Bright Midnight: A Second-Chance Romance
Date: 2021-05-04 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: M F Romance; Adult; Fiction; Romance; Contemporary Romance; Contemporary; New Adult; Travel
Description: From the New York Times bestselling author of Where Sea Meets Sky and Racing the Sun comes a wildly romantic STANDALONE about a young American abroad in Norway who runs into the man who broke her heart eight years ago. After years of bartending her way across Europe, Shay Lavji has seen almost everything the continent has to offer, but there's one country she hasn't crossed off her bucket list yet: Norway. It's not that she doesn't want to visit the land of the midnight sun-far from it; she's obsessed with the culture and is dying to see the majestic fjords for herself. What she's not dying to
Publisher: Independently published

Bright Midnight

Karina Halle

Copyright © 2021 by Karina Halle

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Design: Hang Le Designs

Edited by: Laura Helseth

Contents

Adrift

Prologue

1. Shay

2. Shay

3. Anders

4. Shay

5. Shay

6. Shay

7. Shay

8. Anders

9. Shay

10. Shay

11. Shay

12. Anders

13. Shay

14. Shay

15. Anders

16. Shay

17. Anders

18. Shay

19. Anders

20. Shay

Epilogue

The Wild Heir

About the Author

Also by Karina Halle

For Scott

Laura

And For My Norwegian Family

I think we missed our turn

Back it up

You think I'd learn

“Aqualung” - Morcheeba

Adrift

By Anders Johansen

Adrift

I look to the sea.

waves glinting like glass
sharp enough to silence
the emptiest cries.

my cries.

swallowed
to a darkness like the hell
from which they came
the hell
that she brings me
the hell that made me love her
the hell that love creates.

this sea, she sees
but doesn’t know.

or maybe she does.

maybe that’s the joke.

that we will die here
together
the sea
and me.

and then there is the water,
in which we drift.

right now.

who doesn’t care about us.

doesn’t care about unrequited love
or burning hearts
or her very heart
that drowns me.

just the empty years
after being saved.

Prologue

Anders

THEN- Eight Years Ago

“Are you lost?”

When am I not, I think to myself. I’m in no hurry to turn around and find out who’s asking the question. I’m in no hurry to do anything, including figuring out where I am.

Lost.

Who isn’t?

The female voice doesn’t come again, though I can sense her presence behind me, like she’s waiting for an answer. She doesn’t realize she’s not going to get one. If she did, it would insinuate I need help.

I don’t.

Finally.

I look down at the schedule in my hands and the shitty map that the principal gave me. I crumple up the map, drop it on the ground, and kick it. It skitters down the empty hallway, past lockers and water fountains and the horrible beige paint that’s piled on the walls. Americans don’t know anything about color.

I breathe in through my nose and contemplate walking forward, ignoring the voice, and skipping this next class, this first class here at Westminster High School. Or I can turn around and stop.

Find my way.

I turn around and see the girl.

This is it, I think, standing, blinking at her. She was no one to me before, just a voice, but now she’s her.

She’s beautiful. But that word seems too plain, too common, a word you use to describe a sunset or a waxed, classic car gliding slowly down the street.

This girl is beyond beautiful. She’s a mix of faults that all combined until she’s something right. A bump on her nose. Acne scars at her chin, covered with makeup that’s a shade too light. Her eyebrows might cost her some friends. But her body is ripe, like a peach, soft and more womanly than anyone in high school should be. Her skin is soft brown. Her hair hangs around her like a shield; I wonder if she hides behind it. And her eyes…warm, mahogany honey…her eyes are what cause me to just stop and stare and wonder why I didn’t turn around earlier. They burn. They scream. They yearn. She has eyes that are already asking me to take her far away and never look back.

I already love her eyes.

I want them to love me too.

I clear my throat, because I can’t take her anywhere unless I speak. The English that usually comes so naturally to me is scrambled and it takes a moment for me to put it together.

“I am looking for Mrs. Chaffey,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen as she hears my accent. I’m not just a boy, I’m a foreigner. Maybe I can’t take her anywhere. Or maybe I can take her too far.

“Mrs. Chaffey?” she repeats. “Do you have Spanish with her?”

I nod. “I was supposed to be there five minutes ago.”

“So was I,” she says with a devious slant to her smile, the kind that tells me we are both the same, or at least she wants me to think so. “Follow me,” she adds, walking past me, her head held high, her eyes glancing me over like I’m a secret. But her words warble, her tone shaky, as if she’s being brave for the first time today.

“You’re in twelfth grade?” I ask, falling in line beside her.

“Yup, a senior,” she says, brushing her hair behind her ear and looking away, her smile now more shy than before. Maybe because I’m walking close, so close I can smell her. A fruity perfume. It reminds me of summers in Todalen, the apple trees by the house, sunshine and fresh air and reading a tattered copy of Huckleberry Finn. The past smells great on her.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

“Norway,” I tell her, observing her closely. The way people handle that information always tells me so much about them.

She nods, looping her thumbs around the straps of her leather backpack. “Cool. Europe.”

“You ever been? To Europe?”

She shakes her head and her earrings, gold stars, catch the faint light streaming in through the windows. She has small ears. I wonder if she likes to have loaded words whispered in them. Point blank.

“No,” she says. “But one day. I really want to go. Maybe next summer after I graduate. Or maybe in college. I need to save a lot of money though. Which means I need a job. But it’s hard to get part-time work and I hear this year will kick our ass anyway, so I guess I won’t be going anywhere until college. I have been to India though, a few times, so that’s something. Right?”

She’s rambling. It’s cute. I might just make her nervous.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Shay,” she says. “Shay Lavji.”

I don’t offer my hand. I was taught to do that, but it doesn’t seem right, not as the two of us walk down the hallways. Instead, I smile. “I’m Anders.”

“Anders. Cool,” she says again. It does sound cool when she says it.

She points at a closed door. “This is Mrs. Chaffey’s,” she says. “She’s not even Spanish, it’s so lame. You missed the first class, didn’t you?” I nod. “Well, anyway, don’t worry. She’s tough but she’s a lot nicer to boys than she is to girls.”

Shay opens the door and we go from our own private little world in the hallway to a classroom filled with tired, wired eyes, all staring at me.

They are strangers. I am stranger. My hair is long, my face scruffy, like some dog on the street. I wear mostly black. I have a lot of tattoos and I plan to have more. I look different, am different.

And this suits me just fine.

They put me in a role and I will play the part.

If they want me to be bad, then I will be worse.

I don’t even look at the teacher. It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.

All that matters is the girl with the yearning eyes and the shy smile and the small ears.

As I find an empty seat at the back of the classroom, I know that by the end of the week, I will be whispering in those ears, I will be telling her things she wants to hear, promises I may not be able to keep. I will be her savior.

And she will be mine.

1

Shay

Present Day

My face is inches away from a flaccid penis and saggy pair of balls, the rain from earlier still glistening on the carved folds.

As if my day couldn’t get any weirder.

“Balls!” Michelle shouts out before erupting into rapid-fire giggles, and I spot her peeking at me from the other side of the hanging appendages. I’m tempted to take a picture for extra giggles, but taking a photo of a child framed by male anatomy is probably all kinds of wrong.

Of course, it helps that this is a statue, expertly sculpted out of granite by the renowned artist Gustav Vigeland and these remarkably realistic—and huge—statues are spread out along the middle of Oslo’s Frogner Park. Young and old men, women, children—everywhere you turn there’s a carved stone face staring at you in awe, boredom, or contempt.

Or, you know, a penis and a pair of hefty balls.

Aware that I’m leaning a bit too close to the statue for comfort, I step back and pretend to look elsewhere. I can feel the studious granite eyes of the statue watching me, maybe waiting for me to pay him a compliment over his junk.

“Michelle, come over here,” Michelle’s mother yells at her, waving at her to follow them down the steps and into the rest of the park, which looks dull under the oppressive grey skies. Michelle grins at me, half her face obscured by the blue hood of her raincoat, and I count two missing teeth. I’ve always been pretty bad with kids’ ages, but I’m guessing she’s around six or seven years old.

She runs over to her mother and the mom—again I’m forgetting her name—gives me a wary half-smile. She’s not sure what to do with me. Neither am I, to be honest, but here I am in naked people statue park, in the capital of Norway, with a family I don’t even know.

Yeah. So I’ve been having a rough couple of days. I’ll try not to bore you with the details, but hear me out first, and then I’ll get to the part why I’m tagging along in a foreign city with strangers.

For various reasons (okay, one reason, and I’ll get to that later), since I was a teenager I’ve been obsessed with the country of Norway. Maybe most sixteen-year-olds pine for Kpop stars, but I was researching Norway, learning about their food, culture, landscape (and then the show Vikings came around, oh Ragnar) and dreaming one day I would visit the country myself. I even tried to take out some “Learn Norwegian” audio books from the library, but I gave up on those after a few days.

It wasn’t until I decided to go to Europe with my then-boyfriend Danny that visiting Norway became a distinct possibility. The only problem at the time was that Danny had zero interest in Scandinavia and wanted to stay as close to the sunshine of the Mediterranean as possible, which is why we hunkered down on the gorgeous, magical island of Capri, in Italy.

To be honest, at first I wasn’t even all that sold on Europe in general. The year before I had just graduated college and was looking to find some kind of normalcy in my life, and in my head I thought that meant that Danny and I would go back to sharing an apartment in Brooklyn (depending on the job situation, I mean I’m a millennial and that whole situation is pretty bleak). Regardless, I thought that would be the start of the life I’d always craved and needed.

But Danny decided on Europe, and I wasn’t about to let him go without me. We saved up. We stayed in Capri for months. Made friends, got jobs bartending and getting paid under the table, lived la dolce vita.

And then…

He dumped me. Suddenly the whole “let’s go to Europe and have fun” decision from him became less about us having a new experience together, and more about him not wanting to settle down and commit. Suddenly it all made sense.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I mean, I knew our relationship wasn’t perfect—I knew that over the months things between Danny and I had been strained, I had that niggling feeling at the back of my head that things weren’t quite right. It often came at me late at night when he was sleeping beside me. I loved him but…was this it? I had experienced butterflies and fireworks once upon a time—was that a thing of the past? Was it just going to be like this between him and I forever?

Naturally, the beauty of Capri was an easy distraction and I buried those feelings away, until he broke up with me. I can’t say I’m crying over it anymore—it’s been over four months since I left Capri and he went back to New York—but that doesn’t mean I’m quite right yet. My heart, and my pride, has been in repairing mode ever since. This kind of breakup is like when you drop your smartphone on the ground—the screen might be cracked and hard to see, but you can still use the damn thing.

So, with Danny out of the picture, I’m on my own. Alone. This is Shay Lavji’s default mode, how I’m used to operating, and I’m choosing to see the bright side. Which is, mainly, now I’m free to go where I want, see what I want, and there isn’t a single person or thing out there that I’m responsible for.

I sigh as the rain starts to fall again, a drop here and there rippling across puddles beneath the statues. Even though I’m free as a bird, I can’t ignore the creeping realization of how incredibly lonely it can be when you don’t have someone to write home to.

Which is probably why I did something kind of crazy this morning.

“Shay,” Michelle cries out in her sing-song voice. “Are you coming?”

I smile and nod, noticing the mom giving me a look of pity before I walk after them, the father and the son, Stuart, already at the bottom of the stairs waiting for us.

This is the Wright family, from Birmingham, England. I met them this morning when I was having breakfast in the hotel’s breakfast room, mowing down on a typical Norwegian food (one that the hotel touted as “the best breakfast in Oslo” but being new to the country and city and having never had a Norwegian breakfast before, I can’t quite attest to that. I’m not sure if the best breakfasts have more smoked, dried, or pickled fish or less smoked, dried, or picked fish).

Anyway, this morning I woke up in kind of a funk. Yesterday I arrived in Oslo only to find the city cold, wet, and miserable. Unlike Ireland, where I’d just spent three months working at an inn in a small town, the people here didn’t smile, didn’t meet your eyes. Even during the nastiest gale blowing through the land, the Irish always found an excuse to keep that twinkle in their eyes.

This didn’t exactly start my experience in Norway off on the right foot. Maybe because I had too many hopes and expectations—this was my dream country after all—but I was left feeling a bit disappointed. I traversed the streets trying to capture images for my travel Instagram account, yet ended up back at the hotel soaked to the bone and lonely. Even a long Facetime chat with my friend Amber back in Capri didn’t lift my spirits, and there’s nothing like a hotel room to make you realize how alone and unmoored you really are.

So, while balancing layers of smoked salmon and cucumber on top of teeth-breaking crisp bread this morning, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on the family next to me, chatting in their lilting British accents about their plans for the day. First, they were going to check out the Viking Museum, then Frogner Park, then make their way down to the royal palace to ooh and ahh over the guards and all that fancy shit.

And then I did something I never expected.

I leaned over, smiled with a mouth full of salmon goodness and asked, “Can I come too?”

The mom stared at me like I was crazy—because obviously I fucking am—and exchanged a worried look with her husband. No doubt she’d heard some weird horror stories over the years about deranged solo tourists. But Michelle said, “Sure you can! What’s your name?” and when I introduced myself as Shay, her brother, a few years older, said, “Don’t you have any family?”

I smiled through that one, even though it hurt like hell. “Of course I do. But I’m in Norway alone and could use the company.” I glanced at the parents. “Feel free to tell me no, I know this is a weird proposition. I just got in to Oslo yesterday and, so far, I’m not all that impressed. Maybe seeing it all through your eyes would help.”

The mom mulled that over for a while before the dad spoke up. “You’re more than welcome to join us, Shay.”

And that was that. So, together, we’ve seen the Viking Museum this morning, which was a nice respite from the rain and I got to show off my geography skills by telling them about the various Viking ships and the history of the people (which I hobbled together from actual textbooks, Lonely Planet, and binge-watching Vikings), and then we took the tram and walked a bit to Frogner Park and the Vigeland Sculpture Park in the middle of it all.

On a nice summer day, this place must be nothing short of amazing. But it’s late April here and not only do we have gloomy weather to contend with, but the buds are barely appearing on the trees and though the air smells sweet, there’s enough chill in it to seep into your bones.

You’d think I’d be used to this weather since I just spent so much time in Ireland, but there was something about that place that made it all more bearable. I think it was Mumsy, the innkeeper whom I was helping out, and the townsfolk that I got to know. Even Capri would have some dark and quiet days in the fall but, being around friends and keeping busy with work, I never paid it any attention.

Needless to say, it threw me off guard. For all that I’d been looking forward to with Norway, I felt personally offended that the country didn’t bring out the smiles and sunshine just for me. Kind of nuts to think that, I know, but then again I’m tagging along with a British family I don’t know, so what do you expect?

I head down the steps, taking in the fresh scent of the rain and trying to find the positive. I’ve decided to spend another day in Oslo, but then I’m hoping on a train and heading up north, where I really want to go.

My heart starts to thud at the thought, an uneasiness running through me. So far I have plans for the train to take me to Trondheim, then I might go up north to Tromso in the Arctic Circle before heading back down the coast, maybe taking the ferry along the fjords. There’s a million different places to explore in this tall, narrow country, and yet the fact that I’m going to Trondheim puts me a bit on edge.

Trondheim is supposed to be just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Anders Johansen, the reason I became so obsessed with Norway to begin with.

“You up for seeing the royal palace, Shay?” the dad inquiries as I approach them, making the thought of Anders vanish from my mind. “You’re not cold?”

I shake my head and give them all my most placating smile. “Not at all. The palace sounds wonderful.” I smile at Michelle. “I’ve always wanted to see a princess, haven’t you?”

“We’ve seen the Duchess of Cambridge drive past us in their car,” Stuart says, sounding both bored and proud. “She had her finger up her nose.”

“Stuart,” his mom quickly admonishes him, while the dad tries to bite back a laugh. “We don’t talk about Kate Middleton that way.”

“Well,” I say to them, “I’ve read that the princess of Sweden was a commoner when she first met the prince.”

“Like you and me?” Michelle asks. “Ordinary people?”

“That’s right. Which means it’s possible for any girl to become a princess if she wishes.”

“It means you have to live with a boy though,” Stuart says smartly. “That isn’t me. He’d probably be worse than me.”

Michelle draws her lip between her teeth and seems to think it over. “I don’t know. I bet I could find out a way to be a princess without having to live with any boys.”

I grin at her parents. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

“Yeah, hope she keeps it that way,” her father says, as we head off out of the park.

The rest of the day goes fairly well. We find our way to the palace, which is perched at the end of Oslo’s most iconic streets, presiding over it like a giant wedding cake, and watch the guards do their serious strutting while Stuart does some pretty funny commentary over it. Seems all Brits are born with the best sense of humor.

Our hotel is near the palace, so we end up parting ways afterward, with me giving the family my email and Instagram name in case they want to keep in touch. Even though it was a bit awkward at times having spent the day with this family—and I’m pretty sure I’ve given them an experience they’ll remember, if not rather forget—as I walk back alone, I’m hit with a pang of sadness. It’s the same feeling that I got last night, after I Facetimed with Amber and texted my sister, the realization that even though I want to be here, everyone I’m close to is a million miles away.

And the one person that I might know here is someone I never wanted to see again.

To quell the loneliness and take advantage of the calm weather, I make my way through fairy-tale like streets with swarming restaurants and boutiques begging to be shopped, taking artsy shot after artsy shot for my Instagram, hoping it will quiet this feeling. I duck into a warm-looking coffee shop, a cup of Joe the only thing remotely affordable in this city, and bring out my Kindle, flipping through to my Lonely Planet guide to Norway. The comforting smells of ground coffee and cardamom-glazed pastries permeate the air and I gather up the courage to book the train to Trondheim.

I drink my coffee slowly as I try and come up with a game plan. I take out my journal from my purse and spread it out on the gnarled wooden table and make a list of places I want to see, things I want to do. I have three months here if I want to use them, but, just in case, I plan for only one month. The country is going to rob my finances faster than I thought and I don’t think it’s easy to get a job without being a citizen.

Then, of course, there’s the question of “what happens after that?” But I don’t want to let myself think that far ahead.

My life beyond this trip is one looming black hole.

The coffee shop is near closing—its grown quiet with only faint singer-songwriter music playing and a barista bent over, sweeping between empty tables—when I think I’ve figured out my travel plan. Since I actually do want to head up north and bask in the nights where the sun doesn’t set, I decide to leave tomorrow to take the train up to the city of Trondheim and figure out the best route to the Arctic Circle. I like Oslo enough, but that’s not why I came here. It’s better to start anew tomorrow.

Feeling better with a plan, I snap the journal shut and, using the free wi-fi, upload an earlier picture of my latte to Instagram, with the caption: Travel planning in an Oslo café. Decided to head up via train to Trondheim tomorrow. So far, Norway is everything I hoped it could be.

Of course, I made it sound like I was having a better time than I am, like I’ve found myself here. I mean, that’s kind of the point of social media sometimes, isn’t it? Burying your reality, post by post.

And even though I’ve tried my hardest not to think about him all day, on the walk back from the coffee shop to the hotel, through the dying light of a nine p.m. sunset, I can’t help it.

Anders creeps through my thoughts, like a ghost. I can still see him, smell him, like eight years ago was yesterday. It’s all emotion. That jolt. Those clammy-hands and speeding pulses and shivers that shake you to the core. It’s the emotions of my first love all wrapped up in one misleading, pathetic little package.

But Anders wasn’t just that first love for me, he was so much more. He was the one person who made me feel like I had a home, even though he was the foreigner in a strange land.

And it’s sad. So damn sad. Because, really, if I should be pining over anyone, it should be Danny. He’s the man I was traveling with, living with in Brooklyn, who stole my heart in college, who made me forget Anders and led me to believe that not all men are born to hurt you, that not all men will screw you over. Naturally, that was a lie. Danny was no better than Anders in the end, maybe a bit more honest, but he still left just the same.

“That’s what men do,” my mother once said. “They leave.” She was right about that and wrong about so much else.

By the time I get back to my hotel, the day has caught up with me and I’m exhausted. I climb into the cushy bed, bringing the covers over me to protect against the incessant air conditioning I can’t figure out how to turn off, and close my eyes to my second day in Norway.

Tomorrow I start again.

2

Shay

Then

“What do you think Jeremy Renshaw’s dick looks like?” Everly whispers.

I nearly spit out the mouthful of Sprite, my hands flying up to my lips. Good thing, because if one of the librarians saw I snuck a soft drink in here, she’d have my head. I don’t know why I’m always their number one target.

When my coughing fit gets under control, I give her a loaded look and whisper right back, “I thought you’d already seen his dick.” I pause, wagging my brows. “And then some.”

Everly rolls her eyes, but there’s that telltale flush on her cheeks. Maybe she hasn’t seen it, but she wants to. I know that much about her. She wants to see everyone’s dick.

Me, on the other hand? They scare the living pants off of me—and not in a good way. Plus, you know, there isn’t a single boy at this school that I’d be curious about.

Or there hadn’t been until recently.

Last year, when we were in eleventh grade, I’d had some fantasies about losing my virginity to Elliot Zane, who was a year older. But he’s since graduated and now I’ve got either the boys in my grade or the ones below. Everly says I can’t afford to be picky and she’s probably right, but even so.

“I heard that Jenny Bishop hooked up with him over the weekend,” Everly whispers, her eyes darting around her. It wouldn’t be the first time that we’ve talked about someone to find them standing behind us or within earshot. High school is just one big instance of people overhearing things.

I want to make a remark about Jenny Bishop hooking up with everyone, but decide it makes me look jealous and petty. This is something I’ve kept from Everly, even though she’s my best friend, but I’ve always been jealous of the girls who get around. The idea of sex just has me so uptight and nervous, I wish I could just sleep with whomever I wanted. But being naked, that intimate, with someone…I’m already feeling flushed, my hands clammy, just thinking about it.

And it’s not just the sex thing. I kind of wish people gossiped about me the way that Everly and I gossip about everyone else. Sounds stupid, I know—who in their right mind would want to be a part of the rumor mill? But sometimes I think I’m not in my right mind.

“Oh my god, there he is,” Everly says in a hush.

“Jeremy?” I ask, following her gaze to the entrance to the library.

But it’s not Jeremy at all.

It’s Anders. Anders Johansen, the foreign exchange student from Norway.

And my current obsession.

I try not to stare. It’s hard not to.

Anders just moved here a few weeks ago, making him now the second tallest guy in our grade (after Nick “Smu” Rodham, who plays on the basketball team). He’s got longish dark hair that curls a little at the nape of his neck, dark grey-blue eyes, and the facial hair that most guys our age would only dream about growing. Plus, he’s got the sexiest accent and tattoos. He’s the quintessential brooding bad boy, like Heathcliff was transported from the Wuthering Heights book we had to read last year and plunked down in our school, wandering the halls instead of the moors.

