I swallow uneasily. “Thank you,” I say gruffly, but I don’t add anything else.
“She treats you well?”
I give her a quick smile. “Yes. She does.”
She pats my back, satisfied, and we go inside to the sitting room where Donald is pouring Kayla a cup of tea. I sit in my usual seat, a vintage upholstered chair that Jessica always wanted to throw away because it was threadbare in places, but I’d convinced her to hold onto it. They’ve always been very wealthy and love to show that off in subtle ways. Jessica’s aesthetic for the house is cozy but not enough for ragged furniture. The chair was the only thing I could really relate to though, as daft as that sounds. When you’re an orphan, you look for comfort anywhere you can find it.
While Jessica putters about, getting shortbread and scones for us and placing them on the table with her finest white and pink china, Donald asks Kayla if she’s from San Francisco, which then gets them talking about the city. Donald worked in finance from an early age and a lot of his career had him traveling around the globe. Born to a poor family, he is a completely self-made man and it’s one reason why I admire him so much, other than the fact that he took me in when he did and ruled with an iron fist when he had to.
“And your job?” Donald asks, biting into his shortbread which leads to a shower of crumbs on the carpet. Jessica makes a good-hearted tsking noise and sits down, sliding the plate toward him so it won’t happen again.
This is where I see Kayla stutter. She rubs her lips together, and I know she’s trying to think of the right response. Finally she says, “I work for a weekly newspaper. The Bay Area Weekly. I’m in advertising.”
“Ah,” Donald says, adjusting his glasses. “That must be very interesting.”
Kayla glances at me and then says, “No. It’s not really.” She lets out a dry laugh, shrugging. “I’ve always wanted to be a journalist, to actually write the articles, but it seems no matter how much I try, I can’t get there.”
I clear my throat. “Well actually, Kayla wrote a brilliant article about me and Bram about the work he’s doing over there for lower-income housing.”
“I did,” Kayla said with a slow nod. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever get that chance again. I didn’t even get credited with the article. Someone else did.”
“That’s bollocks,” Donald says, slapping his knee lightly and trying to talk without spitting crumbs everywhere. Jessica has all the elegance in this relationship. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. I mean, I complained, but the editor doesn’t listen to me. Or anyone.”
“Have you ever thought about writing on the side then, maybe for free for a while?” he says, peering at her over his glasses. “Build up a portfolio and a reputation, hone your craft. Then start looking for a job that will actually pay you to write?”
I often wish I were Donald’s actual son, least not that he could have passed those brains down to me. Being born of crackhead blood is never to your advantage.
“Yes, Donald,” Jessica says. “That’s a great idea. Why not start with travel writing? You’re here, maybe Lachlan could show you some of the hidden spots of our country, the places no one writes about.” She gestures at me with her cup of tea. “Or another article on the organization. Even the gala next week. You could help each other out.”
Kayla and I exchange a glance. I hadn’t thought of that, and clearly neither had she.
“I wouldn’t know who to write for,” she says.
Jessica dismisses that idea with a wave. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I know a lot of people. So does Donald. It wouldn’t be for pay, but like Donald said, just to get your foot in the door and build up your brand. At the same time, Lachlan and the dogs would benefit. What do you say? If I could make this happen, would you be interested?”
Kayla blinks for a moment, then straightens up. “Yes. Yes, of course! That would be great. When is the gala again?”
“On Friday,” Jessica says, and gives me a hard, discerning look. “If I know Lachlan, he’s completely dropped the ball on this one. Wouldn’t be the first time. One year he showed up in his rugby uniform because he came straight after practice.”
I clear my throat. The fucking gala is a fundraiser for the shelter. Jessica hosts it every year, and I just kind of show up, sign autographs, meet people, and put out some good PR for the organization. I usually bring Lionel to the event with me, and he wins people over far better than I can.
“It slipped my mind,” I tell them. “I’ve been…busy.”
Kayla smiles knowingly at that. “It’s okay. Amara told me already. I just wasn’t sure when it was.”
“Always at the start of the season. People are excited for rugby again, and usually I can get a few of my teammates to come show some support.” I pause, very aware of the way Donald and Jessica are staring at me. “I would love it if you would be my date, so long as you don’t mind sharing me with Lionel.”
“You know I don’t.”
“He’s a good one, isn’t he?” Jessica says warmly.
“Who, Lachlan or the dog?”
I let out a small laugh. “Oh, love, please don’t choose.”
My words bring out a look between Donald and Jessica which I do my best to ignore.
The doorbell rings and Jessica gets up. “That must be Brigs.”
Brigs is my brother, and I immediately feel bad that I haven’t gotten in touch with him upon getting back. We’ve had a pretty good relationship, though I put him—and Jessica and Donald—through hell when I was younger. It’s only recently that he’s pulled away more than I have. His wife and child died three years ago in a horrible car crash, and he hasn’t been the same ever since. I understand him, though I can’t say I understand his exact grief—nor would I want to. But I get why he’s distancing himself from everyone around him. It’s not just the pain of loss. He blames himself for the accident since they had a fight beforehand. I never learned what the fight was about, but according to Brigs, it was enough to make him think it was all his fault. Sometimes I want to reach out to him, to tell him I know what guilt is, but I don’t have the courage to even bring up that shit with myself.
“Hey, Mum,” Brigs says, kissing Jessica on both cheeks. Though I call them my parents, I’ve never been able to call them Mum and Dad. I’m not sure if that’s a defense mechanism or what.
Brigs walks in the house and eyes the rest of us in surprise. You can see my cousins in Brigs, and vice versa. He’s tall and athletic, though looking quite thin as of late, with vivid blue eyes that I can’t describe as anything other than haunted. His cheekbones are thanks to Jessica, sharp and angular. When he’s feeling particularly angry, you definitely want to clear the room. I can silence someone with my fists, but he can silence a room with one look.
“Lachlan,” he says, and there’s a gaiety to his voice that wasn’t there before.
I get out of my chair and give him a hug, the old slap on the back.
“Good to see you, brother,” he says, looking me dead in the eye.
“Same to you.”
He looks over my shoulder and raises a brow when he sees Kayla. “And who is this, then?”
I can’t help but beam proudly at her. I probably look quite the fool, but I don’t care.
“This is Kayla. She’s from San Francisco.”
“Is that so?” he asks, and gives her a nod. “First time in Scotland, yeah?”
“It sure is,” Kayla says.
“And you have this ape as your tour guide? I should show you around, yeah? Show you the real Scotland not seen through the eyes of a hothead rugby player,” he says with a big grin. It takes him from sinister to jokester in a flash, and I can see Kayla’s shoulders relax.