Chapter 2

[The following morning . . .]

“Have you got all of your travel documents and your visa?” Mum asked as she crossed off each item on the checklist.

Mum was a list maker. Not a single day went by when she didn’t compile a list of things that she needed to do or things she needed to buy. This time, she had put together a list of all the items I needed to take with me to America.

“Yes, Mum, they’re in the travel wallet you bought for me,” I replied, holding it up as evidence.

“See, Arron. Those things come in handy, don’t they? They keep everything together all in one place. Everybody should have one,” Mum suggested as she wagged her index finger at Dad. He had initially scoffed at the idea of owning one, back when she was ordering them from eBay the other week.

Mum began rhyming things off, using her fingers to count on. “Let’s see, you’ve got your money. We packed your suitcases. Do you have a spare charger? Did you get one?” she questioned, her brows almost hitting her hairline as if we had forgotten a vital necessity.

“Yes, I picked one up the other day,” I answered.

“Well, that’s all then. Oh, wait. Here, I bought you some magazines to read on the plane,” she remembered, then fished them out of a carrier bag.

“Thanks, Mum. I forgot to buy those,” I replied with gratitude.

“She thinks of everything. She’s sharp as a whip, this one,” Dad praised, fawning over Mum in adoration.

She gave him a loving peck on the lips before returning to fuss over me.

“I just thought, it’s a twelve-hour flight. You’d get bored to tears otherwise.” Her eyes creased with concern. “You will be okay out there on your own, won’t you?” Tears welled up in her hazel eyes.

“Mum, I’ll be fine. Even if I must communicate via smoke signal, you will hear from me one way or the other,” I comforted her. “There will be loads of things to do when I’m not working. I’m sure that there will be plenty of people for me to make friends with. The university has rented me a car, so I can get from point A to B and not be destitute,” I assured her, seeing her frown lines relax.

“Well, make sure you ring home, or else your father and I will be on the next flight over there,” she warned, in her warm maternal tone.

My parents both accompanied me to Heathrow airport so that they could give me a grand send-off. I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry, but my soft self was barely holding back the tears. I checked my luggage into baggage handling, and then turned to bid my parents an emotional farewell.

Reality had kicked in by this point and it took everything I had not to fling my arms around Dad’s neck and beg him to take me home.

“Dad, Mum, I’m going to miss you,” I bawled.

Dad's eyes reddened as he fought back the tears. He was such a gentle giant when it came to us, but to anyone else, he was an intimidating hulk. Mum’s face already had tear tracks running down both cheeks.

“Oh, my baby . . . my only baby,” her shoulders bounced as she wept uncontrollably.

Even at twenty-one years of age, I would always be their little girl. I hugged them as if my life depended on it, and it took all my willpower to detach myself from them and walk away. As I turned around to give a final wave, I noticed them clinging to each other in a tight embrace. The sight almost broke me. Mum placed her fingertips against her lips as if to blow me a kiss and Dad held one outstretched hand up in a somber wave.

Part of me welcomed the adventure, and part of me wanted to remain rooted in London. The moment I stepped foot on the plane, I had an ominous feeling that my life was going to change forever — or maybe that was Mum’s apron strings snapping. It was a daunting feeling, the thought of fending for myself. Not only that, I hated flying. Just the thought of having a vast space between me and the ground made my ass cheeks twitch with trepidation. I resorted to occupying myself with magazines and perusing the duty-free brochure until my eyelids drooped. Not that I could sleep for long. It didn’t help that they screened Final Destination as the in-flight movie. As soon as the landing gear hit the tarmac, my body relaxed, and I sighed with relief.

Then the second we were allowed to leave our seats, I scrambled to retrieve my belongings from the overhead storage compartment. I planned to make a run for the baggage conveyor before anybody else could get there. It was a British thing. We hated queueing. It was no different to a German tourist getting up at the butt crack of dawn to claim dibs on a sun lounger, I was hoping to avoid the stampede of passengers and forego waiting in line.