“He’s so hot,” Everly says dreamily. “Though also a little scary.”

“Scary?” I ask, watching as Anders stops in the middle of the library and looks around, one thumb hooked under the strap of his backpack, looking effortlessly cool. “Why, just because he wears all black?”

“Yeah,” she says breathlessly. “But it’s a good kind of scary.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” Everly may want to see everyone’s dick, but hearing her talk about Anders that way really gets my hackles raised.

I mean, I know I lay no claim to him. He talked to me in the halls one day and I was a goner after that. He has a way of staring at you so intensely that it makes you want to do the same to him. When he’s not looking of course. Over the last few weeks I’ve become really good at looking at him when he doesn’t know it.

Now, though, I’m failing.

Because he just looked our way.

And met my eyes.

Shit.

“Oh no!” I cry out, trying to hide behind the Sprite. “He just looked at me!”

“And now he’s walking over here,” Everly says, way too gleefully.

“What?!” My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. “No!” I look up and, fuck, yup, there he is, walking our way, a faint smirk on his lips. Shit, shit, shit!

“Hey Anders,” Everly says to him, smiling, and I’m wondering if I can hide under the table. What if I pretend I’ve dropped something and I’m looking for it? That could work. Maybe he’ll go away. Worth a shot.

I lean over, my hands on the dirty carpet, hoping he can’t see me.

“Hey Everly,” he says in his sexy accent, and I see his black Doc Martens stop right beside the table. “Is Shay around?”

Oh my god, he’s asking for me! He remembers my name!

And then my face goes beet red when I realize my back is probably still showing and he can very plainly see me. Well now what?

“Oh, Shay is around,” Everly says, and I feel her eyes on me. “She seems to be busy at the moment though.”

“That’s fine. I was wondering if you could pass on a message for me.”

Oh my god.

“Of course,” Everly says, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.

“I was wondering if she wanted to go out with me Friday night.”

“What?!” I exclaim, straightening up and bumping my head hard on the bottom of the table. Ow, fuck!

But the pain is short-lived because then I’m sticking my head up, my hair in my face, trying to appear as cool as a cucumber in front of him and failing wildly. He couldn’t have just said what I thought he said, could he?

Anders just grins at me. “Ah, there you are. I guess I can ask you myself. Are you free Friday night?”

I frantically brush my hair out of my face, trying to not look stupid and failing.

“Are you…asking me out on a date?” I can’t believe I just said that, but I have to be sure before I lose my shit.

“Sure, a date,” he says. “There’s a movie I want to see, Prometheus. Science fiction. The prequel to Alien. Michael Fassbender is in it, if that helps.”

I mean, yes it helps, but I’d be okay with watching Nic Cage too, as long as I was with Anders.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim. “I love sci-fi! And Alien. And movies. And—”

Everly raises her hand. “What she’s trying to say, is yes.”

I shoot her an appreciative glance because I know she saved me from telling Anders that I loved him too. My god, this boy is turning my brain to mush.

“Great,” Anders says, his smile making heart skip two beats at once. “I’ll add you to my Facebook, send you the details before then. This okay with you?”

I nod, way too enthusiastic.

Then he winks. He winks at me! Like he’s fucking James Dean or something, and then he turns and leaves the library.

I immediately collapse into my seat, hand at my chest, managing to look at Everly with wide eyes. “What the fuck just happened?”

Everly looks both shocked and amused, a smile twisting her lips. “I have no idea. But you lucky fucking bitch. He asked you out on a date. I thought you never talked to the guy!”

“Once,” I say, pointing my finger into the air. “I talked to him once. That was it. He’s in my classes but we don’t talk. I just stare at him. That’s all.”

“Well, I guess he wants you to stare at him at a closer distance. Holy shit, Shay. You’re going on a date with Anders.”

I’m going on a date with Anders!

3

Anders

Now

“Are you on Instagram?” Espen asks, peeking over my shoulder at my mobile phone.

I shrug him off, close the app, and slide the phone into my jeans. I give him a casual look. “Who isn’t?”

“Men. Men aren’t on Instagram,” he says, looking me up and down, as if he’s about to revoke my manhood. “Never trust a man who takes selfies.”

I grin at him. “I can get behind that theory,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. I actually don’t use my Instagram account, I just go on the app to watch a few accounts. Some might say “stalk” a few accounts, mainly one account, and I know that’s what Espen would say if I told him, so I leave it at that. He can think I take selfies all day long.

The fact is, when I’m with him, we’re working all day long. When we’re out at sea, we’re up at five a.m., and then settling down for cold cuts, soup and bread at eight p.m. Sometimes we sleep for only two hours at a time. It depends on the fish. There are no selfies, there is no downtime. It’s just driving the boat while Espen and deckhands put the nets in and haul the nets up. It’s cold, wet, dark, and brutal work.

But the end is always worth it. We’ve just come off a three-week trip in the North Sea and weighed in all the cod. Even though I sometimes (okay, often) wish I hadn’t taken over the family business for my father, it’s the big hauls and the even bigger paychecks that keep me going. That, and the fact that the family farm isn’t doing too well and if it wasn’t for me, my Uncle Per would be floundering even more so.

“Hey, take a selfie of this,” Espen says, holding up his paycheck and giving the thumbs up.

I smack him on his arm, though it does little to move the man. Espen could never be accused of being vain. He’s over six-foot-three with massive shoulders and an equally massive belly. His beard makes mine look like an amateur—it’s bordering on Gandalf—and the man snores and farts like an alcoholic horse.

“Come on,” he says, while we walk down the docks, “I’ll buy you a beer.”

That’s one thing he’s good for—buying enough beers once we reach land and drinking them until we think we’re still at sea. Of course, he’s also the best mate and fisherman one could have when you’re working through the wet and salt that sticks to your eyelashes, in your ears, living in your bones. The other crew come and go, a few of them friends from way back who come around when they need the money. Usually they have drug or gambling problems, or owe people money, but at least when they are on the ship, they get the job done. But Espen is always good for a laugh, always reliable.

Today though, I keep the beer to one. We go to our usual bar in Kristiansand, a run-down place with all the charm of a stray dog. Everyone in there is a fisherman, we all stink like the sea, with calloused hands and salt-crusted skin. The lighting casts dark shadows, the walls a sticky green, the air filled with the smell of spilled beer and the sound of the slot machines in the corner, where too many men are wasting their earnings. Everyone here is harder than month-old bread.

Texts keep coming in from my sister, Astrid. Normally I spend a night at the hotel here next to the bar before driving home. But she’s back home, in the remote village town of Todalen, where I live when I’m not on the boat, along with one of my other sisters, Lise. They’re visiting for May 1st, our labor day, which is in a few days. Astrid lives in Paris, so I rarely get to see her.

Also, if I’m being honest here, being for weeks without mobile phone reception has me aching to catch up on a few things and I don’t want to spend my time at the bar, with Epsen, on the phone. He might have to revoke my manhood card after all.

After the beer, we say our goodbyes and I know Espen will be at the bar all night, maybe into tomorrow, before he finally crawls back to his wife and kids down the coast. I walk over to my car, patting it affectionately on the hood, always happy to see her. She’s a ‘74 Datsun, 260Z, red like spring cherries. She’s purring like a kitten now, but it took years of work on her to get her in optimal condition. I bought her after the first voyage out at sea, with my first paycheck. Everything else went to my uncle.

When I inherited the vessel after my father’s death, I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. It had been years since I’d been out fishing, and I’d only gone out once with my father, when I was sixteen. That was two weeks of hell that was supposed to bring us together—or so he hoped—but it only drove us further apart and me to America. So even though I needed to take over my father’s legacy, mostly out of guilt, mostly out of need, I brought on my father’s first mate, Dag, who took command for a year and taught me the ropes. It was a hellish year but I learned a lot, and even though I still question if I should be captain, I’m the man with the ship, and that trumps everything.

The drive from Kristiansand to Todalen takes under two hours, through numerous tunnels, past the ever-present fjords and small towns, and one ferry crossing. At the moment, the temperamental spring weather is being held at bay, with shafts of sunlight coming through the high clouds, and I pull over to a touristy look-out point to snack on an apple and try to get my head in the right place.

There’s always a big shift between my life at sea and my life in Todalen. In my village, there is constraint. As gorgeous and scenically inspiring as the town is, it’s also the place I grew up, the place where my life fell apart, the place I tried to escape. No matter what I did, where I went, who I became, it brought me back, shortening that leash. It’s where everyone knows your name, and knows you—or, at least they think they do.

Out at sea, you’re alone. Yes, there’s your first mate, like Epsen, and deckhands, but as the captain you’re alone a lot of the time, with only fuzz on the radio for company. There’s no constraints that you can see or feel, just the dark grey rolling swells, the familiar pitch of the boat, the horizon that’s always moving, always beckoning you to keep going. But the sea is a dangerous place. It took the life of my father. It promises you freedom, but that freedom only leads toward death.

I live two lives.

I wish I could live a third.

Even though I’ve been doing this for years now, I always need a moment to adjust before I get back home. Especially now with Astrid and Lise on the farm. I’m just glad Lise’s twin, Tove, isn’t there. Sounds awful to say of your sister, but she’s a total mess and the queen of passive aggression. To say the relationships in our family are complicated is a complete understatement.

The ferry chugs along and I lean on the hood of the car and watch as dark clouds come billowing over the mountains to the north. My mind spins on a poem. I haven’t written in a long time and I’ve been okay with that. Maybe I should let that part of me go, like a bird into the wind. But these clouds are coming in from Trondheim and they rolling with the promise of her.

The clouds roll with impunity

Full, round, curves

Lips, hips, legs

Sliding smoothly over the crest of a mountain

That was once a man.

Or maybe it’s the man

Who was once a mountain.

Unmoveable.

Impenetrable

Stuck.

And here she comes

Not to set him free

But to move on past.

Without ever looking back.

Fuck. I think. Complete shit, as usual. If I could crumble up the paper in my brain, I would.

But the fact still remains.

Shay will be in Trondheim tomorrow.

I shouldn’t have downloaded Instagram last month. It was a mistake. I was bored and waiting for Epsen to arrive on the docks, hours to kill, faint sunlight on my back.

Everly Madison added me as a Facebook friend years ago. I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from that year in America, so it was a surprise. I couldn’t say it was a nice surprise, but I liked Everly. Even at a young age, she had this tough-girl, gum-chewing attitude that somehow put you at ease. That’s all I ever want in people—no bullshit.

I couldn’t pretend though, that Everly wasn’t my next step to Shay. So maybe I was full of bullshit. I never got the nerve to add Shay, to message her, to tell her I was sorry, that I still am sorry for everything I did to her.

So I stayed friends with Everly and, though we rarely talked, other than a random like or comment on a status, I went through her photos every once in a while, scoping out Shay.

Liking what I saw.

No, loving what I saw.

Just total heartbreak over what I saw.

The girl with the unruly hair and acne scars and sweetest lips to have ever graced my body turned into a woman to whom words could do no justice. Believe me, I have tried.

It became an addiction of sorts. Soon I was always lurking, feeling guilty over doing that, like I was some sort of creep. Hell, I am some sort of creep, there’s no use skirting the language here. Then I was feeling guilty over the way things ended between us, the shit I left in the dust.

Then Shay was in Europe. In Italy.

With her boyfriend, but still.

Close. Yet so far.

And then last year, just like that, like she knew, all her photos became private. I couldn’t see her anymore. Then, last month, I saw Everly post a photo from Instagram to Facebook. She mentioned Shay in the caption, tagged her.

I downloaded Instagram.

I found Shay. Her profile, public.

And my world began to spin once again.

I spent the whole hour going through every photo of hers, from Italy to Ireland. Then I got on the boat, left her images and reception behind.

Until this morning.

She was in Oslo.

Now she’s in Trondheim.

She’s here.

I sigh and shrug my shoulders, trying to get the knots out of them. One of the deckhands hurt his arm a few days ago, so I was putting in work when I could to help bring the nets in. I watch as the clouds continue to roll toward me, reaching for the water, reaching for me, then turn before it can catch me.

I head back home.

* * *

“So, Anders, who’s the girl?” Astrid asks.

I freeze, my forkful of potato paused halfway to my mouth. I eye my sister as she heads to the fridge to grab a beer, mindful enough to get me one too.

“What girl?” I ask, before shoving the food in my mouth.

“Yeah, what girl?” Lise says with a tilt of her head, smiling at me wickedly. “Anders has so many, it’s hard to keep track.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Astrid says, plunking herself back down at the table and sliding one of the beers over to me. She smiles at me, her front teeth have this slight gap that makes her look eternally like a little girl, despite what she does for a living. “Last I heard, Britt Solberg had caught your fancy. She’s got a loud mouth, that one. Not sure why you couldn’t fool around with one of the quieter girls in town.”

“In this town, there are no quiet girls,” Lise adds with a laugh, brushing her dark hair off her face. “Everyone always knows everything. Why do you think I moved to Oslo?”

Meanwhile, Uncle Per is staying silent through all of this, though he does shoot me a sympathetic glance before going back to his meal. That’s Per. Always silent, always listening. Always eating.

I aim to take in some of his resolve. I say nothing. Especially about Britt Solberg. Or Anita Dahl. Or Heidi Olsen. The stereotype of the sailor is no different from that of the fisherman. After weeks at sea, a woman is exactly what you need to get your head—and body—back in reality. The only problem is, I always come back here to see the same old girls. They all know my reputation by now, but that doesn’t stop them from having some fun every now and then. Thank god for that.

Besides, I’ve never been one to kiss and tell. The girls will—usually followed by the words, “that fuckface” or something similar, but I just smile and move on.

Still. I can’t help it. I haven’t seen Astrid in weeks and it wouldn’t be very sibling-like if I didn’t knock her down a peg.

“You’re one to talk,” I tell her. “How many French men do you have lined up after hours?”

“Anders,” Per chides me.

“What?” I exclaim, palms raised. “That’s not fair that she can make a jab at me but I can’t make one at her. Where’s the equality in that?”

Meanwhile, Lise is laughing softly to herself and Astrid is giving me the stink-eye. She’s frighteningly good at it and I know growing up that she was using it on all the men in town. That’s why my comment is more funny than anything.

“I’m a burlesque dancer, not a whore,” Astrid says, raising her chin in a haughty manner. “And even if I was, so what?”

“I’m not a whore either,” I remind her.

She keeps on glaring until I finally look away. She wins again.

Astrid was always a handful growing up. After my mother left our family for America and got married to a damn New Yorker, she left me, the oldest, in charge of my sisters. With Uncle Per busy with the farm and my father always away fishing, all the responsibility fell on me.

And at the time, responsibility was poison to my soul.

Astrid was the one getting into the most trouble, not exactly with the boys, but with her group of girlfriends who seemed to run amok in this town. Because we are only two years apart, she didn’t take any orders from me, or anyone else. Lise and Tove weren’t even teenagers at the time and were so distraught by our mother’s departure—as we all were—they were a lot easier to manage.

I guess it came as no surprise that when Astrid turned eighteen, she moved to Oslo. Then to Copenhagen. Then Amsterdam. And now Paris, where she’s been living for a few years and working as a burlesque dancer. Naturally, being her brother, I’ve never seen any of her shows and have absolutely no desire to, though Lise and Tove tell me she’s good at what she does.

I don’t have a problem with it—whatever makes her happy. But I have to admit, sometimes I envy her greatly. It’s a strange feeling to be jealous of your sibling, like it goes against the grain, but the feeling is there. Astrid is doing what she wants to be doing with her life. She’s doing what she wants—period. I don’t have that luxury and, to be honest, I wouldn’t even deserve it if I did.

With the spat between me and Astrid over, she and Lise start arguing over some book they both read. Sitting in the kitchen that I grew up in, I can still smell the waffles that my mother used to make every morning, the loads of freshly made jam and cream from the cows. My mother was never very nurturing, but she did know her way around the kitchen. As usual, my gut bubbles up with toxic nostalgia.

I take a long gulp of my beer then ask Uncle Per how the lambs have been doing. He offers up a few words, letting me know what I’ll be helping out with over the next month—spring is busy—before I’m off to sea again, though he can’t hide his grimace when he adjusts in his chair. Uncle Per’s health has never been the best. “Too much butter, too much Scotch,” my father used to say, and they’ve been slowly catching up with him throughout the years, now delivering their blow. He’s been going to the doctor and so far everything seems fine, but he’s an old and unhappy man, and I fear the latter may be the true death of him someday.

My uncle never married. Astrid once told me that he had fallen in love with a woman when he was very young and they were engaged to be married, but she died in a car accident. I guess he swore off love—and at least women—after that. I’ve never really known anything different. I grew up in this farmhouse with my parent’s room at one end of the long upstairs hall and my uncle down at the other. I know both of them inherited the farm from my grandparents and they made a go of it, working together. We were one big, somewhat happy, family.

Then, when times got tough and the farm took a hit, my father became a fisherman to supplement the income.

To say I’ve become my father’s son terrifies me in its accuracy.

“What do you think?” Astrid says, and I realize she’s speaking to me.

I raise my brows. “Don’t tell me this is about a girl again.”

She looks at our uncle. “Do you need Anders to start helping out tomorrow, or can it wait a day?”

“Why?” I ask, suspicious.

“I thought you, me and Lise could go to Trondheim for the day. Roar is coming, I’m meeting picking him up at the train station.” She eyes our uncle. “Uncle Per, you can come too. May be good to get away from this place.”

But I’m barely listening as they talk back and forth about it.

Trondheim.

It would be funny if only I hadn’t actually entertained the idea of going there anyway.

Going there on a whim.

For all the wrong reasons.

Very wrong reasons.

Trondheim isn’t a big city, but it’s busy. The chances of me seeing Shay there are slim to none, even if I stalk her on Instagram, trying to plot her every move through her stories. And even if I did happen upon her, what would I say? I’m sorry? She’d hit me so fast I wouldn’t even be able to get the words out, and I still remember what her fist feels like. I still remember what all of her feels like, and fucking Britt Solberg a million times will never, ever erase it.

First loves are supposed to be bullshit, and I still stand by that.

But hell, if that shit doesn’t stink forever.

“I’m in,” I say quickly, glancing apologetically at Uncle Per. “If that’s okay.”

He nods, his jowls wobbling and adjusts his glasses. “Yah. It’s fine, Anders. But I will stay here. The city isn’t what it used to be.”

What I think he means is he doesn’t want to be stuck in a car for two hours with his nephew and nieces. I’m not even sure I want that either.

But the pull is there.

The clouds are rolling in over the mountains.

And she’ll be on the other side.

4

Shay

The scenery flying past my window is almost too beautiful to be considered real. I take photo after photo, cursing at myself when I’m too slow to get that beautiful red house standing amongst a field of gold wheat, or when I get the glare of the sun instead, ruining a shot of cotton candy clouds above a treeless alpine vista. I can’t believe I almost wrote off this country because of a few bummer days in Oslo, because this train ride alone is one of the most breathtaking I’ve ever been on.

I have a comfortable window seat with no one next to me, across from a woman who is traveling with a miniature greyhound bundled up in layers of blankets and looking every bit at home. The train has a bar cart and though it’s just before noon, I’ve already started on a can of crisp pear cider and a flattened waffle you’re supposed to eat with sweet brown cheese.

If I was worried about finding my place, my direction, that’s all being left behind on the train tracks. Now I really feel like I’m traveling. I’m moving forward and seeing the country as I go.

Sometimes the train speeds along rivers so opaquely turquoise it looks like God dumped watercolor paint in them. Other times we pass picturesque farms with giant red barns and white houses with dark trim and a lawn on the roof. Yes, a lawn. Everyone here has grass on their roof, everyone also seems to keep the neatest yards and houses in the history of ever. There’s not a spec of garbage anywhere, there’s no peeling paint or fading colors. Town after town, all I see are the quaintest, cutest, tidiest houses I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Even the forests here seem to be orderly, the tall stately pines all marching off in a row, flanking pristine lakes like guards at attention.

By the time the train pulls into Trondheim, I feel like I’ve drowned in visual sensations. I’m also pretty sore and tired considering that was an eight-hour ride, even though it proved to be fascinating the entire way. I’m pretty sure I’ve annoyed everyone on my Instagram with my photos, even though most people back home are still asleep. No one wants to see a million posts of blindingly green fields or alpine vistas or photos of my cider, but that doesn’t stop me. What else are you supposed to do? My journal is already full of my nonsense and my brain is getting a little tired of myself.

Plus, a part of me wants Danny to see it. After he broke up with me, I booted him off my social media and upped my privacy settings to the maximum. But Instagram is my forte and I keep that account public, so I sometimes wonder if he’s secretly following me. Though Danny doesn’t occupy my thoughts as much anymore, there’s that petty part of me that wants to prove to him how much fun I’m having, how I’m better off without him. Time only softens the sting of rejection, it never erases it completely.

When we come to a stop, I shrug on my jacket, peering out at the rain that’s just started to pelt the train station, running down the windows, and grab my backpack from the luggage rack between the cars. For some reason, when I imagine myself traveling somewhere, I always imagine the weather being sunny. I do this regardless of the season and it always comes to bite me in the ass.

This time, I booked a private room at a small hotel in Trondheim’s “old town,” and while it looked like a short walk on the map, now that the rain is falling, and my phone’s GPS is telling me it’s more like 30 minutes, I decide to stay put in the train station and hopefully wait it out. There are cabs outside, and I can’t figure out if Uber operates here, but I’ve put my mind to saving money wherever I can. Plus, it can’t rain forever and the walk will do me good to burn off those waffles with the strange brown cheese.

But when one hour turns into two and I’m getting bored and anxious waiting in the station, drinking bottles of Brus—some fizzy apple juice that’s to die for—I decide to hoof it. It’s colder up here than it was in Oslo and it really cuts through you, even in the train station.

I stand on the steps watching for cabs or cars with an Uber sign, but see nothing until a dark grey VW station wagon pulls into a parking space and a girl my age with wild red hair comes out, wrapping a mustard yellow scarf around the neck of her leather jacket and lighting up a cigarette. I can see there’s a couple of people still in the car, but they’re not getting out.

She comes up the steps until she’s beside me under the shelter of the overhang and peeks in the glass windows to the station before giving me a quick smile and saying something to me in Norwegian.

“Sorry…,” I start to say, not understanding her.

“Oh, you don’t speak Norwegian,” the girl says quickly, taking a drag of her cigarette. Like most people I’ve met here, her accent is softened when she speaks English and she speaks it perfectly. “That’s fine. I was just wondering if the train had come in.”

