Page 2 of It Started with a Kiss
My dad’s parents were Spanish but my dad was born in the US. My mom was born in Scotland, like her own parents, but they moved to the US when my mom was tiny for Grandpa Gordon’s work. When my Grandma and Grandpa returned home to Scotland my newly married folks went to live there for six months, and I was born while they were there. My Grandpa called me his little Star and the name apparently stuck. I remember nothing at all of my brief time as a UK citizen as Mom and Dad moved back to the US soon after I came into the world. Why am I telling you this? Simply because it explains the origins of my fascination with all things Scottish.
I grew up in Fort Wayne, Indiana—Midwest USA—But after my grandpa Gordon passed away when I was eight we visited my grandma Agnes, aka Aggie, in Edinburgh to attend the funeral. Being there again, in the place I was born, did something to me. Something fundamental. And even back then at my tender age I decided I’d return again someday.
It wasn’t that I hated my hometown or anything like that. It was simply that Scotland, Edinburgh in particular, had a kind of pull for me. We had this mystical fairy-tale connection you read about in books, and once it took hold it wouldn’t let me go. I read every story I could find that was set in Scotland, from Walter Scott novels to the poems of Robert Burns. I learned all about the heartrending story of a little dog called Greyfriars’s Bobby and how he had a monument by the cemetery he was known to stay by and guard the grave of his owner.
Of all the stories that gripped me, it was Muriel Spark’sThe Prime of Miss Jean Brodiethat didn’t let me go. Set in Edinburgh and with a strong-willed female at the heart of it, the booksparkedsomething inside of me, and that was it. I was hooked. Edinburgh became even more dear to my heart as it jumped from the pages of the book in the full technicolour of my imagination. I had begun saving when I was ten years old, but in my teens, Miss Brodie captured my soul and determined my ultimate destination.
I had a small selection of good friends at school, but I wasn’t what you could call one of the popular kids. I was the one who shopped at the thrift store by choice and liked to experiment with bizarre fashion. From a very young age, I decided I wanted to have my ownidentity. I didn’t want to be a carbon copy of anyone else. I added my own personality to whatever I wore, and some kids at school either ignored me or made fun of me for not being ‘normal’—but what’s normal, right? And why strive to be anything other than your true self?
Only, for some bizarre reason, I seemed to be drawn to guys who were the total opposite of me, and those relationships always ended badly. My first real heartbreak came during my final semester. Sully was a handsome, ball-playing, popular guy who needed extra credit towards his football scholarship. Someone in the higher echelons of the school decided thatIwould be the perfect person to help him achieve that goal.
Without going into all the gory details—I mean, we all know howPretty in PinkandSome Kind of Wonderfulgo, right? Let’s just say I fell. Hard. And all the time I was tutoring Sully, he acted like he adored me too. But of course, once my usefulness had expired, I received a letter from him telling me we were from totally different worlds, and that while my quirkiness was sweet and endearing, it just didn’t fit him and his future. He hoped I would find someone better suited to my ‘style’ and that now he was going off to college it would be best if we remembered the good times with fondness. He didn’t even have the decency to speak to me face to face. Idiot. Suffice it to say, I was dropped from my place on Cloud Nine and hit the ground of reality with a huge resounding thud, my heart less than intact, and the ability to even consider trusting another guy was something I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
While I was at college my need to return to Edinburgh grew. I studied art and became obsessed with the paintings of Scottish greats like Samuel Peploe, Henry Raeburn and the works of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I loved the vibrant colours, the emotion-filled expressions of the subjects and the delicate designs, but mostly I loved how differently each artist had approached their chosen medium. My chosen medium was photography but I used elements and ideas from each of my favourite artists to guide my creativity.
When my time at college was coming to an end, with the blessing of my parents, I set the wheels in motion for my relocation to the UK. I renewed my passport and confirmed that my dual nationality would allow me to live in Edinburgh with my Grandma Aggie and to work. Then, after my parents and I had attended my graduation ceremony my mom and dad handed me an envelope that contained a plane ticket to Edinburgh, UK. I think I screamed with glee for a half hour solid. I just couldn’t wait to get on that jet, head over the Atlantic and put Sully, heartbreak, and all that painful part of growing up way behind me.
I arrived in the UK around three years ago, aged twenty-two. It was my intention to take a year out before deciding what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, but when I discovered Edinburgh—I meanreallydiscovered it—with its intricate stone architecture, peaceful cemeteries, and lofty castle, I decided I was home. I know that sounds crazy, but I just fell in love with the place, the people, the accents, and the atmosphere. You name it—I loved it. My grandma spoiled me rotten for the first year and a half I was here and I loved spending time with her. But as she got older I felt bad for being an extra burden. I managed to find work in a city centre coffee house and a room in a gorgeous apartment close to the town centre, and I moved out. But obviously I visited her every other day and spoke to her sometimes twice a day.
