CHAPTER ONE
Leighton
The guy leaning on me really needs an Altoid.
I shift to the side as my impromptu airport floor roommate snuggles closer and lets loose a snore that makes my nearby fellow captives look in our direction in alarm. I’m not looking forward to riding out the snowstorm in Terminal D with a man who needs an industrial strength nasal strip but I fought hard for the prime spot along the wall close to an electrical outlet and I’m not moving.
When the airline had begun cancelling flights due to the unexpected blizzard three days before St. Patrick’s Day, the first wave of activity in international departures was to secure a hotel room for the night. Being neither a platinum or some other precious gem level member at one of the big hotel chains had meant I was out of luck in securing any kind of room for the night so I’d wedged my way in between overstuffed carry-ons and whiny kids to grab my piece of prime real estate along the wall.
Two hours later, my phone is fully charged but the answer is clear—there is no room for me in the inn. Or the Marriott. Or the Hilton.
A great way to start my first adventure.
Two and a half months from my college graduation and I’m taking the chances in my life that I should have been taking all along. Finally. I’m beginning to feel like the person I am supposed to be but not everyone is on board with my accelerated program of development. The parentals, my twin brother—they mean well but they worry about me. Too much.
I am the fragile one. The one who needs to be careful. The one they almost lost. You’d think beating childhood leukemia would have made me brave, fierce. Nope. I’d bought into their characterization and worn it like a cloak to protect me from the big bad world until I’d almost suffocated under the weight. And then a few months ago, Brian-the-cheaterface had kicked my ass to the curb two weeks before Christmas for a girl named Silver who had green hair, ear gauges and a tongue stud and blamed it all on my being only slightly less boring than a bag of flour. Actually, his exact words were “if you’d only live with the passion you put into your fucking music I wouldn't have had to look elsewhere” but it all amounted to the same thing.
And as big a cheating asshole Brian was, he wasn’t wrong.
So, I wallowed in my misery for a week and then grabbed the nearest bottle of champagne and proceeded to spend New Year’s Eve “living with passion” in the bed of a guy I’d wanted for what seemed like forever. I also beat feet out of there before the morning after ruined the memories of the night. A cowardly move, I know.
He must have been on the same page because he avoided me in the weeks following our night of sweaty fun between the sheets. The times when we had to be together were infrequent but held a level of awkward somewhere between catching your parents making out on the couch and leaving the restroom with your skirt stuck in your panties. Good times.
But I am determined to live with passion, so when my music program selected me to go to the Celtic Music Festival in Dublin a month ago, I dusted off my passport, spared a moment to regret the terrible ID photo, and booked my ticket.
And now my flight is cancelled until the snowstorm passes, I’m stuck in the airport with a million other spring breakers, and my folks have lost their minds. It isn’t like taking a spring break trip to Ireland is the height of danger but you’d think I was pledging to marry a death-row inmate or something, the way they are acting.
They finally stopped calling after I let their calls go to voicemail but they weren't shy about pulling out the big guns and so the next series of calls were from their not-so-secret weapon—my twin brother Landon.
I hit the screen and sigh, making sure a little bit of bitch is added to the overall tone of annoyance. “Landon. I’m going to Dublin. The flights will be back on tomorrow. Stop calling.”
“Number
Leighton
The guy leaning on me really needs an Altoid.
I shift to the side as my impromptu airport floor roommate snuggles closer and lets loose a snore that makes my nearby fellow captives look in our direction in alarm. I’m not looking forward to riding out the snowstorm in Terminal D with a man who needs an industrial strength nasal strip but I fought hard for the prime spot along the wall close to an electrical outlet and I’m not moving.
When the airline had begun cancelling flights due to the unexpected blizzard three days before St. Patrick’s Day, the first wave of activity in international departures was to secure a hotel room for the night. Being neither a platinum or some other precious gem level member at one of the big hotel chains had meant I was out of luck in securing any kind of room for the night so I’d wedged my way in between overstuffed carry-ons and whiny kids to grab my piece of prime real estate along the wall.
Two hours later, my phone is fully charged but the answer is clear—there is no room for me in the inn. Or the Marriott. Or the Hilton.
A great way to start my first adventure.
Two and a half months from my college graduation and I’m taking the chances in my life that I should have been taking all along. Finally. I’m beginning to feel like the person I am supposed to be but not everyone is on board with my accelerated program of development. The parentals, my twin brother—they mean well but they worry about me. Too much.
I am the fragile one. The one who needs to be careful. The one they almost lost. You’d think beating childhood leukemia would have made me brave, fierce. Nope. I’d bought into their characterization and worn it like a cloak to protect me from the big bad world until I’d almost suffocated under the weight. And then a few months ago, Brian-the-cheaterface had kicked my ass to the curb two weeks before Christmas for a girl named Silver who had green hair, ear gauges and a tongue stud and blamed it all on my being only slightly less boring than a bag of flour. Actually, his exact words were “if you’d only live with the passion you put into your fucking music I wouldn't have had to look elsewhere” but it all amounted to the same thing.
And as big a cheating asshole Brian was, he wasn’t wrong.
So, I wallowed in my misery for a week and then grabbed the nearest bottle of champagne and proceeded to spend New Year’s Eve “living with passion” in the bed of a guy I’d wanted for what seemed like forever. I also beat feet out of there before the morning after ruined the memories of the night. A cowardly move, I know.
He must have been on the same page because he avoided me in the weeks following our night of sweaty fun between the sheets. The times when we had to be together were infrequent but held a level of awkward somewhere between catching your parents making out on the couch and leaving the restroom with your skirt stuck in your panties. Good times.
But I am determined to live with passion, so when my music program selected me to go to the Celtic Music Festival in Dublin a month ago, I dusted off my passport, spared a moment to regret the terrible ID photo, and booked my ticket.
And now my flight is cancelled until the snowstorm passes, I’m stuck in the airport with a million other spring breakers, and my folks have lost their minds. It isn’t like taking a spring break trip to Ireland is the height of danger but you’d think I was pledging to marry a death-row inmate or something, the way they are acting.
They finally stopped calling after I let their calls go to voicemail but they weren't shy about pulling out the big guns and so the next series of calls were from their not-so-secret weapon—my twin brother Landon.
I hit the screen and sigh, making sure a little bit of bitch is added to the overall tone of annoyance. “Landon. I’m going to Dublin. The flights will be back on tomorrow. Stop calling.”
“Number
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