“I was on the one from Oslo, got in a few hours ago but that’s it.”

She frowns at me and I count a smattering of freckles across her nose. “You’ve been hanging out at the train station for hours? I’m telling you, it’s not the best that Trondheim has to offer.”

“I was waiting for the rain to let up and then walk to town, then I figured I would get a cab, but I don’t see any anymore.”

She looks up at the sky. “It isn’t letting up. There hasn’t been a lot of rain here this spring so it’s really letting loose.” She glances at me. “Where are you from? Canada?”

“New York,” I tell her.

“Cool,” she says with a nod. “My mother lives there, but I’ve never been. It’s on my bucket list, though.”

“You live in Trondheim?”

She shakes her head. “Actually, I live in Paris. I’m just visiting family, friends.” She sighs and gives me a goofy smile. “I come here a few times a year, it’s so easy with the flights. But even so, each time I come I have to do the rounds and visit everyone I ever knew. I’m picking up my friend today, then I’m heading back to see my family, and then back to Paris. One day I’ll go on vacation to actually relax.”

“Sounds busy,” I comment, grateful that this girl is so open and talkative. “I loved Paris, wish I could have stayed longer. Too expensive.”

“And yet, here you are in Norway.”

I laugh, brushing my bangs off my face and leaning further back out of the rain. “I know. The prices are killing me so far. I only got to Oslo the other day, but I already feel my bank account draining. But it’s been my dream to come here and some things are worth it, you know?”

“Totally,” she says, blowing a puff of smoke over her shoulder and away from me. “That was it for me and Paris. I work there. But it’s so easy here in the EU to do that. Are you just traveling? Wandering? Working?”

“A little of all that,” I tell her.

She nods and makes a little noise in agreement, the tone rising up at the end. “Well where are you going now? Do you want a ride?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I tell her. Though I’m touched that she offered, the last thing I want is to put this stranger out.

She gives me a dismissive way. “Come on. It’s no problem. Where are you staying?”

“The Gustav Hotel. I think it’s in old town.”

“It’s across the river. Right beside an amazing pub. Soon as Roar gets out of the train, we’ll take you there. Have a drink. He lives in that direction anyway and he’s visiting family too, so I don’t think he’s in any hurry to get home.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose on your time with your friend…”

She faces me squarely, the wind blowing a curly piece of auburn across her face. “Listen. It’s fine. It’s settled. I’ve got my brother and sister in the car anyway.” She jerks her head toward the station wagon, then sticks out her hand. “I’m Astrid, by the way.”

“Shay,” I tell her, and I’m surprised by the strength of her handshake. Her name makes my head jog ahead. It’s familiar somehow.

She jerks her head toward the parking lot. “Come on, I’ll get your stuff in the car before he comes. Who knows how much stuff he’s bringing.”

Astrid grabs my duffel bag and heads toward the car. I’m still taken aback by her friendliness and generosity, and there’s this weird feeling in my gut that’s building and building. Like déjà vu, but not quite. Like something is happening, that the cogs in the machine that is my life are turning, wheels in motion, causing things to turn a corner.

I start down the steps after her, when suddenly everything goes in slow motion.

As she throws my bag in the trunk, the passenger side door opens and a tall man steps out, shoulders like mountains.

He faces me, stares at me.

Stares in me.

As if he can see my heart starting to jerk around in my chest.

No. No. No.

It can’t be.

I blink because there’s something wrong with my eyes. The rain is clouding them.

I swear I’m looking at a man who looks exactly what Anders would look like now.

The beard.

That messy, shaggy hair.

Those cheekbones.

Sure, most of the good-looking men I’ve seen in Norway so far look exactly like this, but still.

“Shay?” he asks incredulously. His voice is so much deeper now, and yet it sounds like yesterday, even as it echoes across this parking lot.

I’m sixteen again.

And that’s when I nearly drop my backpack.

This can’t be happening.

He can’t have called my name.

That seriously cannot be him.

Anders Johansen.

I want to tell him I don’t know him. That my name isn’t Shay. That he’s made some mistake.

But I can’t. I can only stare, just as he can only stare. There’s buckets of rain and our past between us.

“Do you two know each other?” Astrid asks, looking between the both of us. Then something dawns on her face. “Oh…Anders. Is this…is this the girl?”

Am I the girl?

“Shay,” Anders says again, as if he didn’t hear her, voice softer now. “I can’t believe…” he blinks a few times, shakes his head and a piece of wet, black hair sticks to his forehead. “Please, come in the car. We’ll take you where you need to go.”

Where I need to go is suddenly thousands of miles away from here. I’m so tempted to just walk past them or to turn around and go back in the train station. Feign ignorance. Pretend. Save face and heart and soul.

But I can’t. There’s no point. Because after everything that came between us, here we are again. How can you not believe in fate when we’re staring at each other after all these years, rain in my eyes, fear in my heart?

Shit. My pulse is beating so fast, I’m afraid it will burst through my skin.

I nod. “Okay,” I say, my voice shaking.

My legs in slow motion, I go down the last step and he walks around the hood of the car, his hand out to take my backpack from my shoulders. As he comes closer, I see him now in frightening detail.

The rain streaming down his furrowed brow. His grey-blue eyes, like the deepest, darkest sea. His Roman nose, slightly crooked at the center, like he’s been punched by a few people (other than me).

He isn’t smiling at me, just watching, perhaps curiously, maybe fearfully.

Because I remember everything like it was yesterday.

The anger, shame, and regret haven’t gone away.

He swallows and I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat and once again I’m struck by how much bigger he is now, all man and brawn. The tattoos on his knuckles peek out as he reaches for my backpack, which I’ve taken off my shoulders without even realizing it. The sparrow. That was his tattoo for me. I was the bird in the cage, the one he wanted to set free.

“It is you,” he whispers, his voice gruff, like it’s caught somewhere in his throat. He peers at me intently, searching for reality.

Why has time been so kind to him?

But there is something burning in his eyes, the way he holds himself, the slight clench to his jaw, that tells me maybe time hasn’t been so kind after all.

Before I can move or do anything, the door next to me opens and a girl, maybe around twenty, with deep sea eyes just like him and a dark pixie haircut sticks her head out.

“Are you guys going to soak up all the rain or what?”

Anders just brushes past me, close enough for me to catch a faint smell of something herbal, like dill, and throws my backpack in the trunk.

Astrid gives him a bemused glance for a moment before she looks at the station where the train is pulling in.

“I’ll be right back!” she says. “Don’t discuss anything. I want to know all the details about whatever the hell this is.” She wiggles her fingers at us then runs off to the train station, puddles splashing.

Somehow my feet move without me telling them to and I go toward the back of the car where Anders holds the door open for me. “You still up for a ride?” he asks, and in his eyes I can see he wants me to say yes. He’s welcoming me, this chance encounter.

But I’m starting to wonder how much of this is chance.

And how much of this was me coming here, hoping this would happen.

I find myself nodding, still feeling like I’m in some surreal dream, then I slide into the backseat. I give a grateful, albeit awkward, smile to the girl next to me, knowing she has to be one of Anders’ sisters, their eyes are the same, just as he gets in the car beside me. It isn’t until he shut’s the door that I realize just how wet I am. The car is engulfed with the musty dampness of rain, the windshield wipers going a mile a minute.

And I’m pressed right up against Anders.

Holy fuck.

He twists in his seat to face me, that piece of hair still stuck to his forehead, and asks, “Where were you headed?”

I swallow. “The…” And just like that I’ve forgotten the name of the hotel, even though I had just told Astrid. I fish my cell out of my jacket pocket, fingers trembling as I try and slide it open.

“So, I’m sorry,” the girl next to me says. “But who are you? I mean, how do you know my brother?”

“Long story,” I tell her with a quick smile, before trying to open my GPS. My fingers are wet, making it impossible, and having Anders’ shoulder right up against mine isn’t making things any easier.

“I went to school with her in America,” Anders says, offering more about our past than I was willing to give up.

“Oh,” the girl says with a frown. Then her brows raise. “Oh.”

Wait. What did that second oh mean? Does she know about us? Because Astrid gave nearly the same reaction.

The girl…

“What are you doing in Norway?” she goes on.

“Maybe we should get her to her hotel,” Anders says, and something about that boils my blood, as if he’s trying to get rid of me so fast. Again.

“Hold on, hold on.” The girl is raising her hands and shaking her head. “None of this makes much sense.” She takes in a deep breath. “Okay. Shay…that’s your name, right?”

I nod.

“Okay, Shay. You and Anders know each other from high school. You haven’t seen each other since then, am I right? So, this is a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think? You both meeting again like this. And now Anders, you want to take her to her hotel and just drop her off and that’s it?” She looks at him, eyes narrowing briefly. “No. I’m sorry. No to both of you. Shay, my name is Lise. You’ve met Astrid. Anders is our brother. Our brother isn’t to be listened to, he’s just gotten off a ship after being at sea for three weeks and his brain isn’t working properly. You know how people get sea legs? He gets sea brain. Please forgive him. And forgive my English too.”

I’m about to tell her that her English is fine when she powers on.

“What I think we need to do, unless you happen to have a business meeting in the next hour or so, is head to the bar in the old town, have a few drinks, and discuss what a crazy thing this is, yes?”

Suddenly the back hatch pops open and luggage is thrown in, shaking the car. Then Astrid climbs into the driver’s seat while the passenger side opens and a tall, lanky guy with a beard gets in. It must always be lumberjack season in Norway.

“Okay!” Astrid says, clapping her hands together. “We have a full car today! Roar, this is Shay. It’s Shay, right?”

I nod. “Nice to meet you Roar.”

Roar turns in his seat and smiles at me. He’s got a goofy face that balances the beard. “Same to you. Astrid says you’re a friend of Anders.”

“Well, that’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Lise says from beside me. “He wants to drop her off at her hotel.”

“I didn’t say that,” Anders protests gruffly.

“Ha!” Astrid says, starting the car. “You’re coming with us to the bar first. Then we’ll take you to your hotel. You’re our hostage now.”

Lise pipes up beside me, says something else in Norwegian.

Anders looks at me. I can’t read him. I’m not sure if I want to.

Being dropped off at my hotel probably would be for the best though, but then what? I would spend the rest of the night, the rest of my days here, maybe even the rest of my life, wondering just what the hell happened.

I can’t pretend I didn’t come to this country hoping this would happen.

Hoping, secretly, without my heart knowing it.

But I know it now.

And this shouldn’t have been possible.

So I think I owe it at least that.

Even though I don’t owe him a thing.

Everyone is staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“I’d love to have a drink,” I say, as Astrid pulls out of the parking lot. Not sure I had much choice in that anyway.

I can see Anders frowning out of the corner of my vision. He turns around and nods. “A drink it is.”

“Good,” Astrid says, stepping on the gas so hard my head goes flying back against the headrest. “Sorry!” she says, winking at me in the mirror.

“Is this your first time in Trondheim?” Lise asks me, as we cruise down cobblestone streets, past brightly colored shops and people huddled under umbrellas.

I can barely take it all in. All I can keep thinking is:

Is this real, is this real, is this real?

Is this really Anders sitting right beside me?

My first love.

Maybe my only love.

And the first person who showed me what it’s like to break.

5

Shay

Suffice to say, Lise asks me the most questions during the drive, all of which I answer on autopilot.

First trip to Norway.

Just arrived here.

Was in Ireland before.

No idea what’s next for me.

No idea.

“That must be nice,” Lise says, as we’re crossing over a bridge that spans the river and the banks are lined with old boathouses done up in a rich colors: golds and blues and reds that reflect onto the dark water.

“Nice?” I repeat.

“Yeah,” she says. “To do whatever you want, go where the wind takes you. To have no plans, no place to go.”

Yeah, I think. But sometimes you want a place to go. A place to be.

Astrid parks the car on narrow, hilly road and we all clamor out. I try not to look in Anders’ direction and as I pull my jacket over my cardigan, glancing down at the wet patches on my jeans, I wonder if my makeup is running down my face. Thankfully the rain has eased up to a drizzle.

Even with the shitty weather, Trondheim looks and feels miles different than Oslo. The buildings are older, less modern and more quaint, the traffic is low, cobblestone streets filled with young, fresh-faced bikers, smiling through the rain, twisting off the main roads.

“This is Trondheim’s Old Town,” Astrid announces as I walk beside her, staying ahead of Anders. When we cross the main road called Nedre Bakklandet, and nearly get run over by what seems to be an endless stream of young, beautiful people on bicycles (who bikes in this weather?) she points to a building by the bridge. “And that’s my favorite bar. The beer is cheap and good.”

The bar is called Den Gode Nabo—I have no idea what that means, it sounds like a planet from Star Wars—and inside it’s deliciously warm and dark, like a Scandinavian dive bar, but clean and full of character. The tilting floors, the walls, even the low ceilings from which old, dusty chandeliers hang, are all knotty wood. There are long tables with benches piled with blankets and pillows and many booths and tables tucked into dark corners. I feel like I’m in an old traditional boathouse, which is probably the case. There’s even a section at the back that leads down a ramp to a floating patio on the river, though not even a Norwegian would brave a drink out there in this weather.

“Here,” Astrid says, gesturing to a booth in the corner. “Roar and I will get the drinks. What do you want? Beer? Cider?”

“Cider is fine,” I tell her, reaching for my wallet, but the two of them are already walking away to the long bar at the end. I expect Lise to stay with us, but she runs off after them.

Leaving me and Anders alone.

“It’s on her,” Anders says, taking a seat and gesturing to my wallet. “You’re going to need to save as much money as you can in this country.” He nods at the place across from him. “Please, sit.”

I’d rather not. I feel more comfortable standing at the end of the table, staring down at him. It’s like I have one foot out the door, ready to run. I still don’t know what to say or how to act. None of this seems real.

“Please,” Anders says, his brows pinching together. There’s a gravity to his voice. Sincerity. Maybe I’m fucking crazy for still holding a grudge against him. I mean, most people wouldn’t care. Everly wouldn’t even bat an eye. Let bygones be bygones. The past is the past. And what some seventeen-year-old kid did to your heart shouldn’t matter when you’re twenty-four.

So I sit down.

I think I breathe for the first time since I left the train station.

“So,” he says to me, and he takes off his rain jacket, folding it and hanging it along the smooth edge of the wood booth. “I’m finding this very interesting.”

I raise my brow. “Well, yeah.”

Interesting. And a lot of awkward.

“You’re probably the last person I imagined running into,” he says carefully, picking up a coaster and staring at it while he flips it over. “Have to say, I still can’t quite believe it.” He eyes me quickly. “How have you been?”

How have I been? Where do I even start?

“Still in New York?” he asks, prompting me.

“Yeah,” I say, adjusting myself on the seat. I’m still a bit cold from all the rain—and all the shock—so I pull one of the blankets over my lap. “Well, that’s where I’ll be going when this is all over. Back to Brooklyn. Though I left when I went to college. Got my degree.”

“In what?”

“Bullshit,” I tell him, offering half a smile. “A B.A. in art history.”

“Really?” he asks. He almost sounds impressed. “And what do you do with that?”

I shrug. “Nothing. Except go to Europe and visit every museum and art gallery you can, because for once you know the history behind every painting. Outside of that though, I’m stumped.”

“You never seemed all that interested in painting back in art class,” he says to me, and I immediately feel myself freeze up inside, that summoning of the past. “It was more photography, wasn’t it? You know, I still have some of the black-and-white photos we developed.”

“Oh?” Should I be flattered here that he held on to them? “Well, I still love photography, I’ve just gotten lazy with my iPhone, you know.”

“Norway is too beautiful to waste on a phone,” he tells me, pressing his fingers into the table for emphasis. “You need to do it justice with a proper camera. Did you bring one with you?”

I shake my head. I had one, a Nikon, but it was Danny’s. Or, in other words, it was ours but when he left, he took it. At the time I was fine with it. Some people believe the camera captures your soul. I believed that one captured our mediocre relationship.

Now though, I wish I’d held onto it. An iPhone only does so much.

“I have one you can have,” Anders says. “Actually, I have quite a few.”

“You have quite a few cameras?” I ask. I don’t know why I sound so surprised though. Anders always had quite a few cameras. Back in high school he would go to the pawn shop and pick up anything that interested him, even if he had a bunch of them already, even if he had no intention of ever using it. He used to say that he was “rescuing” the item, as if it had a soul and his home would bring it alive. I remember he had a whole box full of Zippos and other silver lighters that didn’t have fuel or didn’t work, but it didn’t matter. He kept on acquiring them and they kept on piling up.

I’m tempted to bring this up with him, in the vein of “Remember that thing you used to do?” but I don’t dare. That’s what old friends do over beer and pizza.

We aren’t that.

“Yes,” he goes on. “I collect them. But I know you remember that about me. You should really come to Todalen with us. Since you have no plans.”

I give him a look. “First you were eager to drop me off at my hotel, now you want to bring me to your village?” I always remembered the name of the town he grew up in. He’d always made it sound so breathtaking, as I’m sure any amateur poet would.

He looks away and shrugs. “I thought I was making it easier on you. To be honest, I’m still not sure if you’re going to hit me again or not.” His features soften, the lines on his brow smoothing out. “Shay, look…”

“Here we go,” Astrid announces loudly, making me jump in my seat. She and Lise plunk my cider and their beers down on the table, the foamy head spilling over, while I see Roar slip outside with a cigarette.

Astrid slides into the spot beside me and I barely have time to get out of the way. She raises her glass. “To Shay, whom I already feel sorry for, coming across a strange lot like us.”

The rest of us raise our glasses.

And then the girls get to talking.

Well, really Astrid gets to talking, though Lise chimes in every now and then. Anders remains mostly silent, his deep eyes on me the whole time. I can only hope the flush on my cheeks is from the strong cider and nothing else.

I learn that Astrid is a world traveler, perpetually single, and working as a burlesque dancer in Paris. Not quite the Moulin Rouge, she says, but good enough. Though her face, with the smattering of freckles across her ski-jump nose and her gap-toothed grin, makes her look younger than she is, her attitude and banging body (seriously, Christina Hendricks has nothing on her), certainly fit the part.

“So what is it that you like to do?” Astrid asks me. “I mean, what kind of work? Or what kind of hobby would a job support?”

“In the ideal world, I’d love to do more photography,” I tell her. “In high school I took a bunch of classes and really liked it.” I feel Anders’ eyes on me. “I haven’t had any professional training since then, but I’ve been doing a lot of online tutorials throughout the years, getting the best equipment I could afford. Since I’ve been traveling I think I’ve found my calling. I take a lot of photos for my Instagram account, and I know it sounds dumb, but I’ve seen similar accounts get really big, especially if the person is easy on the eyes. They get flown all over the world just to take pictures and post them. That’s my ideal job.”

“That sounds like my ideal job too,” Astrid says.

“Yup,” Lise. “You know, it sounds like a dream but it’s also what’s happening to you right now. It’s not so out of reach. If you build it, it will come.”

“Right, well, a lot of people right now have the same idea. Have you seen the number of travel accounts on Instagram?”

“Yeah, but that shouldn’t stop you,” Astrid tells me. “It’s better to keep doing what you’re doing here and try, than it is to go back to the States and have to get a job you don’t like.”

“If I can even get a job,” I admit with a sigh, my shoulders slumping slightly with figurative weight. “All the education in the world doesn’t seem to matter right now. Whether you work at Target or in the field of your degree, all employers want three-year’s experience for an entry level job, and even then you’re getting minimum wage.”

Astrid gives me a sympathetic smile and I have to wonder how much she pulls in for her dancing movies in Paris. I’m guessing a lot. “Well then, your solution is to never return home. Maybe you can stay here and marry a Norwegian.” And at that she smirks at Anders.

I feel my face flush.

Anders just laughs. “I’m afraid most Norwegian men aren’t civilized enough for Shay.”

I instinctively slap his arm. “You trying to say I’m high maintenance?”

He bites back a smile. “Not at all.”

“I definitely don’t advise it,” Lise says, taking a sip of her drink. “We saw how Tove turned out.”

Lise then tells us that her twin sister, Tove, is a divorcee and a single mom who lives in the Arctic Circle. When I mention I want to go up there, Lise tells me I must get in contact with her, though Astrid throws in that Tove’s son Harry is a six-year-old terror of a boy and I’d be in for a hell of a time.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Astrid asks Anders. He’s frowning, deep in thought, and pulls his eyes away from a blank spot on the table to look at her. “Contribute to the conversation?”

“About what? How nuts Tove is?” he asks, palming his beer with his large hands. I always had a thing for his hands, and I wish that sparrow wasn’t looking at me. My eyes trail over the other tattoos on his knuckles—the fish, the spade, the eye, the hourglass, the anchor, the captain’s wheel, and the arrow. Only the anchor and the spade were there when I first met him. He added the sparrow for me, but I never did know what the other two meant. He would only shrug when asked. Said they didn’t mean anything to him, which I always thought was a strange way of phrasing it.

“Add anything about yourself. You know, to your friend you haven’t seen in years,” Astrid says, shuffling out of the booth. “I’m going to go see Roar, does anyone else want anything?”

I shake my head. I’m already pretty buzzed from the two ciders, which is putting me into a warm and cozy state. And I can’t have that, not when Anders is sitting across from me, his eyes occasionally meeting mine and holding them hostage.

I hated how gorgeous he was back then, and I’m hating how much more gorgeous he is now. It makes it hard to think.

“There’s not much to add,” Anders says, as Astrid leaves. “I took over my father’s fishing boat after he died. I man the ship when I can to support the farm, and I help my uncle with labor the rest of the time. I don’t exactly have an exciting life.”

My heart pangs at his admission. I know he’s trying to be self-deprecating when he says that, but I can’t miss the look of defeat in his eyes.

“I’m sorry about your father,” I tell him. I remember that his father and him had a rough relationship. It’s why he moved to America to be with his mother, even though their relationship got too rocky too. Anders was expelled from school a month before we were supposed to graduate and sent back to Norway—his mother couldn’t handle him anymore. Which was just as well at the time, since we broke up a few weeks earlier. In one instant, Anders went from being everything to me to being out of my life for good.

Forget it, I have to remind myself. Focus on the now.

“How did he die?” I ask, even though I know the question can be a bit rude.

“He was lost at sea,” Lise says quietly, looking down at her hands. “Four years ago.”

“Bad storm,” Anders says. He leans back in his seat, his eyes absently searching the bar as his lower jaw wiggles. “They found the boat, but he’d been swept over. He was trying to save a deckhand when it happened. He had a survival suit on at the time but…it didn’t matter.”

“Oh my god.” My hand goes to my chest, my heart sinking. “I’m so sorry. And that’s the boat you have right now?”