Back then, my camera accompanied me everywhere. You could say I was a little snap happy, but I’ve always been the same. And although I wasn’t exactly rolling in cash or living in Edinburgh Castle, I had a roof and a wage, and that was enough for this uncomplicated, Midwestern girl. My parents were great about the whole thing. They’re so supportive, know I can be trusted, and they always say that so long as I’m happy, and I stay in touch regularly, they don’t mind what I’m doing. I really do miss them but we video call all the time and they’ve visited since I moved here. And of course they know the place so they totally get why I love it here so much.
The apartment in which I rented a room was really sweet. My roommate/landlord told me it was Victorian; it had high ceilings and lots of original features. I loved the fireplace, even though it only had pillar candles in it. The guy who owned it,andthe coffee shop, was Alec McVey. He was just great; gay, and thebestperson to shop with. We had tons of fun, and he’s still a great friend after all these years. The best. So, all in all, I landed on my feet and things were going really well for me.
The coffee house—very originally calledMcVey’s—is in the main shopping area of the city, just off Princes Street. Every day, on my way there, I walked past the Scott monument with Sir Walter sitting there on his stone precipice. I’d usually say good morning to him and give him a salute, which got me some bizarre looks from people, but I didn’t care. I got bizarre looks most days anyway. Let’s just say I’m a... um...colourfulcharacter. I still love my brightly colouredboho chicclothing, and absolutely adore a thrift store, or rathercharity shop. Add to this that my blonde hair spends very little time in its natural state and you’ll get why some people balk at my appearance. But I’m an artist and I love to express myself through my appearance. I love to experiment with colour and have been known to have blue, red, and pink hair. Not all at once, though. Don’t get me wrong, I’m colourful, not insane.
My average day started at eight, when I usually opened the shop while Alec stayed home with the admin for a while. Well, he used that excuse, but the truth was he hated mornings. My first customers of the day were the folks on their way to work, grabbing their caffeine fix on the go. But my favourite customer, Mr McYummy, usually called in at around eight twenty-five. He was so shy, which, of course, I found endearing. I had to remind myself I was there to serve him coffee,notdrool and fawn all over him.
But boy, it was hard.
He was pretty much the opposite of me in every way. He was a tall, natural blonde and had the mostincredibleeyes I’d ever seen. I’m talking the brightest, most vivid blue. He worked out too. I could tell by the hang of his expensive suit. I guessed he was some high-flying executive on account of the briefcase he carried, but I had no clue where he worked. I kept thinking that one day I should stalk him to find out. But, of course, I didn’t. Like I said, I’mnotinsane.
He always smiled at me, and when he did, my belly did this funny flip.
Okay, so here’s how it usually went with him. I’ll call him MMY (Mr McYummy).
Me: Good morning, sir. What can I get you today?
MMY: (Blushing and soft spoken) Um, good morning. Um… can I get a latte with skimmed milk to take out, please? (Oh my God. I love his Scottish accent.)
Me: Sure you can, sir. (I’d go off and start the coffee machine) It’s a lovely/cold/horrible day out there today, huh? (Delete as applicable)
MMY: (Smiling briefly and blushing again) Yes, it really is lovely/cold/horrible.
Me: So, any exciting plans for this evening? (And no, I wasn’t asking him out. It was just small talk.)
MMY: (Shaking his head and smiling again... drool) Oh, no. Not really. Working late again. (Rolling his eyes)
Me: (Handing his coffee over) Well, don’t work too hard, huh? Here you go. Enjoy, and have a great day.
MMY: (Blushing again… so sweet) Th-thank you. You have a good day too.
Me: I’ll try. (But you’ve just made it a whole lot nicer)
And then he’d walk out and I’d sigh dreamily. Okay, so it was no dramatic love scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie, but as you can see, I had no clue how to get him to talk. He just went beet red whenever I tried, and I’m not exactly hard to talk to. I gave him opportunities, but it was my guess that maybe I was a little too quirky for him to take notice.
So, much to the dismay of my heart and my ovaries, I just continued to watch him and swoon from afar.
I told my grandma about him on one of my many visits. ‘Oh I do like a man in a suit.’ She said dreamily. ‘Your grandad used to wear one for his job when we met. I used to swoon whenever I saw him.’
