”
“All right,” I say. That doesn’t screw up too much. The first team practice isn’t until Tuesday. “Let’s stay direct. Are there any change fees because I missed it or…?”
“No,” she says. “Because you’re business class, the fees are waived.”
“Is it a full flight?”
“Getting full, though it should be fairly empty in the business class cabin.”
That makes me pause.
“How much do those seats cost?” I ask her, but before she can respond, I follow up with, “Never mind, it’s not important.” I pause and take a deep breath, because I’m started to feel amped by something crazy. “Do you mind if I put you on hold for a moment?”
I don’t even hear her response. I move the phone away from my face and look over at Kayla. She’s gnawing on her lip, her brow pinched in worry—maybe sorrow. She has a tiny crescent moon scar on her chin, and I realize I never got a chance to ask her about it. I never got a chance to learn a lot of things.
But chances happen all the time. You just need to take them.
“Kayla,” I say gently, as if I can’t believe it myself because I don’t.
She turns her head, shining eyes meeting mine. “What?”
“Come with me to Scotland.”
It’s more of a demand than a question.
But I’ve said it.
She stares at me blankly for a moment, blinking, until I smack my palm against the dashboard to draw her attention to the car she’s about to rear end. She slams on the brakes and we both jolt forward against the seatbelt.
“What?” she asks delicately, as if she didn’t hear me right.
I clear my throat, conjuring up the sheer nerve to say it again.