“Midnattsol,” he says. “The Midnight Sun. He used to call my mother the midnight sun, so I guess it was cursed to begin with.”

So you’re working on a cursed boat? I want to ask. But I don’t. The subject seems understandably touchy. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have a parent die like that, in such a vague, helpless way, with no body to bury, and then to inherit the very ship, the very job, that killed them. I can’t fathom how Anders does it, but I’m starting to understand that haunted look in his eyes. When he was younger, there was at least a cover of jovial teenage rebellion masking the darkness. But now, especially in the dim light of this bar, he looks war-torn and weary.

“But,” Lise says, pasting on a smile and looking over at Anders, “our father knew what he was doing. He was very good at his job and he knew the risks. We all did. It happens a lot out there and it was just God’s plan for him.”

Anders snorts and gives her a derisive plan. “You keep saying God’s plan, Lise, but I’m not sure you know what that means.”

She raises her chin. “I know what God means to me. What is he to you?”

“A poet,” Anders says after a moment, smirking at no one in particular. “A nasty one.”

Oh boy. I hope I’m not about to get caught in a sibling theological debate.

“So how long are you at sea for?” I ask him, trying to get the conversation on a smoother path.

He eyes me carefully and gives an almost unperceivable nod, as if he knows what I’m trying to do. “Usually three weeks, sometimes a month. Sometimes longer. It depends on the season. The shortest I’ve been out was two weeks. It was a disaster, couldn’t find the fish anywhere—but that’s what I got for trying new grounds. The longest was six weeks. The fishing was fucking fantastic and when you have a chance to make more money, you take it.”

“But when you do that,” Lise says, “and work sixteen-hour shifts, you’ll burn out sooner than you know.”

Anders shrugs. “I’m young. I’m not burnt out yet. And it makes working on the farm feel like a vacation.”

“And how long do you work on the farm for?” I ask, totally intrigued over how his life has turned out. Makes me feel like I’ve literally done shit-all. Yes, I got my degree and held down a few jobs. But none of them were particularly challenging.

None of them meant anything.

“It depends on the season, on the cod, on the prices,” he says. “I’ll be here for a month unless something changes.”

One month. The same amount of time I told myself I would probably stay in the country.

I’m fooling myself if I think it means something.

“Are we behaving ourselves?” Astrid says as she puts a glass of water down, Roar at her side, drinking a beer.

“Only you are,” Lise says.

“Well, I am driving us back to Todalen tonight,” Astrid says. “Someone has to be sober.” Her lips twitch as she looks between me and Anders. “Hey Lise,” she says, eying her sister wryly. “Come with me to 7-11.”

Lise frowns. “Now?”

“Yeah, I want the company.”

“But it’s right next door,” Lise says, and now Astrid is yanking her eyebrows in Anders’ direction, in an overly dramatic fashion. Lise’s lips form an “O” and then nods. She says something in Norwegian, under her breath, and gets up. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says to us, before they scurry off down the bar and out the door.

I look up at Roar to see what he’s going to do, but he just raises his beer in a ‘cheers’ and then heads to the bar, talking with the bartender, whom he obviously knows well.

And we’re alone again.

I slowly look back at Anders and clear my throat.

He’s looking at me, head low, brow furrowed. “Are you going to stay in Trondheim?” he asks carefully.

“Just for a night or two,” I tell him. “Then maybe make my way up north.”

“You have to go south too,” he says.

“I will. I have a plan.”

Finally.

“You have to come to Todalen.”

Totally not part of the plan.

“We’ll see,” is the only thing I can offer him. When I say that, it always means no.

“Tonight,” he adds.

Now this catches me by surprise.

I tilt my head, wide-eyed. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says with a nod, not even smiling. “Tonight. We can take you back to your hotel and you can cancel your stay.”

I shake my head. “I’ll be charged for the night for doing that.”

“I’ll talk to them, I promise you won’t,” he says, adding, “I can be very persuasive.”

“I know that,” I can’t help but say. “But no.”

No. No. Because Todalen is not part of the plan, and neither is Anders.

“Why not?” he asks, and he’s completely genuine.

“Because,” I say, fumbling for words. “It’s not…I have plans.”

“So change your plans. You said yourself earlier that you have no idea what you’re doing next.”

“I meant in life.”

“Isn’t knowing what you’re doing tonight a good start?”

“I did know I was going to spend a night in Trondheim,” I point out. I need my resolve to stay ice cold and razor sharp.

“You can spend a night here anytime. When am I at home? When are you in Norway? What are the odds that we met each other like this? Come on…don’t you think you should at least see the village I grew up in, the one I always talked to you about?”

And I do, I do, damnit. I want to experience this country the real way, off the beaten path, in the villages, with the locals.

With my ex-boyfriend.

Who now happens to be a Nordic god.

I just can’t decide if he’s Thor or Loki.

“It’s fate,” he offers, and his eyes are so sincere, I almost believe him.

“Fate?”

He shrugs. “Sure, why not? I’m here. My sisters are here. We have a car. We’re heading back there after this. The farmhouse has plenty of room.”

I eye him suspiciously. “Are you trying to bring me on as an extra farmhand?”

Finally he smiles, just a twitch of his lips. “Maybe.”

It’s tempting. Really tempting. But it doesn’t feel right. It shouldn’t be this way, so easy. Pathetic or not, I’m still mad at the guy, and I know we’re not the same people anymore but I’m stubborn as shit and besides, who says I even want to hang around him.

Just because he keeps staring at me the way he does, the way he’s biting his lower lip waiting for my response, which makes me remember the way his lips felt on mine, felt on my body, how his whole being awakened me into pleasures I never thought possible. We were so young and yet he left his mark, deep and hard, inside me, and I can still feel it, feel him, feel how beautiful he made me become.

No, I tell myself sharply, nearly giving myself whiplash. Stop looking at the gorgeous Viking before it gets messy. You’re recalling old feelings that mean nothing anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, even though something in my heart squeezes as I say it. “Thanks for the offer, but I think it’s best if I stay here. This whole trip was meant to be for me, on my own, you know. Discovering myself and all that.”

“Don’t you think I could help you?” he says. “I did once before.”

I exhale through my nose loudly. “Yeah. And look at the shape you left me in. Oh wait, I guess you couldn’t since you left right away.”

He frowns, looking pained. “I deserve that. I was an idiot.”

“It’s not the point,” I say quickly with a wave of my hand, not wanting to get into it now, or ever. “I’m just saying…thanks but no thanks. In fact, I should probably get going soon.” I grab my purse from beside me. “My hotel is in the old town anyway, should be easy to find.”

“Please don’t go yet,” he says to me, reaching across the table and touching my arm. He stares at me imploringly and it takes everything to not get lost in those grey-blues, looking extra rich in the dark bar.

I’m brought back in my mind to our first fight. It was over something stupid, I barely remember. Maybe he looked at a girl a little too long and I got jealous. He called me paranoid. I called him a liar. We had it out on my front steps and it ended with him groveling at my feet, asking me to stay with him.

The funny thing was, that should have been my first warning sign. He most likely was looking at a girl a little too long and if I knew any better, he was probably sleeping with her too.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty.

I swallow and manage a smile. “I better go check in.”

“I’ll walk you then,” he says to me, sliding out of the booth. “Just let me pay at the bar.”

I contemplate just walking out anyway, my memories have brought forth this horrible sense of shame and embarrassment, when Astrid and Lise walk back in the bar, 7-11 bags in their hands.

“We got you some Norwegian candy,” Astrid says gleefully, shaking a chocolate bar at me. Then she notices Anders paying at the bar. “Is he paying? That jerk.”

“Jeez, I’d let him if I were you,” Lise says. “Who knows when he’ll be this generous again.”

But even after everything I just thought, I can’t help but bothered by that remark. It was my understanding that Anders worked the fishing job in order to keep the farm going. It sounded like Anders was far more generous than he ever had to be.

“Here,” Astrid says, placing the bag in my hands. “There’s Lakerol and Melkesjokolade and what you call gummies. Enough to keep your sweet tooth happy.” She then looks me up and down. “Were you leaving?”

I nod, giving her a quick smile. “I thought I better go check in at the hotel. It’s somewhere near here.”

I still take the bag of candy though. I’m not passing that up.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “We were hoping Anders could convince you to come to Todalen with us.” She exchanges a glance with Lise. “I know we don’t really know each other, but Lise and I are there for a few more days and it would be nice to have someone else to talk to other than Uncle Per and our brother. Roar is staying here in the city. And the girls in the village are boring.”

“Even if Anders doesn’t think so,” Lise adds with a smirk.

That comment digs deeper than it should. Astrid gives Lise a warning look.

“I was going to walk Shay to her hotel,” Anders says as he comes back. He picks up his jacket and shrugs it on and I do everything not to stare at his shoulders.

“You sure we can’t convince you?” Lise asks me.

I have to admit, it feels really good to be wanted, even by people you barely know. Really good. But I’ve made up my mind.

“Thank you, but I’m just going to stick to my original plan.”

Astrid looks crestfallen. “Ah, well I hope you have a good time in Norway, regardless. It was really nice meeting you.”

She pulls me into a quick hug and Lise does the same.

Anders grabs the keys from Astrid and then gives me a nod. “Ready to go?”

“You know I can find the place on my own, I have my phone,” I tell him as I wave once more at his sisters and head out the door. The rain is falling again, a cold wind whipping up.

“You’re in a city you’ve never been to and it’s one I know everything about,” he says. “I’m walking you to your hotel. It’s the absolute, very least, I can do.”

He’s right about that. We head up the small hill to get my backpack from the trunk of the car. I tell him the hotel name and head back to where the bar was, heading to the left on the cobblestoned road. It’s light out still, even though it feels like it should be dark, and despite the rain, more and more people bike past us.

“Everyone here must be super healthy,” I remark, as a girl with long, wet blonde hair bikes past, looking totally fresh-faced.

“We need to work off all the beer,” Anders says, grabbing hold of his belly, even though he probably doesn’t have anything other than lean muscle on him.

I wonder how much his body has changed. If there are more tattoos. If my hands were to touch him again, would they recognize his skin?

Stay focused, I tell myself. Almost there.

“You know the offer is on the table,” he says to me. “If you change your mind. At any time.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I’ve thought about you a lot.”

Oh god. Please don’t start.

I make a small grunt, the only response I can muster.

He goes on. “I often thought about getting in touch with you, but I didn’t know how.”

“You became Facebook friends with Everly,” I point out.

“And honestly, it was just to get closer to you.”

Oh fuck. Why is he telling me this?

My throat feels thick and I have trouble swallowing. “Well, you’re pretty close to me right now.”

“And I’d like to get closer.”

I stop walking and give him an incredulous look. “Are you hitting on me?”

He stops too. Stands tall, eyeing me with a faint smirk. If it weren’t for his beard, I would see his dimples. “You’d know it if I was hitting on you, Shay. I’m just being honest, that’s all.” He nods at something over my shoulder. “That’s your hotel right there.”

I turn around and see a red boathouse done up like a B&B. He’s right.

“So,” he says, holding out his hand. “I guess this is goodbye. We never got to do it right the first time.”

Damn. Part of me wishes he’d keep on fighting.

I stare down at his hand. It’s a peace offering. It’s closure.

It’s wishful thinking.

“All right,” I tell him. I put my hand in his and he grasps it, hard.

It’s just a handshake. Just a way to say goodbye.

Just skin on skin.

But it’s so much more than skin on skin.

It’s the way my hand fits into his, like it always did.

It’s memories, both bitter and sweet.

Suddenly, the last thing I want to do is let go of his warm, strong grip. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so grounded and untethered at the same time.

“Goodnight,” I whisper. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Shay,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “It was very nice to see you again.”

Then he lets go and it’s like I’m missing a limb.

He turns and walks down the shiny, cobblestone street.

I want to yell after him.

But I don’t know what I’d say.

There’s still too much to say.

Instead, I turn around and head to the hotel to check in.

* * *

That night, I lie in bed, unable to sleep, feelings ripping through me, leaving me hollow.

They are hungry feelings.

I feel reckless and wanting. Like I want to give in.

I’m reminded of a poem I read once.

She wants so much, too much
for things that don’t want her
for things that aren’t things
for hearts that aren’t hearts.

She wants so much,
that I give her all of me
and she barely notices
that it’s what she wanted all along.

6

Shay

Then

Sex.

It’s all I think about.

All the fucking time.

And to be honest, I’m not even sure if this is normal. Everly and I talk about sexy very loosely. I know that she’s had sex with her ex, Jeff, but other than a few basic details, she never brings it up. Though she talks about dick all the time, it’s usually in a humorous way.

Then there’s my other friend, Jen Brown, who proudly sleeps around. She’d understand my crazy sex thoughts, but she has this way of making you feel particularly uncool if you ask her anything, as if you’re much younger and she knows everything. I’m not going down that road.

And anyway, I’m not going to talk to my sister about sex either. Hannah may be older, but I guarantee she’s a virgin too. I’ve never seen a boy around her, even now with her going to university. Sex, boys, makeup, alcohol—anything remotely cool and Hannah doesn’t even bat an eye. She’ll probably grow up to be the scientist who discovers the cure for cancer, but she won’t be able to find her own G-spot.

Not that I have. But I’ve tried. Cosmo magazines are a wealth of knowledge.

Then there’s my mother, whom I probably wouldn’t even speak to even if she were here with us and not acting like a fool over our father in Mumbai. Ever since she took him back (fuck, she didn’t even take him back, she begged him back after all he did to her. Who does that?), I’ve resolved to never take a word of advice from her again. Choosing dad over us—again—when she should be running for the hills and asking for a divorce.

I don’t get it, and the more I think about it, the angrier I become.

So maybe it’s a good thing I’ve got sex on the brain.

I mean, how can I not when I have Anders to distract me.

I’ve been seeing Anders for one month now.

We’ve only kissed.

Okay, I shouldn’t say we’ve only kissed.

His kisses are more than any kisses I’ve had before. They are soul-searing.

Imprinting.

And highly addictive.

Of course, he’s also felt me up more than a few times, and by a few times, I mean last night, and I wasn’t about to bat his hands away because he knows exactly what he’s doing with them. He doesn’t paw at me the way that Phil Hadzocos did when we were dating, as if my boobs were to be treated like a stress ball.

Maybe it’s because Anders is foreign and has that ridiculously sexy accent, and that gorgeous slim body, and those wonderful words he purrs into my ears.

You taste like stardust.

I have heaven in my hands.

You’re going to feel me even when I’m gone.

See what I mean about imprinting?

I’m sure his words are cheesy to some, maybe. But not the way he says it. Not with those intense eyes of his, the ones that rip through me, that taunt me with secrets I may never uncover about him. His words are him and I believe them with every part of me.

I want nothing more than to lose my virginity to Anders Johansen.

Some might even say I’m in love with him.

But how terribly tragic it is to be in love, especially when it’s your first. Because that can never work out. People don’t marry their high school sweethearts anymore, and if they do and they make it work, I’m sure they’re one of the lucky few. I’m a realist. I know what the world gives us. I know that if you fall in love once, you should be prepared to fall in love over and over again. With as many different people as possible. Because how do you know it’s love if you have nothing to compare it to?

But that’s why it’s so scary and why currently, as I sit in my bedroom, stacks of magazines in my feet, freshly painted toenails, I refuse to entertain the topic. I’m all about sex instead. Sex is easier to handle. I think. I hope. Because what if you fall in love, lose the guy and then later on in life, many loves later, you realize that first love was the only one to really stick.

Then what?

That can’t be me.

I refuse to fall in love with my boyfriend.

But mark my words, I will sleep him before the week is through.

7

Shay

Now

I can’t sleep.

I toss and turn, my blankets wrapping around me to the point of near strangulation.

Ever since I checked-in to my hotel, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Anders. Not even for a second. I don’t even bother updating my social media or texting back Everly like I should, or emailing my mom like she asked.

I just pace around my room or stare out the window at the river below, wishing I wasn’t so alone.

Wishing I had said yes.

Stubborn. I’m stubborn and stupid. In the dregs of my subconscious, I know I’d been hoping, praying, that I would run into Anders, as much as I was hoping I wouldn’t. Now that I did, it feels so…petty…just to leave it like I did.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it wasn’t—but something tells me whatever force placed him on my path meant for something more to happen. After all these years, all the things I imagined saying to him, none of them were said. There was no closure. Nothing was resolved. All my run-in with Anders did was remind me that I had a chance to finally talk to him, put the past behind me, dare I say, get over him, and I was too stubborn to even entertain his offer.

By the time three a.m. rolls around and I’m half-off the bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain with a heavy, thumping heart, I know what I have to do.

It’s not over.

And with that in my head, I finally fall asleep.

* * *

When morning rolls around, the first thing I do, beside rubbing my bleary-eyes and wondering for a moment where the hell I am, is pick up my phone and get on Facebook. I hadn’t even thought to give him my number or ask for his last night, not even any way to stay in touch.

I go onto Everly’s page and scroll through her friends list (how the hell does she have so many?) and when I find Anders, I promptly add him as a friend.

I take a shower and get ready slowly, every two minutes I’m picking up my phone and checking to see if he’s accepted my friend request or not. I know I could send him a message, but it would just go to his “Other” folder on Facebook and I don’t know who remembers to check that. It’s usually full of unwanted sexual advances from men who want you to be their bride in exchange for holding some money for them.

When eleven a.m. rolls around, I know I’m shit out of luck. I have a half an hour to let the guesthouse know if I’m staying another night or I’m charged for it.

At 11:16, Anders accepts my friend request.

I pounce on it like an animal and fire him off a quick message, no time to think:

Hey, you know I was thinking I wouldn’t mind coming to Todalen after all. How do I get there?

His response is almost immediate: Stay right where you are. I’ll be at the hotel in two hours. There’s a coffee shop across the street called Beanz if you need to get out.

Well, I didn’t expect that. I quickly message him back, telling him it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do that for me and I’m happy taking a train if there is one, or a bus. But as I call the front desk from my room phone and inform them that I’ll be checking out early, my message to him goes unread.

Shit. I guess he’s on his way.

I sit down on the bed for a moment, folding up one leg under me and feeling every bit the teenager all over again. I’m even biting my lip. My heart is racing and there’s this curious feeling in my chest, like it’s an endless blue sky, full of promise.

I’m giddy. That’s what it is.

And fearful.

And nervous.

And a million other things.

Shit.

This isn’t good.

I didn’t plan for this.

Now I’m suddenly filled with the impulse to look better than I ever have before. At least better than I did yesterday. I know I have to check out ASAP, but I add a bit more makeup to my face. My skin is paler than normal thanks to that Irish winter, so I up the bronzer and blush, straighten out my bangs and slick a neutral matte lipstick across my lips. It’s reminding me of how crazy I used to go back in the day, trying to impress Anders. I would pour over all the magazines, especially Cosmopolitan, taking all the makeup tips and sex tips to heart, waiting till I could try them out. Most of the makeup tips were for white girls, but I made it work anyway. Funny how I haven’t touched that magazine in years—I don’t even think anyone over twenty-two still reads it.

I eye myself in the mirror and think I look cute. Not exactly sexy, since I’m wearing a Norwegian sweater I picked up in Oslo, jeans and boots, but good enough. When you’ve been traveling for as long as I have and essentially living out of a small duffel bag and a giant backpack, your “sexy” outfits tend to get thrown aside for anything comfortable and easy to wash. I used to be a girly girl back in Brooklyn, but here I’m in stretchy jeans and leggings and cardigans most of the time.

I quickly pack up my bags and head downstairs to the lobby. The hotel owner is very nice and doesn’t mind me sitting around, though after a while (and a million photos of the river view and the brightly colored boathouses across the way later) I’m bored, so I pick up my stuff and head across the street to the coffee shop Anders mentioned.

I feel like I’m waiting for a date to show up. I’m sure if I didn’t have my duffel bag on the floor and my backpack in the chair across from me, I’d look like it too. I keep taking careful sips of my coffee—damn, they drink it so strong here—and glancing out the window. Whenever someone enters the coffee shop, I look up, and when it’s not Anders I feel a curious mix of relief and regret. I wonder which emotion is going to win out in the end.

At least I’m living in the moment now, because I’m feeling absolutely everything. I have to remind myself to relax, to not get carried away. It would probably be for the best if I did everything I could to forget that I ever dated Anders, loved him, lost my virginity to him, had my heart severely torn by him. If I could just pretend that he was someone new strolling into my life, a handsome, hot, rugged as hell stranger who walks into this coffee shop and sweeps me away, if just to a small village for some local flavor.

I bring out my journal to distract me, wondering if Anders still writes in his. The poetry he would scribble down day-in and day-out still sticks with me to this day.

Stop that, I tell myself. There is no past, only now.

The door chime goes off, echoing across the shop.

I look up.

Anders walks in, immediately spotting me, his dark eyes meeting mine. I swear our pupils must be magnetized because when he holds me in his stare, I’m powerless to look away.

My heart jumps as he walks forward with his large frame, moving between the tables with ease, and I’m reminded of a time in Capri, climbing to the top of a bunch of smooth, high rocks and balancing for a heady moment, just me and the air and the sea, before diving straight down.

It’s that feeling of the unknown.

The freedom.

Then the fall.

Oh my god. This man is going to break me all over again.

But I can’t run. I want to, more than anything. I can’t run from my past any more than I can run to it. Because my past is coming to me.

“Hi there,” he says to me, voice like cream. That accent is always icing on the cake.

“Hi,” I say, staring up at him. I smile.

He smiles back. Close-lipped and just a bit wicked. It’s almost a relief to see after the confused and brooding way he was last night.

“I was thinking,” I tell him as I get to my feet, pressing my hands down on the table. “That maybe we ought to start over.”

He cocks his head and a lock of his tousled hair falls across his forehead. “Start over?”

“Pretend we are meeting for the first time. Today. Right now.”

He frowns, shoving his hands into the pockets of his deep green rain jacket. “Erase the past.”

I shrug. “Maybe not erase it. Just…forget it, for now.” I rub my lips together, wincing slightly. “Please. I think it will help.”

Please don’t make me explain why. You should know why.

He nods, looking away for a moment before looking back and holding out his hand. “Anders Johansen. I’m your driver today, taking you to the long-forgotten town of Todalen. We are famous for hiking and our potato dumplings.”

I place my hand in his and just like last night, that hot thrill runs from my palm and through the rest of my body. “Shay Lavji. Brooklyn, New York. Famous for our beer and irony.”

“Nice you meet you, Shay.”

