“They were looking at you,” I tell her warmly. “My beautiful girl.” I hold out my beer and knock it against her glass. “Here’s to…”

“Meeting your folks,” she says.

I nod. “Yes. That.” I drink my beer, half of it gone immediately.

She takes forever to finish hers, so when my glass is empty, she nudges her cider toward me. “Here, I can’t finish this.”

I hesitate. Just for a moment. Just enough to maybe rein myself in. The glass is about half full and I’m already feeling swimmy. If I finish it, I know it will lead me to that place where every guilty thought I’ve ever had will magically disappear.

I want to be in that place, especially now, especially with this gorgeous, wonderful woman who I am so terribly unworthy of.

But I won’t. With effort, I shake my head, declining the drink. I get us out to the car and on our way. The wind is picking up now, pushing grey clouds in from the coast and coating everything with a fine mist. Everything is blindingly green because of it.

Jessica and Donald’s house is about three hundred years old and looks it. The stone fence outside is crumbling, a few of the larger rocks having toppled over no thanks to me and my predisposition for running along it when I was younger. The rest of the house has ivy growing up the sides, though Jessica’s garden is manicured as always, the sunflowers along the south side already waist high.

“Oh my god,” Kayla says, her hand to her chest as we pause by the iron gate. “This is like something from a movie. Is this where you grew up?”

“Aye,” I tell her. “Hasn’t changed much.”

“It’s like a fairytale.”

Something in my chest clenches. While the pub held mostly pleasantly memories, maybe because I was always in there with my mates, the house held a world of others. It was both my first real home since I had been given up for adoption, and it was also the place I felt most unworthy of. It also held the time where my life began to go tits up for no reason other than my own doing.

Christ. I should have had that cider after all.

Before I can dwell on it anymore, the front door, forever painted bright red, opens, and Jessica and Donald step out, giving us a wave.

“Lachlan,” Jessica calls to me in that sing-songy voice of hers. She’s wearing all black, believing it to be slimming even though she’s always been quite thin. Her grey hair is straight and shiny, and she’s wearing just a few sparkly jewels and what looks like little makeup. Donald looks just as dashing in his usual vest, his hands shoved down into his pockets, wearing glasses that complement his sharp eyes. My adopted parents are some of the classiest, smartest people you’ll ever meet. I often wonder how they found it in their hearts to take me in at all.

I make the introductions quickly, giving them both a hug hello before proudly showing them Kayla. “Jessica, Donald, this is Kayla,” I tell them. Even though I mentioned on the phone a few days ago that I was bringing a girl over, I don’t think they’ve quite gotten over the shock because they both look taken aback.

Finally, Jessica shakes her head. “Oh, she’s darling,” she says, and brings Kayla into a light hug. When she pulls away, she holds her by the shoulders at arm’s length and peers at her. “Where ever did you find such a lovely girl? And one that would want to come all the way here with the likes of you?” she adds, taking the piss out of me like she often does.

Kayla is blushing. I love how she’s so confident at times yet always takes compliments with a sense of disbelief, as if she’s never heard how beautiful she is, as if she’s hearing it for the first time. It makes me want to say it again and again and again, until she believes it. If only she didn’t look so bloody brilliant when flushed.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Kayla says. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I raise my brows. Actually, I’ve rarely talked about them, but it seems to be the right thing to say because Jessica looks pleased as punch.

“Is that so?” she asks, sending me a questioning look. “Good things, I hope.”

“Always,” I say just as Donald comes forward, offering his hand.

“Glad to have you here,” he says to her. “How are you enjoying Scotland so far?”

“I love everything about it,” she says. “It’s going to be hard to go home.”

If I was numb, those words wouldn’t hurt the way they do. She seems to still a bit after saying it, the smile frozen on her lips, almost hyperaware. She’d told me a few days ago that we weren’t to mention that she was leaving, and we’d been sticking to it, living in a dream of sex and soul, pretending the days were endless and time was only for other people but not us.

“Well, you just stay here for as long as you like,” Donald says smoothly, putting his arm around her shoulder and leading her into the house. “We have a nice cuppa ready for you.”

As he leads her inside, Jessica grabs my arm and pulls me down toward her.

“I just wanted to say,” she says quietly, her eyes bright, “that I didn’t know what to expect when you told us you were bringing over a girl. I don’t want to make this a bigger deal than it is. I know you very well, Lachlan.” I frown at her and she continues, “You’ve never been one for sentiment. But I just wanted to tell you that I’m so happy for you. She seems lovely, and she’s beautiful.”

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.”