Page 90 of I'm Not Yours
My mom’s mother, white-haired, fiery, crackled out, “We go to the spa for you, Geraldine!”
Together we all yelled, “For Geraldine!” and held up our orange juice glasses.
We cheered! We laughed! We toasted Geraldine!
It was a fabulous day. I hardly stopped thinking of Reece once.
“Whooeee! He’s on the front grass!” my aunt Belinda shouted from the deck the next afternoon. “Come and have a look-see, everyone. See! That’s June’s man! Is he a hunk or what?” She wore an Indian sari over one shoulder and a tartan over the other to respect both sets of her ancestors. “The other man was a wimp. Pimpy. Snobby . . . he was a tarantula.”
Within seconds, the entire MacKenzie gang—at least a hundred of them—were out ogling Reece and me from the deck and front yard.
Most were dressed in Scottish tartans and kilts.
They held bows and arrows, swords and shields.
“This is my castle. I am the lairdette; you may enter!” my mom called, resplendent in the family tartan with blues, greens, and red.
My father held up a shield with the family crest on it. “You are welcome at our castle,” he boomed out, his voice ringing off the trees and hills surrounding the home.
“Why?” a hundred voices shouted at once.
“Because we’re the MacKenzie Scots!”
Then they burst into the family song, which started with, “Don’t bust our butts, we won’t bust yours,” and described how we’re the Clan MacKenzie, forever and ever we’ll be, we love each other, fight to the death, our swords up, our shields a defense against all our enemies.
“What do we do?” my father railed, again raising his shield.
“We stick together!”
Next, they burst into the family dance, which can be best described as an Americanized Scottish version of rap/bounce/ Scottish dancing.
They hooted, they sang off key, they’d been downing whisky like true Scotsmen.
“You’re in for an adventure,” I told Reece, putting an arm around him.
“I can see that.” He grinned. “Adventures are my specialty.” Soon Reece was wearing a kilt.
He was a mighty fine Scott. I flipped it up.
He’d kept his boxers on.
Later in the evening, amidst the hoopla, Reece and I snuck out to the river, away from a cacophony of noise and MacKenzie revelry. Some of the family had stayed in hotels in town, but most had spent the night at the house, and many had pitched tents and camper trailers. A line of fancy Porta-Potties out back had been strung with Christmas lights. The night was young, the parties would go late.
He reached for my hand, warm and sure.
“I missed you,” he said.
“It was only three days,” I laughed, feeling that sizzle between us, the electric current of unfulfilled desire.
“I still missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” I so had.
We strolled along the winding path by the river, chatting, as it splashed and played. We had a thousand things to say immediately, until he pulled me into his arms and hugged me close. We didn’t kiss, but I wanted to, we didn’t take off our clothes, but I wanted to, we didn’t dive into the desire and the raging passion that zinged between us, but I wanted to.
“I’m trying my best to behave myself, June,” he murmured into my hair.
“Me, too, Reece.”