“Nice to meet you, Anders,” I tell him. I can’t help but smile at him all and when I do, something in his eyes lights up. “Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Anytime,” he says, letting go and picking up my backpack, swinging it over his shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”

I tell him yes and am about to grab my duffel bag when he grabs that too. I thank him as he strides away, and I follow him out of the café. My view of him from behind isn’t too bad—blue jeans and work boots—though I find myself wishing that his rain jacket didn’t cover his ass the way it is. I need a good look at that thing. You know, for comparison’s sake.

Today it’s overcast, with a light wind that jostles the branches of budding trees, but at least it’s not raining. To my surprise, he leads me to a vintage red sportscar.

“Is this yours?” I ask, staring at the gorgeous car.

“It is,” he says proudly, opening the hatch and throwing my bags in. “The VW belongs to my uncle, but this baby is all mine.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“A Datsun. Only the best for these roads. You can’t really fit more than two people in it, so I hope you don’t mind a tight squeeze.” Mind? My stomach gets all frothy thinking about being alone with him in the car for what seems to be a long drive.

He opens the passenger door for me. “After you,” he says.

Even as a teenager, at the heart of all that rebellion, he still had manners.

Stop that, I chide myself. Start over.

“Thank you,” I tell him, getting in.

“So what did you do last night after the bar?” he asks as he brings the car down the road, the wheels bouncing over the cobblestones.

“Stayed in my room,” I tell him, staring out the window and watching all the people going to and fro this afternoon. Normally I would be marveling at it all, the foreignness, the newness, and start wondering what it would be like to live in this city. But Anders beside me, those large hands on the steering wheel, our close proximity, is beyond distracting. Instead of being a real traveler and concentrating on the world around me, my mind keeps swinging back to the world within the car, like a pendulum.

“You didn’t even go back out?” he asks incredulously. “What did you do for dinner?”

I give him a sheepish look. “I ate all the candy your sisters got me.”

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “Well, I’ll tell you what, as soon as we get into Todalen I’ll take you to the one and only restaurant. I hope you like potato dumplings, because that’s all they have.”

“One thing on the menu? How modern.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it.”

I have to admit, my stomach is rumbling at the thought.

“As long as it’s not covered in herring, I’ll be okay,” I tell him. Half-joking, because ew.

“What happened to the adventurous eater who liked to try everything?” he asks, chuckling softly. “Remember that time we went out for sushi and you ate the…what was it, sea urchin?”

I smile at him tightly.

“Oh sorry,” he says, dark brows drawn together. “I forgot. Don’t mention the past.” His knuckles clench the wheel for a moment before relaxing. “Anyway, I guess I should show you the Trondheim cathedral while we’re here.”

He takes me down a narrow street lined with trees and cafes where people are trying to soak up the weak sunshine. Across from the street is a giant, gothic, almost frightening looking cathedral that dwarfs the picnickers relaxing on the expansive lawn below.

“Our most famous medieval church, the Nidaros Cathedral,” he explains as he pulls into a parking space. “Oldest one in Scandinavia, too.”

We get out of the car and walk around, peering up at the copper-roofed spires, now a milky green, feeling the watch of gargoyles and faces carved into doorways. It’s gorgeous and eerie at the same time, and I take a moment to soak it in and wonder how the hell this thing was built so many centuries ago.

“Want to go inside?” I ask him as we pause by the giant front doors. You can smell the musty pews inside and the herbal quality of so many offerings coming through from the darkened interior.

He shakes his head. “I’ve been judged enough,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

I give him a curious look but he doesn’t go on. I don’t remember the teenage Anders having any problems with churches or religion. But then again, there was a lot—too much—I didn’t know about him.

I finish taking a few photos with my phone, focusing on the stone statues carved into the front, before we head back to the Datsun and make our way out of the city, heading past suburbs and strip malls that remind me of home. If home was brightly colored with that tidy, modern Scandinavian slant.

We’re silent for most of the drive, which I don’t mind. And for whatever reason, the silence isn’t awkward at all, it’s comfortable.

For once it allows me to focus on the journey, and even though I’m aware of Anders’ presence at all times, I feel my mind wandering blissfully. We pass through tiny towns, villages, settlements. The valleys are so lush and green it hurts my eyes, the mountains and forests rising up behind red barns and white farmhouses. Everywhere you look is a photograph waiting to happen, and when I roll down the window, the air smells like hay and grass and life being born again.

I close my eyes, smile, feeling the sun on my face and the sweet wind in my hair and I think, I’m happy.

The thought almost comes as a shock. I can’t remember the last time I really felt it.

Or maybe the moments have been too far between. That’s the thing about happiness. It comes and goes. There are moments of being happy, experiencing it purely, followed by moments of just being. There’s nothing wrong with being either, putting one foot in front of the other, air in and air out.

But the world makes you think you need to feel happy all the time. I don’t think that’s possible, at least not with me. Maybe true happiness is having moments like this and finding a way to hold onto them for as long as you can. Maybe happiness should be rationed, and when you run out, you need to create your own happiness to fill the gaps.

“What are you thinking about?” Anders silken voice slides into my thoughts.

I keep my eyes closed, the sun on my face. I should have known he’d be watching me. He always had that way about him. I guess that’s the poet in him. Always watching, always observing. Even when he should be watching the road.

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how deep I want to get with him. “Happiness.”

He mulls that over.

“And what are your thoughts about it?” he asks curiously.

I look back out the window at the passing mountains. “I think it’s a myth that people can and should be happy all the time.”

“I agree.”

“I think it’s an emotion that comes and goes.”

“Like the tide. It comes in but it will always go back out. That doesn’t make it good or bad. It just is. It’s life.”

“Yeah.” I turn my head over to look at him. He has his wayfarers over his eyes now so I can’t see his expression, though he is chewing on his lower lip in such a way that makes me want to chew on it too. I look back to the road and clear the image from my head. “Personally, when I think back to the moments where I was really happy, you know, when you’re just floating and you can’t stop smiling and you want to drop everything and do a little dance, it’s usually because some event has specifically happened to you. You’re not waking up like that every day because life is just that damn good, unless you happen to be some crazy lucky person where those events just keep piling up, one after another.”

“It sounds exhausting.”

“It would be. The happiness pile-up.”

“Some might call that falling in love though,” he says, so casually that I’m starting to believe he’s truly forgotten the past. “You know. Every day is just another pile-up until it gets too overwhelming, you can’t even move.”

Sounds pretty accurate, I think. “And then what do you do? Wait for rescue?” I ask softly.

“You get out,” he says simply.

And he got out all right. Without a single scratch to him, leaving me alone in the burning wreckage, leaving me to crawl out on my own.

That’s love for you.

“Unless you’re Pharell,” Anders quickly adds. “He’s got that ‘Happy’ thing going for him.” He glances at me, shoulders seeming to lift, brow softening. “So, how are…tell me about your family,” he says, playing along. “Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

I’m still smarting from his remark about love, but I’m grateful for the distraction, that he’s pretending to not know anything about my family when he does. “One sister, Hannah. She’s older and a pain in the ass. Do you remember…well, no you wouldn’t. In America we have these books called the Baby-Sitters Club Series and I used to be obsessed with them when I was little. There were hundreds of them, all written by ghost writers, something I learned recently that totally ruined my world, but anyway, one of the characters, Claudia, she had this older sister Janine. This complete nerd and not in the cute nerd girl way. She rarely smiled, didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, and spent all her days studying. She was supposed to be this genius, even though she was only fifteen and was pretty much the opposite of Claudia in every way.” I pause and take a breath, even though Anders already knows everything I’m telling him. “Well, that’s Hannah to a tee. Who knew I’d be able to relate to a ghost-written fictional character so well? Now she’s in college, getting her PhD already in some science sector I don’t understand, and lives with some older man in Boston.”

“Doesn’t sound like an easy person to relate to,” Anders comments.

I shake my head. “She’s not. We’ve got better since…well, over the years. But considering she was like my substitute mom throughout most of high school, you’d think we’d be closer somehow.”

“It doesn’t work that way with family,” he says. “Blood doesn’t bring you closer any more than distance does. I should know.”

I watch him. That grip on the steering wheel, the sparrow growing distorted and pale. “Oh yeah?”

He nods but presses his lips together and doesn’t continue. He’s always been that way. Getting information out of him was nearly impossible. Sure, he could recite you poetry or some wordy confession, but it had to come from him. You could never get it out of him on your own. He gave you what you wanted only when he decided to. It explains why throughout the eight months of us dating, he still remained a mystery to me.

To my surprise, he continues. “My father and I…before I was sent to America, my father brought me on board for a two-week fishing trip. At the time we weren’t doing so well. Our relationship, I mean. When my mother left us, we all took it hard and we all had to do what we had to do. Even if it wasn’t what we wanted.”

He licks his lips and gets a faraway look in his eyes. The air between us grows heavy and I think that maybe he’s done talking. “Anyway, I know what my dad was trying to do. To make me see how he made a living. To make me understand. The hardships, the sacrifices. All those things you don’t give a shit about when you’re young, not until you’re older and it’s too late. I didn’t appreciate it. I didn’t bond with him. All it did was make things worse. We even fought one night and…” he trails off. Gives a quick shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter. Blood or not, relationships can’t be forced. More than that, empathy can’t be forced. Understanding. You know?”

I nod. “I know.”

We drive in silence for a few more moments, before taking a turn-off that leads between towering mountains, their peaks bald with rock and alpine shrub. They look like monks, deep in meditation, on their own eternal quest for happiness.

“Are you happy?” I find myself asking him.

He gives me a quick glance. “Such serious topics for people who have only just met.”

I smile expectantly and stare at him for an answer.

He looks back to the road, momentarily biting his lip in thought. “No.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised, considering what we just talked about. “Not even sometimes?”

“Oh, everyone is happy sometimes. Just like you said. But when those sometimes are few and far between, I think no is the only answer.” He glances at me again. “I can tell you I was happy this morning.”

“You were?”

“I saw your message on Facebook. That made me happy.”

I look away, busying myself with the scenery. “Oh,” I say. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but my cheeks grow hot.

Soon we’re heading through tunnels until the world to the right of me opens up and we’re coasting along an absolute fairy-tale.

Holy shit. It’s even more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

“Welcome to Todalen,” Anders says, pulling to small look-out point on the side of the road.

I get out and am immediately overwhelmed by it all. Behind us are the steep, forested mountains that come crashing down to our feet, the narrow road snaking along the base and into a picturesque valley. In front of us are more mountains with snow-dusted caps that seem to rise straight out of the blue sea like an ancient jawbone. In the space between us and the land, gulls dance above a small fishing boat cutting through the water.

“Wow,” I say, sitting down on a bolder at the edge of the cliff, a sharp path below leading down a few feet to the deep water. “It’s stunning.”

“Ja,” he says, standing beside me, hands on hips. “I must say, whenever I come back home it’s nice to have this view greeting me.”

The sun feels stronger here and I’m quickly shedding my sweater and holding out my arms, trying to soak up the sun while I can. “I don’t think I’ve felt the sun since I left Italy.”

“I bet you have a lot of stories about that place,” he says, grinning down at me. “A girl like you.”

I glance up at him, wincing from the sun in my eyes. “A girl like me?”

He just nods. “Come on.” And he goes around the car, getting back in.

Honestly I could just sit here forever, holding on to happiness, but I get up, dusting off my ass, and hop back in.

The engine revs and with a quick smile from Anders, we take off.

8

Anders

Loneliness is a ragged dog
howling at your door

It haunts you

Sinks in your bones

Because you know these dogs are everywhere

Waiting outside everyone’s door

Crying, whimpering, shaking

Begging to be let inside

It’s okay to let them in once

Let them sniff around

Piss on your heart

Curl up at the foot of your soul

But always let them out in the morning

And never, ever feed them.

I have to pinch myself.

My fingers cutting into the palm of my hand should do the trick.

But there are no tricks to make this all seem real.

This impossible reality.

Shay Lavji is sitting across from me in the restaurant, delicately sipping a glass of water and trying hard not to stare at all the people and the sights around her, just as the people are trying hard not to stare at her. It’s all locals—seniors mostly—in this place and rarely do we have anyone that looks like Shay.

But if she notices, she doesn’t show it. And she’s not always so good at pretending.

That’s one of the reasons I fell for her in the first place.

I could read everything in her eyes.

I liked what I saw.

Until I saw myself reflected back in them.

I didn’t quite like that.

“So, potato dumplings are all they do,” Shay says, keeping her voice down as if she’s afraid to offend someone. The people here don’t care. They all know me, though they pretend not to, and they’re just happy to be eating.

“When you have something that works, you do it,” I tell her.

The restaurant we’re in is the only one in the village. It’s not open every day, and sometimes only for lunch, sometimes only for dinner, and rarely outside of tourist season. It’s also an old lodge, the only place in town to stay. It’s a grand old thing, done up traditionally with a pine interior, along with the grass on the roof that Shay seems so fascinated by. To be honest, the roof could use a little trim.

“Do you know what the leading cause of death in Norway is?”

She looks at me curiously. “What?”

I point at the ceiling. “Mowing the roof. I can’t tell you how many times those lawnmowers end up crushing someone.”

Her eyes widen, so big, beautiful and brown. “Really?”

I grin at her and nod. I’ll let her believe it for as long as she wants.

“Ah, Anders I haven’t seen you in so long,” Hilde says to me in Norwegian, smiling big and showing off her missing tooth as she delivers us our plates of dumplings. She looks over at Shay. “Oh, sorry,” she says, in stunted English. “So glad to have visitors to our town. Welcome.”

Hilde scuttles her overly plump behind away to run an order to another table.

“Is she the one running the place?” Shay asks as she stares down at the meal. I know she looks a bit unsure, but in my eyes it looks fucking delicious. Fluffy potato dumplings, sausage, and boiled carrots and onions. It’s enough to feed two people.

“She runs the food and her husband cooks,” I tell her, gesturing to the corner of the room where the jug of water, cups, and coffee are. “You need a drink, you get it yourself. It’s how it’s been run for decades.” I cut into the sausage. “Trust me, you haven’t had a restaurant meal like this before. It’s what you’d call ‘the real deal.’”

She looks more than unsure. Deliriously cute. But she braves the dumpling first.

“Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up as she chews. “It’s fucking good.”

“I told you,” I tell her, and my mind flashes with a reel of memories, all sliding past each other. When we used to date, when we were together, I would do everything in my power to get her to try new things, to push herself. Whether it was going out for sushi, or trying surfing in the middle of winter on Long Island, or breaking into the community pool in the middle of the night (I didn’t say all these things were legal), she’d always protest at first and it would always end with I told you so.

But I can’t bring that up because she wants to pretend like we don’t know each other at all.

I know why she’s doing it. I know I hurt her and, even though the time has passed, I know she’s still angry. I know this because I’m still angry with myself, so I can’t imagine how she feels. Eight years is a long time to carry around a coffin of feelings, the rusty pangs of guilt and regret.

So I’m going along with it. It’s just harder than I thought. What we are to each other right now can’t be based on anything on other than what we were to each other. Even though I’d been with her for less than a year, that year left its scar on me and she was part of that. She was both the wound and the balm.

Honestly, I can’t believe my luck. I’m not lying to her when I tell her that it’s fate that brought us together. Maybe fate doesn’t have an Instagram account, but I really didn’t expect to see her on the train station steps. I was watching her stories, I knew that she was arriving in Trondheim at three p.m., but we left the town late, so I really didn’t think I had a chance of finding her. I thought she’d be lost in the city somewhere, never to be found, and she wouldn’t be here, in Todalen of all places, with me, having dinner.

I dig my nails harder into my palm.

They barely hurt, but at least I know I’m not dreaming.

Shay eats ravenously, like I’m not even here, which I like. There’s something downright sexual about watching a woman devour her food, like she might just do the same with you. Food gives you pleasure, and pleasure shouldn’t be denied. Besides, I think it says she’s comfortable being with me.

Unfortunately, she looks up from her feast and catches me staring at her. I want to look away, to at least act ashamed, but I don’t.

“Sorry,” she says through a mouthful, reaching for her serviette.

“Don’t be,” I tell her. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

Christ, she really is beautiful, even when she’s stuffing her face. Sure, she was stunning to look at on her Instagram photos, even though they were mainly selfies, which are usually less than genuine. All posed with false purpose. But in person, seeing her now, as a woman in the flesh, she’s indescribable.

No. Not indescribable. I can do better than that. If I had to choose a word, it would be silk. Everything about her is silken, from her brown smooth skin to her thick hair, to her velvety eyes and lush lips, to the way her curves all run into each other, like a dark river on a warm night. She beckons me, to take a swim, to drown in her. And she doesn’t even know it.

I swallow and attempt to eat the rest of my food. Moments ago it looked so appetizing, but now my body is hungry for something else. My chest lights up like a flare in the darkness. There’s no romantic way to describe my erection, which is pressing against my jeans and thankfully hidden by the table.

When we’re done with our meal and Shay is rubbing her stomach in an exaggerated way, I quickly settle up the bill with Hilde and we’re back on our way.

“Todalen is such a small town that most Norwegians don’t even know where it is,” I explain to Shay as she takes in the surroundings while seeming to slip into a food coma. “What it has going for it though is an unbelievable location, right at the end of the Vinjefjorden. Back in the old days you could take a steamship all the way up the fjord to Kristiansand and the sea, though now the town is pretty much a dead-end, save for hikers wanting to head into the surrounding mountain trails or the famous Trollheimen Park. We have a furniture factory that serves as the key employer, a primary school that keeps having the threat of being shut down, a church, the restaurant-slash-lodge that you were just in, and a general store. We don’t even have a bar, but that doesn’t matter much since everyone finds reasons to party. There are plenty of farms in this valley and not many neighbors to piss off with excessive noise. And believe me, we can get rowdy.”

A knowing smile tugs at her lips. She remembers. “You sound like you could write tourist brochures for this place.”

“If I ever need a third job, I’ll keep that in mind.”

The farm is located on the south side of the fjord, past a smattering of houses that line the shore. Shay stares out the window, oohing and ahhing over the things I take for granted every day: flower-filled window boxes, houses painted marigold and cherry, fragile attic windows tucked away under ornately carved archways. The houses then give way to forests with mossy floors, streams of gold light coming through the tops of the trees. For once I feel my surroundings, just by seeing it through her eyes. It seems like a land Tolkien would have dreamt up.

I also feel this strange surge of pride running through me, like I’d just slammed back a shot of it. I guess this is the first time I’ve shown my home to anyone, let alone anyone whose opinion I care about.

“Oh wow,” Shay says as we pass by a farm that slopes to the sea, tiny red huts with moss-covered roofs. I slow down so she can roll down the window and take a picture with the mountains reflecting on the fjord and cows at the water’s edge, even though I know she’ll have plenty of opportunity later to walk down this road and take a million photos to her heart’s content. I can’t wait to give her one of my cameras and see her really come alive with it.

“And here she is,” I tell her, parking the car alongside the fence. “Home.”

The farm is at the very end of the road, the house a giant two-story plus attic, painted white for as long as I can remember, with rust-red trim and an overgrown roof. If the whole mowing the roofs thing were true, our house could use a trim.

To one side of the house is the lawn sweeping to a small beach, bands of aqua and turquoise in the shallows before the sea floor drops off into murky dark depths. To the other side, the mountains rise up like soldiers on guard. When I was a kid, that’s what I always likened them to, like the earth was watching over me. Though I have to say that when times got tough, it wasn’t hard to imagine them as menacing giants, waiting to crush me in my sleep.

Finally, beyond the house are the barns where we keep the dairy cows and the sheep, not that there’s a lot of them. That’s primarily our source of income, farm-wise. There are a lot of sheep and dairy farms in the valley, but I guess because my family has had this farm for over a century, we’re still able to have some influence on the community. It doesn’t pay all the bills—hence my fishing boat—but for now we’re getting by.

“I can’t believe you live here,” Shay says, taking it all in as she steps out of the car. “This is like…something from make-believe. I expect a troll to pop up behind those rocks at any second.”

“Hey,” I say sternly, trying not to smile, “don’t say anything ill about the trolls. They can hear you.”

She sticks her tongue out at me playfully and laughs.

I’d forgotten what a gorgeous sound that was. It ruptures something hard and black and dark inside me.

“There you are!” Astrid says, running out of the house. Lise is behind her, throwing a scarf around her shoulders and sipping on a mug. “We thought you’d never come back.”

I jerk my head at Shay. “I took her to Hilde’s for early dinner.”

Astrid raises her brows, incredulous. “Hilde’s?” She shoots Shay an apologetic look. “How romantic, huh? He takes you to dinner at four with all the old farts. What did you have to drink? Coffee or water?” She giggles and comes over to Shay, pulling her into a quick hug. “Glad you have you here.”

“All right, Astrid,” I tell her, making a shooing gesture with my hands. “Go run along now.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, coming over to smack me on the arm. I can smell beer on her. She and Lise have probably cracked open a few bottles already. “She needs a tour. And not the Anders tour which is just grunting at objects and kicking stuff over.” I frown at her, completely befuddled. “Come on Shay.” She grabs her arm, leading Shay off toward the house and Lise. Shay looks back at me and shrugs.

I sigh, running my hand through my hair, and get Shay’s stuff out of the trunk.

The house is old but beautiful, and if you’re into history and the way things were, especially the way things were made, then it’s practically a treasure chest. Luckily, Astrid knows her stuff about the house and is filling Shay in about my grandparents and their grandparents and so on as they go from the foyer to the mud room to the kitchen to the dining room to the living room to the sitting room. I trail behind with the bags, catching snippets of Shay’s laughter and her impressed comments over the handmade tapestries on the walls, to the rugs on the floor, the lace curtains and the wood carvings and everything that makes this house what it is.

It’s actually Astrid who has done most of the decorating in the house. When our mother was here, she put away all our family’s things into boxes in the attic, I guess to make her own mark. Looking back, that was probably a red flag in itself, like she felt she’d be erased if her stuff wasn’t surrounding her. Then, after our mother left us, we took all her things and put them in the attic. As the oldest female in the house, Astrid took it upon herself to give the house a feminine touch. I would hate to think of the place it would turn into if it were just Uncle Per and I.

Speaking of Uncle Per, he’s in the living room, watching TV and snacking on a plate of gingersnaps.

“Uncle Per,” Astrid says in Norwegian as we step into the room, sunlight sneaking in through lace curtains. “This is Anders girlfriend, Shay.”

“Hei,” I tell her sharply, my eyes flitting to Shay and back, incredibly grateful she can’t understand the Norwegian we’re speaking. “Friend from America. From high school.”

Uncle Per is staring at me with a ‘yeah right’ look on his face. He looks over at Shay, eyes her up and down and then grunts. “Tell her she is welcome, whoever she is.”

