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chapter one
Boyd
“Paging Boyd Mitchell. Passenger Boyd Mitchell, please see the closest Summit attendant. Thank you.”
The sound of my name over the intercom pulls my eyes from where they’ve been focused on my phone, my attention briefly drawn away from the work that dominates my focus at all hours.
I quickly scan the crowded seating area at Gate C21, taking in the host of cranky, agitated passengers waiting to board the flight, as if one of them might be able to confirm that I did, in fact, hear my name announced throughout the terminal.
I don’t know why I do that, especially considering the fact that I’m usually traveling alone, but coming from a family as large as mine, one that is always in my business and full of a bunch of know-it-alls, I can’t help but believe I’m never alone, no matter how much I wish it were so.
Grabbing my carry-on and tucking my jacket into the crook of my arm, I carefully make my way through the extended legs and belongings of my fellow travelers.
Boston Logan International Airport is always a busy place, but today it seems especially so with families and groups trying to squeeze in last-minute summer vacations before the weather on the east coast begins to turn crisp and school starts back up.
It’s the reason I’m traveling today as well, even though I don’t really have the time to take off from work to spend two weeks in Cedar Point.
But it’s tradition, and my mother would absolutely pitch a fit if I were the one Mitchell child who bucked the tradition I had such a large hand in creating.
The last two weeks of August are officially Mitchell family time, and the idea that this two weeks on the calendar could belong to anyone or anything else is unjustifiable, work be damned.
It started when I left for college then continued when my sister Briar followed a year later. Originally, it was just a chance for us to catch up and reconnect with our family after long, boring summer jobs before starting school again.
My parents took that idea and cemented it into stone, turning those two weeks every summer into a non-negotiable family exclusive. Work doesn’t matter. Significant others don’t matter. Everything in life gets planned around those two weeks. Period.
A few times, my mom has even turned the end of August into a family reunion of sorts, inviting aunts and uncles and cousins back to the very town that grew them, our lakefront home and guesthouse turning into a glorified hostel with air mattresses galore and family members sleeping on couches.
I resent the obligation every year, wishing I were somehow brave enough to tell my mother I simply cannot take off of work this year, bold enough to tell her my employers are unwilling to be flexible.
But I don’t think any of us Mitchell kids have ever had the heart—or the balls—to break free from what’s expected, or to let down my mother.
“Boyd Mitchell,” I say when one of the Summit Airlines attendants finally nods me over to the counter. “I was called up just a minute ago.”
Her head bobs once but her eyes never leave the screen in front of her as she types furiously. She must be writing a dissertation, because I can’t imagine any airline computer program needing as much information as she’s providing.
“Can I see some identification?”
I slide my driver’s license forward, having already had it in my hand. The woman in front of me—Kimmy, her nametag says—takes a look at it, looks at me, and looks back at the ID before returning it.
Seems I’ve passed the test.
Suddenly, a wide and completely disingenuous smile covers her face. I almost want to ask her to go back to ignoring me.
“You’ve been upgraded to first class, Mr. Mitchell. Let me just print you up a new boarding pass and we’ll get you all settled.”
I usually hate flying Summit. It’s the airline my job partners with, and I have to fly regularly for work. It does come with some nice perks like getting upgraded here and there, but the number of times my flight has been canceled or delayed due to mechanical issues is ridiculous.
I always wonder if I’m actually going to get to travel when I arrive at the airport, or if I’m going to be hanging out in the terminal for hours while I get booked on a new flight.
Most of my travel for work keeps me moving on short-leg flights around New England and the east coast, an hour here, two hours there, so when I’m stuffed into an economy seat, I don’t stress over it. My flight to the west coast this morning, however, is an almost-7-hour doozy, so this upgrade couldn’t have come at a more perfect moment. I can feel my broad shoulders and long legs silently thanking the upgrade gods for their gift.
As Kimmy makes the necessary adjustments, I turn and take another look around the gate.
City life is perfect for me. I’m an eyes down, nose to the grind kind of guy, and I don’t make it a habit to pay attention to what is going on around me.
Having grown up in a small town, I know what it’s like to have people paying attention to my every move at all hours of the day, and I remember what it was like to wish those eyes weren’t watching and setting town tongues wagging. In Boston, if you give someone a little too much eye contact in a public space, you’re likely to get a stream of foul language shouted in your face. You’re supposed to keep your gaze down and stay out of other people’s business.
Like I said, it’s perfect for me.
