I run a hand through my hair, pushing the sweat-slicked strands off my forehead. “Pretty sure they’ll want me regardless of my phone manners, Big Mac.” I reach for a water and guzzle it down.
“Don’t be too sure of that, kid. Image is everything.”
He’s right, of course. Which is why I know I’m making a good decision in choosing him.
“What’s up?” I ask, wiping my mouth with my forearm. Big mistake—I’m sweaty as fuck. Grimacing, I reach for a towel. “Or is this part of some random, buff-and-polish-the-client initiative you’re testing out on me?”
Mackenzie chuckles. “Smart ass.” Silence and then, “I have a favor to ask.”
Surprised, I pause in taking another drink of water. “Shoot.”
“It’s about Ivy.”
Instantly, he has my full attention. I sit up, my heart pounding oddly fast. “What about Ivy?”
“I know you two have been corresponding”—the word comes out as a sneer—“and we’ll be discussing that in detail later, Grayson.” He doesn’t hide his irritation.
“Uh…” Yeah, witty reply, but I can’t blame Mackenzie for being pissed. Ordinarily, a father has every right to want his daughter far away from me. “Look, Mackenzie, Ivy and I are friends. She’s like a…” I trail off, the cliché stuck in my throat because what I was about to utter isn’t the truth. But Mackenzie finishes it for me anyway.
“Like a sister to you. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the same from Ivy.”
He has? I guess that’s good that she thinks of me as a brother. I dig my fingers into the tense muscles at the back of my neck. “Right, so we’re good? Because I got—”
“I’m stuck in New York. A ball player got arrested for a DUI, damn idiot.” He sighs. “Anyway, Ivy is coming home from London and is due to arrive at the airport in… Hell. She’s probably there already. Her sister has the flu, or I’d send her.”
I jump up, knocking the water bottle down with my knee. “You mean Ivy is sitting at the airport and no one’s there to greet her? After a fucking year away from home?” Okay, I’m shouting, but fucking hell, Ivy deserves a better homecoming that that. And what the fuck? I just texted her last night. She said nothing about leaving London. Why?
Ignoring the weird hurt in my chest, I jog toward the locker room.
“All right, kid,” Mackenzie grumbles, “you don’t have to rub it in. Could you—”
“I’m already on it. What airline and gate? Do you know that much?”
It’s low of me to keep rubbing it in, but fuck. What was Mackenzie thinking? How could he forget his own daughter? And then I’m not thinking of Mackenzie at all. Ivy is here. Here.
I’m about to meet her, and I’m totally unprepared. My heart is racing like it does before a game, that same adrenaline rushing through my veins. I’m no longer thinking about the future, but of Ivy. Getting to her is all that matters now.
One
Ivy
Most people hate the airport. I get that. You’re in a hurry, hauling around luggage, maybe afraid to fly, definitely annoyed by the heinous TSA lines. And yet, for me, there’s an air of excitement to an airport. At least as a traveler. Because either you’re going somewhere or you’ve arrived. For that alone, I’d love the airport. But my absolute favorite spot? The international arrivals gate.
I love those gates. Love watching the people who wait with an almost nervous anticipation for their loved ones to arrive. Love seeing faces light up, people cry out with joy and laughter or even tears when they spot that special person. Mothers, father, sisters, brothers, friends, lovers… An endless stream of reunions.
In the years after my parents got divorced, I used to go to the airport and simply sit on one of the cracked pleather chairs and soak it all in. Here, at least, I could see the good side of love.