Shay has that awkward look on your face that you get when you don’t understand the language everyone is speaking. “He doesn’t speak English,” I explain to her. “But he says you’re welcome, make yourself at home.”

“Oh.” Shay looks at Uncle Per and shoots him a genuine, blinding smile that would melt the coldest block of ice. “Tusen Takk.”

Well I’ll be damned. For once, my uncle musters a smile. And even though it’s fairly easy to remember how to say thanks very much in Norwegian, the sound of it coming from Shay’s lips stirs something in my soul.

After that, Astrid shows Shay to the room she’ll be staying in, Tove’s, then suggests they all get some beers and relax by the fjord.

I have to say, as much as I would love to take part, I have work to do. I skipped on it early to go and get her, and I can tell from the way that Uncle Per is watching TV, half comatose, that he’s done for the day. Besides, I don’t exactly feel like sharing Shay with my sisters—god knows what they’ll tell her. I’d rather have her alone and to myself.

For what? I ask myself. You really think she’d be interested in you that way, after all that happened? After all this time? It’s been so fucking long.

I swallow hard and try to put myself in the right headspace.

It’s not easy.

As the girls go down to the water, I head into the fields. It’s lambing season, which means usually Uncle Per or I will be up at dawn to see if any lambs have been born during the night. It doesn’t happen that often, considering we don’t have many sheep left, and the lambing season stretches on for a few months. We’re at the end of it now, but even so, I know there are two ewes that have yet to give birth.

I feed the lambs and ewes in the lambing pen, making sure they have fresh grains, hay, and water, then head into the main barn and do the same. The cows are out to pasture, and I do a walk around the perimeter checking the fence. Tomorrow morning I’ll be taking over the early shift, getting the cows in to be milked and then it’s a full day. I was lucky to get the day off while I did.

With that thought, I head back to the house, wash up, and put the kettle on for tea. I peer through the window, craning my neck to see if the girls are still down by the water. It’s been two hours and I know Lise is in charge of dinner tonight.

“Hey.”

I whirl around to see Shay standing in the doorway, smiling unsurely at me. Her cheeks are flushed, probably from the alcohol, though I’d like to think it’s from the sight of me.

“Hi,” I respond, leaning back against the sink. “It’s getting cold out.”

“I know, I’m not built for this Nordic weather like you are,” she says. “I was going to get a sweater. Maybe a scarf.”

“My sisters should be coming now anyway; Lise is supposed to cook tonight.”

“Do you all take turns?”

“Well, I usually do the cooking when it’s just me and my uncle, but when the girls are here I have to put them to work, even when the dinner is cooked under the influence.”

She laughs. “They are pretty tipsy.”

“And you?”

She gives me a lazy grin. “I’m feeling pretty good. Though, man, can Astrid talk your ear off.”

I chuckle just as the kettle starts whistling. “That she does. I had to walk around with earplugs in when I was younger.”

“No…”

“It’s true. Want some tea?”

“Sure,” she says. “As long as it doesn’t keep me up at night.”

“Not this stuff,” I tell her, grabbing an extra teabag for her and pouring her a cup. “There’s no caffeine in Chamomile. I have to be up at five-thirty in the morning.”

“Why?”

I stroll over to her, handing her the mug. Our fingers brush against each other as she takes it from me, and I don’t want to look away from her eyes. They swallow me whole and I’m more than willing to go.

“Work,” I tell her, my voice low. “The cows need milking, the ewes need to be checked on. My uncle will do some, I’ll do the rest.”

She bites her lip for a moment. “Can I help?”

I can’t help but grin. “You want to get up that early and help on the farm?”

“Why not?” she says with a shrug, walking around me and taking a seat at the breakfast table. “You’re letting me stay here and eat your food and drink your cider, it’s the least I can do.”

“Yeah, but,” I start, sitting down across from her. I have to pause because the sight of us both at the table, steaming mugs of tea in our hands, in my kitchen, in Norway, is nothing sort of astounding. And more than that, it feels right.

If only I could do right by her. This time.

“But what?” she asks.

I cup my palms around the mug. “But you’re my guest here. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to lift a finger.”

She smiles shyly, a thick strand of hair falling across her cheek. It takes everything in me not to reach across the table and tuck it behind her ear. To feel what her hair feels like again. To be that close. My fingers are practically itching.

I sip my tea instead, even though it scalds my throat.

“You know I’m helping you tomorrow, don’t you,” she says after a moment.

“I had a feeling,” I admit. Stubborn as always.

I wish we could sit there for hours, just so I have an excuse to talk to her, stare at her and just be.

But Astrid and Lise soon come barging through, giggling and drunk, and take over the kitchen in a flurry of activity. The quiet moments between us are gone.

Later, after dinner, when it’s dark and the stars are out and it’s time for bed, I go down the hall. I can hear Lise and Astrid talking in Lise’s room. Uncle Per is snoring. Shay’s door is closed but light shines from underneath.

I pause outside, hoping I’m not interrupting.

I knock on her door. “Shay?” I say softly.

I hear the floorboards creak.

The door opens.

She’s in pajamas and a lacey white camisole that sets her skin off like fire. Her face is makeup free, making her look younger, vulnerable. Beautiful.

And to think someone like her is still searching for her happiness.

She’s staring up at me with curious eyes.

I smile at her softly, trying to keep my gaze focused on her face. “Just wanted to double check that you hadn’t changed your mind about tomorrow. Next time I’ll be knocking on this door it will be four forty-five in the morning.”

Her mouth drops for a moment. “You said five-thirty.”

“I said you have to be up at five-thirty. You’re going to press snooze more than a few times. Unless you think you can’t handle it.”

“Oh, I can handle it. I’ll be up and ready to go even before you knock,” she fires back, her hand on the edge of the door.

“All right then,” I tell her. “We’ll be up with the sparrows. Good night, Shay.”

“Good night,” she says, and I turn around before I see her close the door on me.

I walk down the hall, exhaling slowly, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet.

Lise’s door opens and Astrid pokes her head out.

“Hey,” Astrid whispers harshly, and walks after me.

“What?” I ask, pausing at my door.

She taps me on the shoulder, even though she already has my attention.

“I want to have a word with you,” she says, and looks down the empty hall and back. “It’s about Shay.”

I raise my brow. “What about her?”

“What did you do to her?”

I frown, swallowing thickly. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head. Her eyes narrow, a few millimeters away from her death glare. “Girls can sense things. You fucked her over, didn’t you? What did you do? Cheat on her?”

Shame is a cancer of the heart

Eating away

Until your chest is empty

And the only thing that beats

That keeps you alive

Is hate.

“It was a long time ago,” I tell her quietly. “High school, Astrid. You know how I was.”

“I know how you were before you left, and I know you were even worse when you came back.”

“What’s your point?” I’m getting fed up with her in my business, especially the past.

“My point is, Anders, that I just spent hours talking with her and I like her. Okay? I like her.” She leans it close, her finger in my face. “Don’t fuck her over. I know you broke her heart once. Don’t you dare do it again.”

She turns around and heads back to Lise’s room without looking over her shoulder.

Her words sting, barbs in my skin.

I fall asleep still feeling them.

I’d do anything not to be that person again.

9

Shay

Then

We’ve been dating for six weeks now.

Tomorrow is Halloween.

We still have not had sex.

I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me. Why won’t we progress beyond the hands down my pants and blow job stage? I mean, it’s pretty obvious that if I have his dick in my mouth, I’m up for something. And, well, so is he. Literally.

To be fair, he does want to go down on me, but I’m the one pushing him away. I don’t know. I just can’t imagine why he’d want to. It’s icky, isn’t it? And for some reason he keeps asking me. I don’t understand why any guy would want his mouth down there.

So I’m concentrating on making myself more attractive to him, in hopes we can get past the heavy petting stage (which, if I’m being honest, is more like heavy fingering). I’m pouring over my magazines, trying to apply the most “sex worthy” makeup, to make sure my legs and bikini line are always shaved, to have touchable hair and skin. Fresh breath is kissable breath, so I’m chewing gum and popping mints every time I’m in Anders’ presence.

Which is a lot. I’m with him literally every day after school and always at my house. I’ve only been to his place once, because his mother insisted on meeting me. That was a dinner from hell. You could have cut the tension between that family with a butter knife. His mother was kind, but had the resolve of their stainless-steel fridge. His stepfather was on the quiet side and barely looked at either of us. So after that, we decided to just keep hanging out at my house. After all, my sister is barely home and my parents are forever in India. You’d think that would be the perfect set-up for tons of epic sex.

Or just some sex.

Just once.

Even Everly asked me if we’d “done it yet” to which I gave her the same answer she gave me: “There are other ways to have fun.”

So for Halloween I’m going all out. I’m dressing as Cleopatra and wearing the skankiest thing I can get away with wearing at school, since we are allowed to wear our costumes, and then that night I’m taking away even more clothing. If that doesn’t get Anders’ attention, I’m not sure what will.

But, a few hours later, Anders shows up at my door unannounced.

I answer the door and he’s standing there on the steps. It’s raining lightly and the air smells like firecrackers and the threat of snow. His leather jacket is peppered with water, his hair damp and long. It’s nearly shoulder-length now. Everly says it’s the “Euro Trash” look, but I think it suits him.

“Did you walk?” I ask him, looking over his shoulder and not seeing the Mustang he usually borrows from his stepdad.

“They went out, hid the keys,” he says. There’s something weird about the way he’s looking at me. It’s intense. I know he can be an intense, brooding guy sometimes, prone to flights of fancy one moment and hot-headedness the next, but this look, this look, has me in its hold.

“You should have told me,” I tell him. “I could have taken Hannah’s car and come and got you. Or my mom’s, she said ‘emergency only’ but who cares.”

“You’re my emergency,” he says. “I couldn’t wait.”

I smile warily, intrigued. “Wait for what?”

“To tell you something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time now.”

My chest constricts. Dread. There’s something too wild about his look.

Dangerous.

Real.

Holy shit. He’s breaking up with me.

My eyes grow large, my lungs stop working all together.

He can’t…he can’t…

“Shay,” he says, walking up and stopping at the step below me, so we’re the same height. His voice is soft but ragged. As if what he’s about to say will break both of us.

He grabs my face in his hands and I watch the rain droplets slide down his cheekbones, his wet, black brows furrowed together. His eyes stare so deep into mine that I know he sees everything that I am.

He has so much power right now. So much.

“I love you,” he says.

I blink, not sure if I heard him right. All feeling leaves my body.

“What?” I ask, barely a whisper.

“I’m in love with you,” he says again, and now I recognize the look in his eyes. Feverish. Mad. “I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.”

He loves me.

“I…,” I start to say.

He loves me!

He runs his thumb over my lips. I’m glad I wore flavored ChapStick. “I don’t want you to say it back. Not ever.”

I’m dumbfounded. “Not ever?”

“They’re my words for you.”

“And what if I feel the same way?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll know it when you do,” he says, before kissing me.

And if those words, those words, hadn’t stolen all my breath away, this kiss does it.

This kiss is oceans deep.

Fingers in my hair, on my face, the small of my back.

This kiss is the prelude to my dreams.

Lips locked, we stumble back into the house.

Up the stairs.

To my room.

The door shuts.

I lay back on the bed.

I’m nervous. I’m so nervous. Anders isn’t moving, he’s standing at the foot of the bed, pinning me down with his eyes. There are so many emotions swirling in them that I don’t know which one to latch on to. There’s hope and awe and pain and anguish and lust. Pure lust.

I decide to latch onto the lust.

Because that’s what I’m feeling too.

Right down to my bones.

But still Anders doesn’t move. He continues to stare.

And the more he stares at me, the more my mind begins to drift. To think. To over-think. To worry.

But then he snaps out of it.

Moves fast.

A blur, removing his jacket and throwing it on the floor, then his shirt.

Then he climbs on the bed, hovering over me, hands skimming up the sides of my shirt. His skin is fire against mine, his palm melding to my breast as he takes off my bra, my top.

I’m bare now, my skin burning under his touch, under his gaze as he takes me in.

Please don’t hurt me, I think.

And I don’t mean the sex. I know it will hurt a little, that it will feel strange at first.

But this boy loves me.

And I love him.

And I’m about to give him my virginity.

If this doesn’t last, if this doesn’t work, I’ll be ruined. I know it. He’ll always live large in my life as the guy I first slept with. That’s something that can never be erased or taken back.

“I love you,” he whispers to me as he undoes my jeans, pulls them down over my thighs.

“I love you,” I say back, even though he told me not to.

His eyes flash with darkness and desire and something else I can’t describe.

The thrill shoots right through my heart.

He takes off his pants, presses his body against me, the hard length of him between my legs and I know this is it.

He pushes himself inside me.

It hurts, a little. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least.

But it’s him. All of him. It’s what I wanted.

I try to keep it from my face but he pauses, kissing my lips, my jaw. “Are you okay? Do you want me to stop?”

I shake my head, wincing, pressing my hands onto the hard muscles of his back. “Don’t stop.”

We can’t stop what’s already in motion.

10

Shay

Now

I’m dreaming about a swimming pool. My tears filling it, spilling over and drowning the whole world. Then there’s knocking. Always knocking, like someone is at the bottom of the pool, wanting out.

Anders.

I groan and roll over, scratchy wool on my cheek.

Where the fuck am I?

The knocking again. Louder now.

Here.

Not dreaming.

“Shay?”

The sound of a door creaking open.

I roll over again and try to sit up, to open my eyes. The room is hazy grey, on the cusp of darkness. I see a familiar silhouette in the doorway.

“Are you awake?” Anders asks, his throat extra husky in the dim of morning. “It’s five. I gave you fifteen extra minutes to sleep in.”

Good lord am I ever tired. And disoriented as fuck. I’m only now realizing I’m at his house in Todalen. Still don’t know why he’s waking me up at this ungodly time.

Oh right. I was buzzed last night and told him I’d like to help with the farm chores.

I am such a moron.

“Uh,” I say, my throat feeling stuffed with cotton. I cough. “I’m up. I, uh…was in a very deep sleep.”

“I can let you go back to sleep,” he says. “I won’t think less of you.”

“I’ll think less of me,” I tell him, even though I already hate myself for being so stubborn. I fumble for the light switch on the bedside table and flick it on. Even the low glow burns my eyes and I quickly cover them with my hands. “How do you do this every morning?” I mumble.

“Imagine only getting two hours of sleep, in a smelly bunk, in a rolling ship, in the freezing cold, day after day,” he says. “This is a piece of cake.”

I peer at him through my fingers. He’s fully dressed in jeans, a forest green flannel shirt and a brown waxed cotton jacket, a black beanie pulled low on his head. He’s holding two cups of what I pray is coffee in his hands.

“If you get up,” he says, raising the mugs. “You can have one of these. It’s coffee, it’s hot, and it’s strong.”

“Sold,” I say, about to step out of bed but then realize I kicked off my pajama pants in the middle of the night. I’m just in lace hip-huggers and a camisole. “Uh, maybe you could bring it over here, I’m not that decent.”

He gives me a wicked grin that causes some serious shivers down my back. “Oh really?”

And I know what he’s thinking—it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

I give him a pointed look until he comes over, placing the mug in my hands. “You have five minutes to get ready. We get to eat breakfast after.”

I couldn’t even imagine eating right now anyway. I’m supposed to be asleep.

He leaves the room and I sit in bed for another minute, drinking as much as I can of the coffee without scalding myself, praying it will wake me up. Then I get dressed in a jiffy, slipping on jeans and several layers under a sweater. I can feel the cold against the single pane windows.

I finish the rest of the coffee and hurry down the stairs, noting that Lise and Astrid’s doors are closed, the lucky bitches probably sleeping soundly.

“I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,” he says, standing in the kitchen and pouring coffee into a travel mug. “This is for the road.”

He strides out of the kitchen to the foyer and I follow him out into the morning.

I’m surprised at how bright it is outside, to the point I should have brought my sunglasses. The sun is already peeking over the tops of the mountains and shining on dew drops.

“Jesus,” I say, “what time does the sun rise here?”

“Four a.m.,” he says. “By the time June rolls around, it comes up at two.”

I shake my head. “That’s nuts. No wonder you Norwegians are crazy.”

He laughs. “That we are.” He hands me to the travel mug of coffee. “Come on. My Uncle’s tending to the lambs, so we’ve got the cows.”

We walk toward the barn, the morning air chilled. Birds sing from the pines at the corner of the property, and when I crane my neck back to stare at the shadowed mountains, I almost have to hold on to something. Their mass and height are so overwhelming, I’m slayed by vertigo.

“Ever been on a motorbike before?”

I look forward to see Anders standing by what looks like a dirt bike/motorcycle hybrid resting against the side of the red barn.

“Uh, what?” I ask, coming forward.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he affectionately pats the bike.

“This is how we round up the cows.”

He grabs the bike by the handles and pulls it forward before swinging his leg over it and turning it on. The engine roars and sputters loudly.

“You seriously expect me to get on that?” I ask. I’m reminded of my time in Capri. My friend Amber was dating a motorcycle racer (they’re now married) and I would often see them zipping all over the island. I have to admit, it did look like fun, but hanging onto some hot Italian guy while zipping past lemon groves and crystal clear coves is a lot different than hanging onto your ex-boyfriend while bouncing across a field dodging cow pies.

Not that Anders isn’t a hot Norwegian guy. I mean, as he’s straddling the bike, large tatted hands on the handles, staring up at me with a wicked glint in his stormy blue eyes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a manlier, hotter specimen in my life. Which makes getting on the bike a no-brainer.

At least my hormones seem to think so.

I place the coffee mug by the barn and square my shoulders, giving him a cool look. “Make some room then,” I tell him.

He arches a brow and moves forward on the seat. I grab hold of his shoulder—holy hell, that’s a lot of muscle—and swing my leg on. Okay, I’m short so it’s less than elegant, but eventually I’m on.

“You better hold on,” he tells me, eyeing me over his shoulder. “If you fall off, you’re probably going to fall in shit.”

I rub my lips together anxiously for a moment before gingerly putting my hands around his stomach. His rock-hard, abs-for-days, stomach. My whole body starts to wake up, from my fingers to my toes, a slow burning starting at my core. It doesn’t help that my crotch is pressed against his ass.

“Ready?” he asks, and before I can answer, the bike jolts forward. I go from holding onto him gently to fully wrapping my arms around his abs of steel. My nose is against the back of his neck and I can smell his skin and soap and something fresh, like the meadows are permanently embedded in him.

It doesn’t smell like the Anders I remember. That boy smelled like Davidoff Cool Water and cigarettes. This smells like someone new, like the quasi-stranger I want him to be. He smells like a man I want to get to know properly, and all over again.

“You okay back there?” he shouts into the cold wind as he drives the bike through an open gate and we’re bouncing, flying over the grass.

“Yeah!” I shout back. Even though the feelings that are bubbling up in me are both welcome and not. I try and shake it out of me, concentrate on the fact that we’re heading right for a herd of brown and white cows by a patch of budding aspens. I try to ignore how strangely right this feels, pressed up against this man, my arms around him and holding on tight.

As we get closer, the cows perk up. They obviously know the drill. Anders starts hooting at them and yelling in Norwegian, zipping the bike around them until they start moving toward the barn, the bells around their necks ringing, their udders swinging back and forth.

“So have you named them?” I ask loudly in his ear.

He grins. “Of course. That one with the brown face is Gertrude. The mostly white one is Maria…”

“Really?”

He sucks on his lower lip for a moment, eyes dancing.

“You’re full of shit, aren’t you,” I tell him.

We ride alongside the cows at a slower pace. He shrugs. “Well….” he tapers off then nods. “Yeah, I’m full of shit. But hey, you think we put lawnmowers on our roofs.”

“You don’t?”

He starts laughing. What an ass!

I pinch at his stomach, hard, and he yelps. “Hey! I’m driving.”

“I can’t believe I fell for that,” I mutter.

“Honestly, I can’t believe it either.”

Then we take off fast toward the barn, so I have no choice but to hold onto him again.

We get off the bike and I help him get the cows into the milking shed while he looks over each one, appraising them. His uncle, funny old man, is already inside, guiding the cows into the milking stations. It’s kind of amazing how each cow more or less knows where to go.

“Do you want to try milking one?” Anders asks, wagging his brows as he starts bringing suction cup things to a cow’s udder after cleaning it with newspapers soaked in iodine. The cow is chewing, doesn’t seem to notice at all.

“Maybe later,” I tell him, eyeing his uncle as he applies the newspapers to the other cows. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want a noob like me screwing up his entire operation.

I go and retrieve my mug of now cold coffee and watch the two of them work, trying to stay out of the way. It’s amazing how much work it is, even though they have maybe twenty cows, and I have no idea how his uncle handles it when Anders isn’t there.

“What can I do?” I ask Anders while the milk is being taken up the tubes to a vat of milk.

“Something I think you might enjoy,” he says.

He grabs my hand, briefly, just enough to lead me away from the milking parlor and into the rest of the barn. He disappears into the feed room and comes out with two giant bottles of milk that look like they’re meant for monster babies and jerks his head for me to follow him.

He opens the door to a stall and we step inside. There’s a baby cow, maybe the size of a great Dane, swishing his tail and looking at us with liquid brown eyes.

“Oh my god,” I exclaim quietly. “He’s so cute.”

“She,” Anders says, handing me a bottle. “Born only last week.”

“But she’s already so huge!”

“I know, and a handful.” He licks his lips and nods at the cow who is eyeing us both, wondering who she should go for. “Go on. Just stick out the bottle, she’ll take it.”

“Me?”

“I’ve got to feed the other calf we have at the moment,” he says, heading for the door. “You’ll do fine.”

“Anders!” I call after him fearfully, but he walks down the aisle to a stall further down.

Now the cow is really giving me the eye. It’s big enough to knock me to the ground.

And now she’s walking toward me.

I back up, my feet caught in the hay, trying to get out of the heifer’s way until I’m backed up against the wall.

This cow ain’t stopping.

I cry out and quickly thrust the bottle out in front of me in desperation.

The calf latches onto the nipple ravenously, it’s long tongue snaking over my hands as I try to keep hold of the bottle. I can’t help but giggle. It’s actually the cutest thing ever, the way it keeps sucking and gulping down the milk, those big brown eyes seeming fixed on mine. I’ve never been so close to a baby cow before, and this one is absolutely adorable.

“Having fun over there?” I hear Anders call out from down the barn.

“I think so!” I yell back, trying to get a better grip on the bottle.

Eventually though, the bottle is empty and the cow, the hair around its snout all white and my own hands a complete mess of cow slobber and milk, wants more.

“Now what?” I yell, the cow nudging me with its nose.

Anders appears at the stall door, grinning at the sight of me.