My plan worked. I was the first to arrive at the baggage conveyor, smug as fuck. I waited and waited . . . and waited, glancing at my watch, tapping my foot with impatience, huffing, and muttering my thoughts to anyone within earshot like a typical disgruntled Brit — complaining about the shit service and how they better not have lost my luggage or else there would be hell to pay. Then as the cases emerged, my luggage sporadically popped through the flaps as if they’d been to hell and back. I snatched the battered cases, tossed them onto a luggage cart, and then made my way to the arrival area — and it was just my luck to have chosen the cart with a wobbly wheel, one that refused to turn the way I wanted it to.

There was barely anyone left in the foyer by the time I got there. It was hard to miss the tall bespectacled guy who was holding up a piece of A4 paper that had my name scribbled on it. I couldn’t tell if he'd slicked his hair flat with gel or whether it was greasy because the light just seemed to bounce off all the moisture. The tweed suit jacket he had teamed with an Oxford shirt, jeans, and Converse made it look as if he couldn’t decide between dressing like a professor or a student. He gave a surprised double-take as he noticed me approaching, blowing the stray hairs from my face, and swearing at the cart. I must have looked like a nutjob.

“Hi, you must be Isobelle?” He greeted me with a strong New York accent.

I caught the way his eyes ping-ponged from my eyes, down to my voluptuous cleavage, and back again as if they were having an involuntary spasm. I zipped up the jacket of my Juicy Couture tracksuit, cramming my ample bosoms inside.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, unsure who I was addressing.

I smoothed down my hair and offered him my hand to shake.

Is he a student or a professor? I can’t tell.

“Call me Peter. I’m a professor at the University of Michigan,” he introduced himself, answering my question. “You’re a real English rose, aren’t you? So pretty.” Peter narrowed his eyes in a cheeky analysis. It didn’t seem seedy, and he certainly didn’t mean to intimidate me. It was a clumsy attempt at making chit-chat, and it made me cringe with embarrassment. I wasn’t used to getting compliments from guys.

“You ought to be careful. The boys will trip over their tongues when they catch an eyeful of you,” he remarked, chortling with amusement.

Instead of rolling my eyes at the cheesy line, I blushed awkwardly at his compliment. I pulled the cart out into the open air and over to where a blacked-out SUV was parked, the fucking wobbly wheel protesting like a dying mouse. Then Peter helped me to load my luggage onto the back seats. He jogged past me to open the passenger-side door, proving that chivalry isn't dead. The polite gesture surprised me, and I flashed a thankful smile as I slid onto the cool leather seat and shut the door.

Apart from the few cringe-worthy comments at the airport, Peter wasn’t the worst person to be stuck in a car with. The conversation maintained a steady flow and we never ran out of things to talk about. I discovered that his age exceeded the mid-twenty benchmark and that he was in his mid-thirties, unmarried, and owned a short-haired Chihuahua called Derrick. He was single and was currently living in his grandmother’s house. I had no room to judge because I still lived with my parents.

“How long is the drive to Lakewell?” I inquired, hoping that it wasn’t that far because I was getting a numb bum from all the sitting down. Not to mention the jetlag. All I wanted was to brush my teeth and collapse into bed.

Peter’s lips twisted as he thought. “Uh . . . three, maybe four hours, tops. Depending on whether the roads are clear. There’s a lot of traveling through woodland, and those roads aren’t well lit,” he explained.

My facial expression sank with fatigue.

Three or four hours. Great.

“Ugh,” I groaned. “Where is Whitehaven, anyway?”

“It’s off the beaten track so to speak. There aren’t any road signs that’ll lead you there, so there’s no way to find it unless you know where to go. The guest house where you’ll be staying is right by the forest. The owners are called Chloe and Lincoln Anderson and they have two little kids. They’re mad tight,” Peter mentioned, trying to put my mind at ease. “They’ll make you feel at home.”

“I’m grateful I don’t have to make my own way there. I could sleep for a week,” I replied, fighting the urge to yawn.

He wasn’t wrong about the drive. It took ages to reach the guest house. It was late into the night by the time we arrived. I could barely keep my eyes open. As Peter pulled the handbrake it jolted me awake.

“Are we here?” I slurred, wiping the drool from my chin.

“This is it,” Peter announced. “I got you here safe and sound, just as I promised I would.”

I flashed an exhausted smile. “I didn’t doubt you for a moment.”