Page 9 of Landing Her Eagle
I caught a late afternoon flight, so I’ll arrive in the US before too late in the evening. I could go directly to Daphne’s and surprise her so we could spend the weekend together, but it’s best that she does this on her own. That sheknowsshe can do this on her own.
I’m not a psychologist, but I think she’s keeping herself in a small, little life because if she reaches out for more, she risks rejection, loss, disappointment, or maybe all three. She’s so afraid of getting hurt more, she’s choosing not to live to avoid the possibility of pain. She doesn’t see that she’s also closing herself off from the possibility of joy and love.
I love her so much it hurts. It hurts because I can’t stand to see her timid and afraid to feel. However, I know I can’t pull her into the light. I can only hold out my hand, so it’s there when she’s ready to take it and step out of the shadows. Luckily, photography’s taught me the virtue of patience, waiting for light to be just right or elements to combine into a perfect tableau. Willingness to be patient makes the adequate extraordinary. The life I want with Daphne can be extraordinary. It’s worth the wait.
I know my girl. She’ll get there. I’m going to spend the flight thinking of my weekend plans and making notes on my phone.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you like another glass of whiskey?” I glance up at the purred question from the flight attendant. Her name tag says her name is Janet. Her green eyes remind me of a house cat with the way they tip at the corners. I suddenly feel like a field mouse on the menu for dinner.
“I would. Thank you, Janet.” I accept the offered glass with a smile but do a double take at the napkin. She’s written her phone number on it. When she comes to collect my empty glass, she sees the soiled napkin stuffed in the glass and raises a questioning glance at me. I allow a slight smile to touch my lips and turn my gaze back to my phone, where I’ve pulled up a picture of me and Daphne smiling, riding Wildwood’s Ferris wheel with the sun glinting off the Atlantic in the background.
She gets the hint and moves on.
I’m relieved when my flight lands in Philadelphia. I’m one step closer to seeing Daphne, and we’re finally on the same continent again. I grab an Uber to take me to my parents’ home over the river in New Jersey. As we cross the Walt Whitman Bridge, I check my phone to see what new emails I have and if Daphne texted. She hasn’t.
I texted Mom before I boarded my flight to let her know about my travel plans. After that one time we have all tacitly agreed to forget, I’ve learned the wisdom of letting my parents know when I’m coming by. With my younger brother Andy away at school, they like to take advantage of being empty nesters, and it’s better for everyone to give notice of a visit. It’s about half past seven when I let myself in the front door.
Dad calls from the kitchen, “Logan, right on time! We were getting ready to sit down for dinner, and now you can join us.”
I inhale deeply. Sauce and garlic bread. Hot damn. It’s pasta night. My mouth waters, and my stomach rumbles.
I drop my bags in the living room and wander back toward the kitchen and dining room. My mom is setting a third place at the table, knowing my inability to resist Dad’s spaghetti sauce. For not having a drop of Italian blood in him, the man can do incredible things with tomatoes and garlic and whatever else he puts in there. If Dad ever gave up practicing law—he’s an actual legaleaglebecause he’s an eagle shifter like I am—he could make a killing with this sauce. I’ve asked him what his secret is, and he just winks. Winks! Those who know staid and serious Michael Morris in the office or the boardroom would be shocked to know marinara sauce moves him to winking.
They’d piss themselves laughing if they heard him giggle when Mom sidles up and says, “It’s the love,” in an almost sultry purr while pinching his ass.
I do not want to know the secret ingredient that badly. Seriously. I’ll stick with the jarred stuff for my cooking.
“So, what brings you home, honey?” Mom asks, passing the basket filled with warm Italian bread.
“Would you believe a craving for Dad’s sauce and your smile?”
Dad chuckles. “He got your nose, Holly, and my gift for bullshit. Nice try, Logan. Really, why are you home? Not that you aren’t welcome. It’s just a surprise.”
I sigh, knowing it’s best to just tell the truth. They’ll get it out of me eventually. I don’t know if it’s the years of legal experience, parental intuition, shifter instinct, or that I suck at lying, but I’ve discovered it’s less painful to tell them what they want to know—within reason—than to be evasive.
Here goes nothing. “I’ve come home to surprise Daphne and ask her to run away with me.” I immediately stuff a large bite of bread in my mouth so I don’t have to say anything more. I’ve already said too much.
My parents peer at each other. Pretty sure they’re trying to decide whether I’m joking or if I’m serious. Fingers crossed, they go with joking. I don’t think I’m going to be that lucky.
“Daphne Foster?” Dad queries. “Your friend from college that works for Morgan Development?”
Like we know a dozen Daphnes. “Yes, Dad, that Daphne.”
We continue to eat in silence.
Now it’s Mom’s turn. “She’s a nice girl.”
More silence.
I can tell they’re waiting for me to say more. It’s killing them to wait me out. I take a sip of water. I rejected Mom’s offer of wine since I already had two whiskeys on the flight. I need to keep a clear head for this conversation. I pick my fork up, twirling the linguine strands lazily.
Dad breaks first. “When you say, ‘run away with you,’ what do you mean?”
I eat my forkful of delicious pasta. “What it sounds like. I’m going to ask Daphne to travel with me. She’s always wanted to travel. Her dream was to be a tour guide, see the world and share it with people.”
“So why isn’t she doing that?” Dad, asking the hard-hitting questions.
I sigh. “I told you, her parents died when she was in high school.”