“You get out of there,” he says. “Before…”

The cow stomps forward, headbutting me in the hip. I yelp and try to get out of the way but my feet tangle in the straw and I’m falling. I hit the ground and roll over just as the cow starts nibbling at my hair.

“Ahhh!” I yell as she tugs at a strand.

I swat at the calf, trying to get away, just as I feel Anders beside me, his hands going underneath my arms and hauling me up to my feet.

“Are you okay?” he asks me, stepping between me and the ornery cow.

My hair is a mess, all in my face, and he gently brushes it off my eyes, tucking it behind my ears. I’m both swooning a little at his touch and acutely embarrassed over what just happened. It doesn’t help that Anders looks like he’s about to burst out laughing.

“I’m fine,” I tell him quickly, glaring at the cow who is poking her head around Anders, apparently not done with me. “But I think it’s fair to say farm life isn’t for me.”

He picks a piece of straw out of my hair. “Are you sure?” He starts to smile. “You seem like a natural at it.” Then he bursts out laughing.

I hit him on the arm. “You never warned me I’d be attacked by a baby cow.”

“Hey, Gertrude Jr. can’t help it, you’re irresistible.”

“Oh shut up,” I tell him. “Are we done now?”

He’s still grinning at me. “Yeah, we’re done. If Astrid and Lise aren’t too hungover, there should be a big breakfast on the table.”

We leave the barn and I’m still picking hay off myself by the time we reach the house. Before we go inside though, Anders grabs my hand and squeezes it. The action takes me by surprise and freezes me in my tracks. The feel of his skin is nothing short of a hot, fiery spark.

“I just wanted to say thank you. Tusen takk,” he says.

“For what?” I ask, conscious that he’s still holding my hand. He’s peering at me so sincerely I’m not really sure what’s happening. My heart starts to pick up the beat, my mouth dry.

“For helping me,” he says. “It just…you know, I’ve never had anyone take an interest in what I do. I guess because what I do isn’t very exciting or interesting. Farming, fishing. It’s what everyone here does.” He looks away to the barn. “I have to say, when I came to America, this was the life I was escaping. Now I’m back here and…well, I guess what I’m trying to say is, this morning you made me feel like it’s not all a waste.” He swallows and squints at me.

I’m not sure what to say. I wasn’t expecting this. “Oh. Well, it was no problem. Aside from the cow attacking me.” He smiles at that. I want to tell him that I volunteered to help, not just because I felt a debt by being here, but because I wanted to see his daily life. I wanted to spend time with him, getting to know this Anders, the farmer, the family man.

I also want to tell him that he’s impressed me.

And I want to know more.

A lot more.

But the past has this way of creeping up on me, and even now, as we stand on the stoop of his farmhouse, the smell of bacon wafting from inside, I’m scared to get closer.

He doesn’t even know the half of it.

I pull my hand out of his and give him a quick smile. “Shall we get something to eat?”

He studies me for a moment, his eyes searching my face. I’m not sure what he’s looking to find.

Then he nods. “Absolutely. You’ll need your strength for when we do the afternoon milking.”

“Shut up,” I tell him, punching him lightly in the gut.

We step inside the house, laughing.

11

Shay

Then

“Don’t be chicken,” Anders says to me.

Phhhf. We’re about to break into the community pool. I tell him to go ahead, to scale the fence before me, but he wants us to do it at the same time.

“I’m not chicken.” I glare at him playfully. Because I’m not. I’m the opposite. I’ll do whatever he says. He makes me feel invincible, unstoppable. Even in the cold of a late April night, standing in just my swimsuit, bare feet on concrete, I only feel the warmth of him at my side.

He’s watching me, grinning lazily, and takes a swig from the bottle of rum. Hands it to me. “Finish it off.”

I down it, trying not to cough it up, and lick my lips.

He mutters something in Norwegian, a glazed look coming over his eyes. He puts his hands into my hair, to the back of my head, and pulls me to him.

“Ever had sex in a pool?” he asks huskily.

My skin tingles from the question. I shake my head. “You know I’ve only slept with you.”

He grins and kisses me softly on the lips. “Just checking.” He nods at the fence. “Come on.”

He starts to climb and I follow suit. I’ve never scaled a giant chain-link fence before and it’s kind of scary. The wires are freezing and burn into the balls of my feet, the bottoms of my fingers. But I go up and up and up, fueled by my love for him and desperate for his affection.

The fact is, we haven’t had sex once in the last month. We’ve barely seen each other. He’s become so withdrawn and moody, drunk more often than not, even in class. He got suspended last week for smoking and then mouthing off to the teacher who caught him. I have no idea what he was doing while gone from school, and he only came back today, slipping into my chemistry class like a ghost.

I feel like I don’t really know him anymore and I’m growing more and more paranoid that I’m not good enough for him, that he doesn’t love me anymore, that there’s something—someone—else.

I don’t want to think about my doubts. I want to believe in his love for me, even if he hasn’t said it lately. Anders is the best thing that ever happened to me, the only thing in my life that keeps me going through the days. He’s the only one that makes me feel wanted, that makes me feel needed. With my mom coming back only for Christmas and then jetting back to India, choosing dad over me and Hannah again, Anders is the only constant in my life. He’s my north star, my Nordic star.

So that passion fuels my climb and, before I know it, I’m climbing over the top and down the other side.

“That’s my sparrow,” he says to me, grabbing me by the waist and lifting me in the air.

I giggle, thrilled at his touch, his embrace. I feel in this moment, under the stars, among the electricity of his heart and mine, that all is well. I’m whole and happy again. It’s the old Anders, before we started fighting, before I started crying at night, afraid for our future together.

I love you, I want to say to him. I want to yell it. But he always insisted that it was his words to give me and not the other way around, and he gets so weird when I say it.

So I keep it inside and do what I can to make sure he feels it, knows it. He’s the only boy for me. Now and forever.

“Ladies first,” he says, after he puts me back down, gesturing to the water that glows faintly under the lone light of the closed community center.

“Yeah right,” I tell him, smacking him on the arm. “You know they turn the heat down at night.”

“Well, why don’t you go check,” he says.

I give him a suspicious look and he raises his palm.

“I promise I won’t push you,” he says.

So I take his word for it. I walk over to the edge, the concrete rough on my feet and peer over at the water, light wafts of steam rising from it. It can’t be that cold then, can it?

Before I can even register it, Anders is moving, running toward me. He grabs my hand and leaps into the air, pulling me with him.

For a moment I’m weightless. It’s horrible and freeing at the same time. If I was a sparrow I would keep flying, but I fall, holding onto Anders until the water cuts into us.

I sink, open my mouth to scream and nearly swallow a bucket of cold chlorine. When my head breaks the surface, I’m gasping. The water is a lot warmer than the air, but it’s still a shock to my system.

I paddle frantically, trying to get oriented, and glare at Anders.

“You asshole, you promised!” I yell, spitting out water.

“I promised I wouldn’t push you,” he says, swimming toward me, his long hair back from his forehead. He looks sexy as fuck, even though I hate him at the moment. “I pulled you in, that’s different.”

“You’re an ass,” I tell him again.

“And you’re gorgeous when you’re wet.” He wags his eyebrows and wraps his arms around my waist, his skin sliding like silk against mine.

He swims forward until my back is against the edge of the pool, then one hand is disappearing down my bikini bottoms and his mouth is on mine, tasting like chemicals and rum. His tongue is hot but I’m still so mad at him, and at the same time my body is responding like I’m being brought back to life. I’m hungry, insatiable, for every part of him. For him to just be mine again, every inch, body and soul.

My neck cranes back as his wet lips suck down my neck, and I pray he leaves hickeys on me like he used to, when we used to mark each other and everyone at school would know just how madly in love we were. It would stop Everly asking me why she hasn’t seen Anders around me anymore, why I’ve stopped talking about him, gushing like I used to. It would stop all those girls from looking at him, if they see he’s still mine and I’m still his.

I open my eyes to the stars and his mouth is at my breast, freed from the bikini top and I’m wrapping my legs around his waist while he pushes my bottoms aside.

I’ve never wanted him, needed him, more.

He whispers something in Norwegian, voice raspy, and I gasp loudly as he pushes himself inside. The water makes the friction feel ten-fold, and not in a good way. It hurts.

But he pulls out slowly and then back in again and I grip him tighter and as he works himself in and out, the easier it gets. I open myself to him, nails clawing down his back, one hand at the back of my neck. The more he thrusts into me, the more my back rubs raw against the edge of the pool. It hurts, the concrete scraping skin, but in the best way possible.

I can’t wait to show Everly the marks tomorrow. I’ll wear the scars proudly.

“Oh, Shay,” Anders groans into my neck before meeting my lips. Our mouths are hot, wet, tongues are dancing, fueling the fire.

I’m so wicked, I think to myself. We’re so bad. Having sex in a public pool. I don’t know anyone at my school that’s done that. Maybe we’ll be the first.

Anders comes first, hard and loud. I can’t really complain since I don’t always come during sex anyway. I love to hear his sounds, to know that I, and only I, am the one to make him feel this way. Feel so good. It’s power, and the only power I have.

He looks up at me, breathing hard, and starts treading water. The strangest, most haunted look comes over his eyes. He doesn’t look sated at all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I shake my head for a moment, not understanding. Then I do.

“Oh. Hey, don’t worry about it. It’s been a long time, I get it,” I tell him, pulling my bikini bits back on the right spots. “Just make me come next time and I’ll be good.” I shoot him a grin to let him know it’s cool.

He squints his eyes and spits out water. “Right.”

The sound of a car door slamming makes both of us snap our heads up.

“We should get out of here,” Anders says, quickly pulling himself out of the pool. He extends his hands and hauls me out, just in time for a pair of headlights to flash across the pool area, narrowly missing us. A car has come into the parking lot.

We stick to the shadows and run to the fence, trying to get up and over as quick as we can. I even jump the last bit, into his arms, just as we hear voices and see the beam of a flashlight.

He takes hold of my hand and we quickly run down the road, but he lets go a few moments later as we hurry down another suburban block to where he parked the Mustang.

He doesn’t pick up my hand again for the rest of the night.

And his eyes never stop looking haunted.

12

Anders

Now

I never thought I’d say this, but Shay Lavji has turned out to be one hell of a farm girl.

She’s been up every single morning with me at 5 a.m. for the past three days, and even though she’s still a bit squeamish when it comes to feeding the baby cows, she’s right beside me doing everything that I do. We’ve been alternating helping with the cows and the sheep, which means Uncle Per is getting a welcome respite to just stay inside and work on the farm finances and keeping records.

Astrid and Lise have even been pitching in here and there, though they’ve really embraced their roles as the homemakers. Or should I say, drunken homemakers, since they crack open the beers and cider every afternoon. But it’s their vacation and the two rarely get to see each other, so who am I to judge. I would do the exact same, only I can’t remember the last time I actually got to go away. The fishing and farm life keep me tethered, 365 days a year.

But all vacations come to an end, and Lise and Astrid have already left Todalen, Lise going up to Tromso to see Tove for a few days before she goes down to Oslo, and Astrid back to Paris. Every time they leave, a heavy cloud seems to descend over the farm. They bring so much light and life to the place, as annoying as they can be.

This time it won’t be so bad since Shay is still here, even though I don’t know how long she plans on sticking around. I’m not exactly offering her an exciting life here, and I know there’s so much more of the country that she wants to see. I wish I could find a way to take her around myself, but short of Uncle Per hiring someone else, I’m not sure it could work.

Besides, even though I’m catching more and more of these coy, flirtatious looks from Shay, noticing the way she leans in to talk to me, the way she touches me, whether hitting me playfully or just brushing my shoulder when she walks by, I’m not sure if she’d want to see Norway with me at her side. Though she’s much more comfortable around me now, and even starts talking about innocuous events from the past, I know the odds of her leaving with our relationship completely repaired are slim.

Above all, I’m not even sure if we have a relationship. We’re definitely friends more than first loves and ex-lovers, and that’s probably the right way to go about it.

But still, sometimes I want nothing more than to grab her, kiss her, ask her if she remembers what it was like to love me, to want me. It’s pure selfishness on my behalf, but these feelings are really starting to fuck with me.

I’ve even started writing again like I used to, just a few lines before bed. It’s all shit, as usual, but the fire is there, the flames growing. She’s as inspiring as she ever was, and I don’t have to grab for a Bukowski book to find the drive and ideas. Just looking at her causes the clouds to move, the earth to shift beneath my feet, for that electricity that begets creation to seep through my veins.

I feel like I’m a fucking teenager all over again, for better and for worse.

Back then I was such a mess. Sometimes when I feel like my life has disintegrated like the rusted chains on my boat, all I have to do is think back to those days in high school. Shay was the only thing holding me together, a girl that loved me with all her young heart, and yet even she wasn’t enough to keep me from total destruction.

I was an awful person, through and through. The worst part is that was just the start. After I left New York and came back here, my downward spiral became quicker, deeper, until I was a shell of myself.

And yet, through it all, I still wrote. Even on my darkest days, I wrote. The journals that are stacked in shoeboxes under my bed are proof of that, proof that my deepest pain produced the most art. I’m not saying it was all good. My words as a teenager are mired in purple prose and dramatics as I tried to figure out what I meant to Shay and what she meant to me and how the two of us were in a world alone, dancing until there was nothing left between us. But the fire was there.

And now it’s back, because she’s back.

I just don’t know what it means. If having her here is bringing us back to the way we used to be during that turbulent, soul-scarring, formative year, or that I’m foreseeing the way things will end between us…again.

“Anders?”

I look up from my desk to see Shay standing in the doorway, looking so fucking sweet and unsure at the same time that my dick immediately jumps to attention.

I clear my throat. “Come on in.”

She hesitates before she steps inside, and it’s then that I notice she’s holding two bottles of beer. Says a lot about how much her beauty steals my attention when I don’t even notice the alcohol in her hands.

“Astrid told me to drink all her leftover beer,” Shay says. “I figured you could use one. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

She stops beside me, her eyes drifting over the closed journal, the pencil in my hand. I always write in pencil. I hate the permanency of ink. My thoughts are as fluid as the sea, no use making them last. I figure that’s what tattoos are for.

“You’re not,” I tell her, offering a smile.

She hands me the beer, our fingers brushing. My heart glows electric, though I sense a bit of sadness in Shay’s demeanor.

“Miss them already?” I ask her, meaning Astrid and Lise. I think Shay was fairly upset about their departure. She really seemed to hit it off with my sisters, Astrid especially, and there were a lot of hugs before Lise’s friend drove them into Trondheim.

Honestly, I thought maybe Shay would have gone with them, but she’s still here. Now, with the buffer of my sisters gone, it feels like the house is just a little smaller, and the two of us are a little closer.

“A bit,” she says. “But you’re not bad company.”

I’ll take that as a win.

“So what did you want to do tonight?” I ask her, after a sip of beer. “I know that Astrid was usually in charge of planning the nightly festivities.”

Shay laughs and sits on the edge of my bed, a dangerous sight.

“This is the nightly festivity,” she says, raising her beer in show.

I twist in my chair to face her properly, taking my time to study her face. She’s nervous, just a little. She still bites her lip when she’s anxious, tries to push her bangs behind her ears to no avail. She’s squirming a little under my gaze, just like she used to. But back then I liked that I made her uncomfortable. I wanted a reaction out of her, even if it was negative. Something that let me know that she saw me for all that I was, the good and the bad, even though I felt there was very little good left.

Now, I just want to make the right impression. To make her smile, laugh, to see those eyes dance, knowing that I’m giving her an elusive taste of happiness.

But, as usual, I’m reading too much into things, forever locked in my own head.

I get up and stride over to her, then drop to my knees. She looks at me in surprise until I reach under my bed and pull out a low container. While most of my journals are in shoeboxes, this is where my cameras live, as well as little odds and ends that have caught my eye over the years.

“What’s all that?” she asks, leaning forward.

“Where my cameras sleep,” I tell her. I pick up a vintage Pentax, the same one I used back in high school. I hold it out for her, and she takes it from me. “Look familiar?”

“No way,” she says, turning it over in her hands. She pops the lens cap off and looks through the viewfinder. “You still have this.”

I stare directly into the camera, hoping she likes what she sees. “Of course.”

She lowers it after a moment and gives me a pensive look. “You know, I was so in awe of you back then. Your art, what you were able to create.”

I shrug, turning my attention back to the bin, rummaging for more things to show her. “Just a punk ass kid,” I tell her. “I’d hardly call it art.” To prove my point, I grab a stack of large black-and-white prints and hand them to her. “Try taking a look now, from a new perspective. You’ll see they’re garbage.”

She puts the camera down beside her and starts flipping through the photos. Her brows raise, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Anders.”

She flips the photograph over. It’s one of her, sitting on the corner of her bed in her bedroom, much in the same way she’s sitting right now, with one leg tucked up under her. In the photo her hair hangs in her face in the way she used to do, pretending to be that creepy girl from The Ring, but there’s a slice of her face visible. Round cheek, wide innocent eye, a coy smile. That part is in focus while everything else is a little blurred.

“I can’t believe you have this still,” she says, turning it back over and marveling at it. “My bedroom. Oh, that tank top. I loved that tank top.” She looks at me. “What do you mean this isn’t art?”

“If it’s art, it’s only because the subject is,” I tell her, trying to find the strap for the camera. “Otherwise, it’s too dull. You’re the only thing saving it. It’s grainy, the contrast is low, too monotonous. I didn’t know anything. Thought I knew everything.”

I can feel her eyes on me, her gaze burning and inquisitive, but I keep my head down. She starts flipping through the rest of the photos. “Oh my god, it’s you and me at the Christmas parade. Remember I dragged you to that and it started late so we had to wait in the cold forever? Who took the picture? My sister?”

“I doubt it. I only met your sister a few times,” I remind her. Even though we spent ninety-five percent of the time at Shay’s house, her sister was either studying in her room or out, while we basically just stayed in Shay’s bedroom. Shay’s parents weren’t even in the US, so it was like every teenage boy’s dream when it came to having a girlfriend. No parents to try to impress, no sneaking around. No one to care.

The funny thing was, it kind of bothered me on some level. Like I wanted to be accepted by Shay’s sister, Hannah, or wanted to be introduced to her parents. I guess because I wasn’t accepted at all in my mother and stepfather’s house, I was looking for family elsewhere.

“Huh,” she muses, moving onto the next photo. “Right. Everly must have taken it. You know, I’m surprised you still have these.”

I glance up at her, frowning. “Why?”

She gives me a quick smile. “I don’t know. I guess when I heard you left I just pictured you leaving every trace of me, of the school, of everything behind.”

I feel the blackened guilt roll through me as it sometimes does. I pick up my beer and the camera strap and then I sit on the bed on the other side of the Pentax. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want to go.” I pause. “After we broke up, everything fell apart. Getting expelled was the last straw, especially so damn close to finishing school. My mother kicked me out. Said she couldn’t handle me anymore. I had a couple of days before she booked my flight back to Oslo. Part of me wanted to just move on, but I couldn’t. I knew you hated me and yet…I couldn’t let you go.” I stare at her, unsure how I’ll get her to see how sorry I am about the way I treated her. “I was a different person Shay, I never meant to hurt you. I—”

“Stop,” she says quickly, eyes flashing. She raises her beer defensively, like a barrier between us. “Please. Just stop. It’s in the past. What happened, happened, and you’re right. We were different people.”

That’s what she says, but it doesn’t explain the way she keeps her distance from me, like she thinks I’m going to screw her over again, it doesn’t explain that I can feel her anger at times, her disappointment in me. People say that you have to move on, but so many of us are tied to the past, even when we know we should let it go. Shay may say we should let bygones be bygones, but there’s something deep inside her that doesn’t want her to. Won’t let her.

And I want to know why that is.

I want to know why, when she looks at me, there’s still this battle, this war behind her eyes, like she won’t ever be able to forgive me and yet wishes she could. Is it a pride thing? Or did I hurt her in ways I can’t even imagine? After so many years, none of this should matter anymore, and yet…

I reach out for the camera and clip on the strap, then hold it out for her. “Here. This is yours now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I told you I have a lot of cameras and I know that you need one.”

“This is a film camera, Anders.”

“So? Don’t you believe in the magic of that anymore? The wait to see what you’ve captured?”

She shakes her head, chuckling softly. “I take a picture and I post it to Instagram right away. There is no waiting with me.”

“That’s not true,” I tell her. “You take many, many, many photos, then you edit the photos, then you post. You’ve learned a little bit about patience. You just have to stretch it out more. Don’t you know how good delayed gratification feels? When you finally get what you’ve been waiting for?”

My voice is husky now, and from the way that pink is creeping up on her cheeks, I can tell she feels all the innuendo I’ve loaded into those sentences. Still, she doesn’t bite. She has more patience than she realizes.

She clears her throat. “I can’t accept this camera.”

“Please,” I tell her, and I reach out, closing my hand over hers, pressing it against the Pentax. I’m leaning in close, the smell of her shampoo making my heart skip a beat, my blood to run hot. “This is yours now. My gift to you. It’s the least I can do.”

She rubs her lips together, staring deep into my eyes. “You’ve done enough,” she says softly. She waves the beer in my face. “Letting me drink your beer…”

“Astrid’s beer.”

“Your sister’s beer. Letting me stay in your house.”

I grin at her. “Technically you’re earning your keep by helping out on the farm.” I press my hands in harder and then pull back, getting to my feet. “Keep the camera. We’ll get you some film tomorrow and you can start shooting.”

She stares at the camera like she’s been entrusted with a child. “And you have a place to develop film in Todalen?”

“Of course. Ol’ Thor Ragnorok down the street has a one-hour photo shop in his closet.”

“Thor Ragnorok?” she repeats. Then she laughs and hits me on the arm. Hard. “Shut up!”

Fuck, I love the sound of her laughter. It feels beyond good to hear the happiness in her voice, even if it’s at the expense of me pulling her leg.

It gives me hope.

After that, we spent the rest of the night in my room, going through pictures, old cameras, souvenirs, weird things I used to collect like skeleton keys, lighters, bottle caps, carved stone butter knives, and candle holders. We drank beer and talked about the old times, ignoring the ugly bits at the end of our relationship. I even read her some of my terrible poetry from back in the day, then went through all the old photos that I could find.

It felt like old times and it felt like new times.

And I went to sleep wishing she was in my bed, wishing that I could be brave enough to walk down the hall to her room and gives ourselves a second chance, if only for a night.

Maybe there will be another chance tomorrow.

But there are only so many chances left.

* * *

The next morning, we get up with the sparrows again and herd the cows into the barn. I thought I convinced Shay to learn how to milk a cow by hand, but now that we’re standing by the cow, ready to go, she crosses her arms, looking unsure.

