Chapter Two - Are We Nearly There Yet?

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 where 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 things 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 E-Bay the other week.

Mum began rhyming things off, using her fingers to mentally count on. "Let's see, you've got your money, your suitcases are packed. 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 everything then. Oh, wait. Here, I bought you some magazines to read on the plane." She remembered, fishing them out of a carrier bag.

"Thanks, Mum. I completely forgot about getting any of 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 OK out there on your own, won't you?" Tears began to well up in her hazel eyes.

"Mum, I'll be fine. Even if I have to communicate via smoke signal, you will be hearing from me one way or the other," I comforted. "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 that I can get from A to B. I won't be destitute," I assured her, seeing her frown lines begin to relax.

"Well, make sure you do 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 then turned to bid my parents an emotional farewell.

Reality had started to kick in by this point and it took everything I had not to fling my arms around my dad's neck and beg him to take me home.

"Dad, Mum, I'm really going to miss you," I sobbed.

Dad's eyes reddened as he fought back the tears. Mum's face already had tear tracks running freely down both cheeks.

"Oh, my baby... My only baby." Her shoulders bounced as she sobbed 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 turn around to give a final wave, I notice them clutching 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 sombre wave.

Part of me welcomed the adventure and part of me wanted to remain rooted in London. The moment that I stepped foot on the plane, I had a sudden feeling that my life was going to change forever.

***

As soon as the landing gear hit the tarmac, I felt my arse cheeks unclench. It felt good to finally be back on the ground again in what felt like forever.

Once we were able to vacate our seats, I scrambled to retrieve my belongings from the overhead compartment. My plan was to make a run for the baggage conveyor before anybody else could get there. I hated to live up to an old British stereotype, similar to a German tourist getting up at the crack of dawn to claim dibs on a sun lounger, but I was hoping to avoid the stampede of passengers and forgo waiting in line.

Like a bull in a China shop, I was the first to arrive at the luggage conveyor, smug as fuck. I waited and waited. Then as the cases began to emerge, my luggage seemed to pop through the flaps, sporadically. The longer I had to wait, the more agitated I became. An hour later, I snatched up my last piece of luggage and then proceeded to push my loaded trolley through the deserted arrivals area.

There was barely anyone left in the arrival 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 with my name scribbled onto it. I couldn't tell if his hair was slickened flat with gel or whether it was greasy because the light just seemed to bounce off all the moisture. The tweed suit jacket that he had teamed with an oxford shirt, jeans and Converse made it look as if he couldn't make up his mind between dressing like a professor or a student. He gave a surprised double-take as he noticed me approaching.

"Hi, you must be Isobelle?" He greeted, in 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 some kind of 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.

Was he a student or was he one of the university professors?

I couldn'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?" Peter narrowed his eyes in a cheeky analysis. It didn't seem seedy, and he certainly didn't mean to intimidate. If anything, it was a clumsy attempt at making chit-chat.

"You're going to need to be careful. The boys will be tripping over their own 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 trolley out into the open-air and over to where a blacked-out SUV was parked, then Peter helped me to load all of my luggage onto the backseats. He jogged past me to open the passenger-side door, proving that chivalry wasn't dead. I was surprised by the polite gesture and flashed a thankful smile as I slid onto the cool leather seat.

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 flowed steadily, and we never ran out of things to talk about. I discovered that his age exceeded the mid-twenty benchmark and that he was actually in his mid-thirties, unmarried, has a short-haired chihuahua called Derick. He was single and was currently living with his grandmother.

"How long is the drive to Hawcroft?" I inquired, hoping that it wasn't far.

I was feeling rather jet-lagged and groggy by this point, and all I wanted was to brush my teeth and to 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 travelling through woodland, and those roads aren't well lit," he explained.

My facial expression sank with fatigue.

"Uh," I groaned.

"There aren't any road signs for Forest Lake, so you'd never find the way unless you knew where to go. The guest house is right on the outskirts of the forest. The owners are called Helen and Sam Evans and have two little kids. They're lovely people. Also, I took the liberty of delivering the equipment to your room," he mentioned, trying to put my mind at ease.

"I'm grateful that I don't have to make my own way there. I could sleep for a week," I replied.

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. Peter pulled the handbrake on the car, jolting me awake.

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