“On second thought, maybe milking a cow is a skill I don’t really need,” Shay says warily. “Not sure it will do me much good on a resume.”

I grin at her and nod toward the cow who is eyeballing her, like get on with it. “It’s too late. She’s expecting you. Besides,” I hold out my hand, “give me your phone. I’ll document it for your Instagram. See, now it’s a worthy skill.”

She weighs that in her head and to my surprise she unzips the front of her burgundy jumpsuit and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She hands it to me then zips her suit back up. We’re both wearing them, me out of solidarity since getting dirty is second nature to me.

Then she poses beside the cow, looking adorable in the jumpsuit and the oversized rubber boots, her hair pulled back into a braid.

“Do I look cool?” she asks, as I take a couple of photos, getting the framing just right.

“You look cute,” I tell her. “Sexiest farm girl I’ve ever seen.”

She seems satisfied with that as I give the phone back and she tucks it back inside her jumpsuit. “Okay, now what?”

I pull over the low stool and the bucket. “Here. Sit.”

“You sit,” she says. “I need you to demonstrate.”

“It’s better if you learn as you go. I’ll guide you. Sit.”

She sighs and plops down on the stool, staring at the cow’s udders. The cow lets out a low moo and I slap her side affectionately. She needs to be milked and is going to get antsy if we don’t hurry along. She’s used to being hooked up to the machine along with the rest of her friends.

Then I crouch low right behind Shay, pressing my chest against her back, my arms going around her arms, my hands over hers, guiding her into place.

“Just like the movie Ghost,” I tell her, my lips brushing against her hair, close to her ear. I can feel her stiffen beneath me, shudder slightly, like I gave her the shivers. I can only hope it’s the good kind.

“Here,” I tell her, trying not to breathe in her apple-scented hair. “Let me show you.”

I move her hand over the cow’s teats, getting her to hold on.

She gasps and giggles. “Ahhh, this is weird. Is it weird for the cow?”

I laugh. “Probably? The cow is used to efficiency and the machine doesn’t giggle.”

She tries to take her hands away. “I can’t do it. This is too weird. I’m going to mess up.”

I sigh and let go of her hands, but I don’t move. I reach up and start milking the cow myself, trying to demonstrate the technique.

“See how I’m pinching it toward the end?”

“Stop making this sexual.”

I burst out laughing, my hands dropping away. The cow moos with impatience. “Sexual? Well now you’ve made it weird.”

“You’re the one who just compared this to the Ghost pottery scene.”

Okay, so she has a point about that one.

“Fine, fine,” I tell her. “Just give it a shot.”

She exhales, adjusting herself on the stool, squaring her shoulders. Then she tries again. She kind of has it right. “Yes, good. Keep going.”

“Shhhh,” she tells me. “You’re making it weird again.”

I look over at the cow, who stares back at me. I swear I see the cow shake her head.

But Shay is a fast learner. I stay crouched behind her, watching, but I let her do all of it, letting her figure out the best technique for herself. It’s not long before she’s in an easy rhythm, the milk filling the bucket, and the cow looks calm and happy.

“There you go, you’re doing it. Want me to take a picture?”

“That would involve you unzipping me and reaching down into my pant pocket.”

“Ah, and you don’t want to make it sexual,” I remind her.

“Maybe some memories are better left to us and not to the internet,” she says after a beat, her hands still working.

“Now you’re speaking my language,” I tell her, rocking back on my heels. “You know, when I’m out at sea we don’t have any cell reception at all. That’s weeks and weeks of nothing. Sometimes I’ll bring a camera along, especially if whales tend to be in the area, but I never post anything. I think it’s good to keep things for yourself.”

She shrugs. “Sometimes it is. But sometimes you want to share with the world. What’s the difference between that and your poetry? Or the other photos you take?”

“I don’t share those with anyone.”

“You did with me.”

Yes. And right now you are my world.

But of course I don’t say that.

“You know in a few weeks I have to be back on the ship. Head out to sea again.”

She nods. “Yeah. Who knows where I’ll be by then.”

“Well…what if you were with me?”

Shay stops milking and glances at me over her shoulder, holding my gaze. The cow stamps her foot impatiently, making Shay go back to work. “What do you mean? On the ship?”

“No. The time before that. What if…what if I can figure out how to take some time off? The lambs are all accounted for now, so there’s less work there. Per can handle the cows and I can get Kolbjorn, he helps when I’m gone. Maybe we could go on a road trip together, just a few days. A week.”

She slows down for a moment and I can feel her trying to figure this out. Eventually she asks, “Is that a good idea?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Because…”

“We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends travel together. And it would be cheaper for you this way to split the cost. You were going to travel anyway.”

“I was going to stay in hostels. What were you thinking?”

Obviously I was thinking about us sharing a hotel room.

And a bed.

And she knows this.

“Anders,” she says softly. “I feel like…what we have, whatever this is, is so fragile. So close to becoming complicated, and I really can’t handle complicated in my life right now. I can’t.”

“Neither can I. So we don’t make it complicated.”

She rubs her lips together for a moment and goes back to milking. “I think that’s impossible.”

“You don’t know that unless you try.”

“Well, maybe I’m too scared to try. Maybe we should just…”

“Continue milking the cow?” I make a joke. I give her an easy way out of this.

“Yeah. That.”

I nod and slowly get to my feet, my lower back hurting from crouching for so long. I stretch, arms over my head, and when I look down, Shay has stopped milking. She’s staring up at me with a curious expression.

“What?” I ask.

She has the look in her eyes like she’s about to tell me something, so I instinctively lean over.

Then she squirts milk right in my fucking face.

“What the fuck?” I exclaim, swiping my arm across my brow.

Meanwhile, she’s nearly falling off the stool she’s laughing so much. Even the cow gives a chortling noise, like it was her idea.

Thankfully I know just how to get my own brand of revenge.

Shay is very ticklish. Especially on her ribs. I used it as a flirting mechanism when I was young, a way to get us rolling around on the bed (or the floor), and I’m not too proud to say I’m about to do the same for the same reason right now. Well, that, and she deserves it.

I raise my fingers, wiggling them at her, and her mouth drops at the look on my face, that look that says I’m going to get her.

“No!” she cries out softly, and then scrambles to her feet, knocking over the stool. She tries to run past me, but I grab her by the waist and flip her around, trying to hold onto her with one hand while tickling her with the other. It’s hard work, considering she’s in a baggy jumpsuit, but even the thought of it has her laughing and gasping.

“Don’t you dare!” she yelps, as I try to run my hands up her side. Strands of hair of come loose from her braid, flowing into her face, anxious laughter falling from her lips. God, she’s never looked so beautiful.

Before I even know what I’m doing, before I have a chance to think, to stop myself and ponder the consequences, I’m pressing her up against the barn wall, our faces inches from each other, my body against hers, hearts racing.

And I kiss her.

The world stops.

Turns.

Reverses course for a brief moment when I remember exactly what it was like to kiss these soft and yearning lips, to have Shay breathless against my mouth, to feel her body slowly yield to my hands.

Then we both pause, breathe, the world stopping once again before she stares into my eyes and then everything moves forward with fireworks, my blood filled with hot urgency.

I cover her mouth with mine, her tongue teasing me, fueling me, while my hands disappear into her hair, holding her in place, grounding me. All the years of dreaming, the years of guilt and shame and regret, and now she’s here, our kiss passionate, wild, building with emotion and desire, trying to make up for lost time. Trying to undo every wrong.

A throat is cleared from behind me, followed by, “Anders,” in a stern voice.

Fuck.

It’s Per.

I rip myself away from Shay, breathing hard, and turn around to see him at the entrance to the barn, not looking too pleased. Then again, that is his natural face.

“Put her back where she belongs,” he says, motioning to the cow, though for a moment I think he also means Shay. Then he nods at Shay and says in broken English, “I need help with a sheep.”

I glance at Shay and she’s nodding back at him, smoothing down her hair. “Sure. Of course.”

She gives me a wary glance, her eyes looking haunted and strained, enough to set my heart on edge, and then she pushes off the wall and strides toward Per.

I watch as they walk off together into the bright light outside, their silhouette’s disappearing.

I rub my lips together, still tasting her.

I think we just crossed that line into complicated.

13

Shay

Then

Oh god, I’m going to be sick.

I haven’t thrown up since I was seven years old and had the stomach flu, and I really don’t want to break that streak.

But my streak is over. The time is up. I leap from my bed, throwing off the covers, my fingers clamped over my mouth as I run for the bathroom, dropping to my knees. I barely get my head over the toilet before I’m heaving and vomit fills the bowl with sickening noise.

Gross. So, so gross!

I feel a mix of disappointment for not holding back harder and worry, because, well, why the hell am I puking?

Nerves, I tell myself. It makes the most sense. I woke up with my heart being squeezed, this feeling of total dread in my chest like something was terribly wrong.

Only, there isn’t anything wrong. At least, nothing new.

I mean, okay, I haven’t seen Anders for a week or so. He’s practically ignoring me at school, and when I do see him it’s just a glance in the hallway. I never thought I would say this, but the Viking isn’t looking too good. Dark circles, stringy hair…I’m starting to think he might be on drugs, which would explain a lot, but I certainly hope it’s not true.

I’m at the end of my rope. I’ve texted him plenty of times, stalked him on Facebook, and when I do get a hold of him he tells me he’s been really busy (won’t say with what!) and that he’ll let me know when he’s free. Doesn’t explain why he pretends not to see me when I’m staring him right in his face.

I really thought that we were moving forward. After our stunt in the community pool (which I am deeply disappointed that no one has been gossiping about), we were back to hanging out almost every day. And more sex. I mean, it’s not been exactly the same as it was before, there’s this strange sense of detachment and he won’t look me in the eyes, but I’m just so glad he’s still with me, that we’re still a couple. I really thought for a while that he was going to break up with me and I couldn’t imagine anything worse happening. My whole world would split in two and I would be torn apart.

But I’ve been giving him space. It’s what Cosmo says to do. Girls are clingy, women know when to let the man do the work. I want to be a woman here, not some teenage girl in love. I want to give him all the space he needs, do all the things right. Be perfect. I can do that, right?

I slowly get up from the floor and flush the toilet before I can get another glimpse of my vomit and have it happen all over again. I quickly rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth until the acidic taste is gone and then splash cold water all over my face.

Thankfully it’s Saturday and I don’t have anywhere to go. Everly is out of town with her family, and with Anders pretending I don’t exist, I only have myself for company.

Actually, that’s not true. There’s Hannah, but I won’t see much of her. She already told me she’s studying all weekend. Which is something I guess I should do, considering I have a science final coming up, but I feel too sick to concentrate on schoolwork right now.

I lie down on my bed, fetal position, trying to breathe in and out, hoping the nausea will pass. Last night we had Chinese food, but I got what I always get, and don’t you usually get sick right away if it’s food poisoning? This morning I had cereal, but again, nothing unusual.

While I’m trying to ponder my food choices as of late, I feel another hit of nausea roll through me. I run to the bathroom again, making it just in time.

When there’s nothing left to cough up, I flush the toilet just as my bedroom door swings open and Hannah stares at me, eyes wide.

“Shay, are you sick?”

I can barely find the energy to nod. “Obviously.”

I try to get to my feet and she’s there, pulling me up under my arms. She’s never been too affectionate with me, but she grabs my shoulders and peers at me closely. Well, not too close. I probably stink.

“What did you eat?” she asks, flipping down the toilet seat and making me sit on it. Then she goes to the sink and washes her hands with a ton of soap, for at least half a minute. “Break it down, everything.”

“Last night I had the beef and broccoli and spring rolls. This morning I had Lucky Charms and milk.”

“Was the milk expired?”

I give her the dirtiest look I can muster. “Do I look like I’d drink expired milk?”

She folds her arms across her chest and leans against the wall, staring at me like she’s trying to read my mind. That’s the way it is with Hannah, she either looks at you with indifference or you’re some impossible math challenge. There is nothing in between.

“What about your period? When was your last period?”

My cheeks flush. I do not talk to Hannah about stuff like this.

“I’m still waiting for it,” I say, staring down at the chipped pink polish on my fingernails. I had only done them yesterday, but I got the polish at a dollar store, so what did I expect?

When she makes a choking sound, I look up at her.

“What?”

“You’re waiting for it? You mean you missed it?”

I shake my head. “I mean it’ll show up. It’s just late. I didn’t miss it.”

“Oh my lord,” she says, her mouth setting in a firm line that reminds me of our mother when she gets mad. “When was the last time you had sex?”

My cheeks go even more red, and while I’m embarrassed about this conversation, fear is starting to take over the embarrassment, making my skin feel extra clammy. “Who said I was having sex?”

Hannah narrows her eyes. “Shay! I’m not an idiot. I live in this house, too.”

“Wouldn’t know it, you’re never home,” I say as a jab. Then I quickly look away before she can spear me with her gaze again.

“When was the last time, Shay? I haven’t seen Anders over here in a while…”

Way to remind me. I try and think. “I don’t know. Maybe two weeks ago.”

“And before that?”

I shrug. “It was often.” Except when it wasn’t.

“Are you on the pill?”

I shake my head, feeling ashamed, like a child. “No. I…I didn’t know how to get on that. But we were using condoms!”

Except…

My face falls.

The swimming pool.

“What?” Hannah asks.

I try to swallow, to speak, but it’s hard. “But once. We didn’t. A month ago…”

Then it all comes up.

Tears, this time.

I burst out crying, face buried in my hands, trying to keep it all together and failing.

This is the moment when I realize how alone I am.

And how fucked I am.

I cry for a few minutes, Hannah rubbing my back and making soothing noises.

Then she flicks the lights on and off to get my attention.

I stare up at her through the tears.

“Don’t lose your shit yet,” she says to me with determination. “I’m going to go to CVS and get you a pregnancy test. After you take the test, if it’s positive, we’ll figure out what to do. Okay? Come here.” She holds her hand out and I place mine in hers. She leads me out of the bathroom and to the bed, making me lie down. She hands me a pillow to hold onto. I cradle it like I used to do to Frank, our old golden retriever who died the day after my parents announced their divorce. Then she leaves and I’m all alone.

It feels like my sister is gone forever. In the time that passes I text Everly just to see how she is, wanting so badly to tell her what’s happening, but I don’t want to ruin her weekend trip, especially as I don’t know what’s what. I don’t want her to think less of me yet.

But I already think less of myself. For getting myself into this mess, for being so sloppy and careless, for basically fucking myself over just to be with Anders.

And Anders…what the hell am I going to tell him? He’s already being distant, this will only push him further away, all the way back to Norway probably. He won’t want any part of this, any part of me. I’ve seen a few girls in my grade actually get pregnant in hopes of keeping the guy, and it never ever works.

My sister comes back before I can get totally worked up, even though I shed a few more tears in the meantime. She plops the plastic bag beside me and takes out a bottle of Pedialite, some anti-nausea medication, and two pregnancy tests.

“You taking one too?” I joke feebly as I try to sit up.

Hannah is not in the joking mood. “We have to make sure. Now come on.” She pulls me to my feet and gives me a box. “Go in there, follow the instructions. No matter the result, we’ll try again. Okay?”

It sounds simple enough.

I go in the bathroom, read the instructions, pee on the stick and wait.

The longest wait of my life just to see two pink lines pop up.

I wail, “Hannah!” and she comes barging in. I shake the stick at her, crying.

“Try again, try again,” she says, refusing to touch the stick.

She closes the door again, and the second result is the same as the first.

I’m pregnant.

* * *

I manage to keep my pregnancy between me and Hannah all week. It’s hard. I end up skipping my morning classes on Tuesday because I was throwing up too much, but thankfully it stops when I’m at school. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea; everyone is so quick to spread rumors and I already feel like they’re all talking behind my back anyway, because Anders is never around school anymore, let alone around me.

Not that I’ve texted him, or even Everly, all that much. Hannah made an appointment for me with the doctor tomorrow, Saturday, that way I don’t have to miss any school. I’m scared to death, but I know that we’re just going to do more tests and talk about our options. I just wish this was a dream, that this was happening to someone else. I keep thinking that if I try hard enough I can move back time with my mind. Or that I can just slap my face or pinch my skin or shake my head hard enough and things will go back to the way things were.

But it never happens. It doesn’t change. This is my reality now.

And I’ve never felt so alone.

Although, thank god for Hannah. She’s really stepped up and we’ve become closer in many ways. She’s not a substitute for my mother and she doesn’t want to be, but I know I’d be totally lost without her.

“Shay,” Everly says from behind me as I close my locker. One more class and then the weekend begins. Oh joy.

I turn around to face her with an apologetic look on my face, expecting her to give me shit for being distant and weird all week. But that look fades once I see how upset she looks. This isn’t about me.

Is it?

“What’s up? You okay?”

She shakes her head slowly, blinking. “Okay. Good. You haven’t heard yet. I wanted you to hear it from me. I just heard and I had to find you and tell you.”

My heart drops into my stomach.

“What?” I whisper. “Did someone die?”

“No. But you’ll wish someone did.” She takes in a deep breath and then looks around her in the hall. “There was a rumor…I heard it this morning, but I didn’t want to believe it. Jenny Bishop told me. She said she heard it from Meghan Stovell. Meghan is friends with Jen.”

“Jen Bishop.”

“No. Jen Brown.” Our friend, Jen Brown, who stopped hanging out with us around Christmas, who started dating Everly’s ex, Jeff. Yeah. It was a bitch move.

“What are you talking about? What about her?” I ask.

Everly rubs her lips together and then leans in. “Jen’s been sleeping with Anders.”

My heart stops.

“What?!” I shout.

Mr. Hill, the history teacher, stops and gives us both a warning look. “Don’t you girls have class?”

I barely pay him any attention. My heart does a free fall through my lungs, my gut, right through me. I can’t breathe. Anger and sorrow are tearing me apart like wolves fighting over a carcass. “No,” I whisper, leaning against my locker. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s true. I confirmed it with Jeff. They broke up. He caught them…”

I shake my head. “No. Anders wouldn’t do that to me…” But I’m immediately flooded with images of them together. Jen is blonde and skinny and tough as nails. Actually, she’s a bitch, in the way she’s super mean to the girls but super nice to the boys, so that if you ever complain about her, all the dudes are all “What are you talking about, she’s so sweet?” and blah blah blah.

Fuck!

This is making sense now. I don’t want it to, especially after this shit week, the fact that I’m fucking pregnant with his fucking baby, but suddenly I know that what Everly is saying is real. It’s real. It’s why he’s been pulling away.

Because he’s found someone else.

Oh my god.

I turn around and punch the locker next to me, hard.

Ow! It hurts like hell. Why did I do that?

“Shay!” Everly cries out. “Don’t hurt yourself. He’s not worth it.”

“How could he do this to me?” I cry softly, shaking out my fist, aware that people are looking at me. “And her! She was supposed to be our friend. My friend! That stupid skanky bitch!”

“Yeah, well, I called it after she started dating Jeff. Too bad I don’t feel sorry for him.”

I can’t believe it. Tears rush to my eyes, my chest feels like it’s going to close off all the air. I need to get out of here. I can’t be here anymore.

“I’m going home,” I tell her, trying to keep the tears from falling. I grab my backpack and slam the locker shut, my hands shaking as I get the lock on. “I’ll walk.”

“I’ll drive you,” she says, putting her arm around me.

“You can’t skip English. You’re failing.”

“Just watch me. You’re my best friend Shay, I’m not leaving you at a time like this.”

I sigh, feeling so much sadness choking me but grateful for Everly.

It isn’t until we’re getting in her car that I say through my tears, “Well, since you’re my best friend, there’s something else I need to tell you. Something that happened to me this week.”

“What?”

And then I fill her in on the pregnancy tests.

And then about how my relationship with Anders was silently disintegrating over the last few months.

And that I still haven’t told him.

Not sure that I’m going to now.

In fact, I never want to see him again.

But when Everly comes over and we order pizza with Hannah, when we’re talking in my room later about everything, Everly gets a text from Jenny Bishop.

There’s a party tonight at Doug Campbell’s house right now.

And Anders is there.

I jump to my feet and immediately head to my closet.

“What are you doing?” Everly says.

“I’m finding the hottest dress I own,” I tell her, riffling through, rage and revenge thrumming through me. “And then we’re going to that party.”

“Shay,” she says carefully. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re pregnant.”

I whip around and look at her. “That’s the excuse? I’m pregnant? You don’t have to come. But I’m going. I’m going to tell him we’re through and that I know. I’m going to make sure everyone knows what a lying, cheating douchebag he is.”

Everly sighs, looking down at the carpet for a moment. Then she looks up at me and shrugs. “Fine. Can I borrow a dress?”

The both of us attack my closet again, looking for the perfect things to wear. Everly is smaller than me, both in weight and in height, but I have a black bodycon dress I got from Wet Seal that fits her just fine. I decide to go for something as equally curve-hugging, my yellow satin halter top paired with my yellow heels and dark skinny jeans. I have a fairly large chest that I like to keep under wraps, but Anders was in love with my boobs, so I figure I might as well show them off while I can and make him regret losing me like this.

I’m in the bathroom, adjusting my top, when I’m suddenly hit with the enormity of what’s happening. I nearly collapse to the floor, I have to hold onto the edge of the sink to keep me up.

He cheated on me.

Anders had sex with a friend of mine.

He got naked in front of her. She got naked in front of him. They were together, his dick was inside of her. He made her moan, maybe even made her come. He definitely came. He was intimate with her in the ways that he was only supposed to be with me. I thought he loved me. I thought I was special to him. He always called me his sparrow, this bird he felt so lucky to hold in the palm of his hand, and all he did was lure me to him, keep me trapped, then close his hand over me until I was crushed.

I didn’t even notice. Didn’t even notice what he was doing to me. I knew he had pulled away, I felt the cold and the distance, but I just hoped it was something we could work through. That we would come back together like before, but stronger. I gave him space because I wanted to be the perfect girlfriend, the one he would love forever. I did everything right.

And he didn’t care. He used me. Used my heart. Used my body.

And now I’m fucking knocked up. I’m actually pregnant with his baby and…I don’t want to tell him. I’m not going to tell him. I’m getting an abortion and that’s that. It’s going to be awful and I’m so fucking scared but I can’t give birth to this baby, especially if I know he’s not even going to be around. There was a tiny, itty-bitty part of me that thought maybe, just maybe, if I told him I was pregnant, that he would want me to keep the baby, that I would for him, thinking that we would be in it together.

I know. It was a stupid part of me, and in a way I’m glad that the awful news got delivered in such a devastating way, because I realize how terrible that would be. Sure, maybe it works for other teen moms and they turn out okay, but for all I know Anders would skip town and head back to Norway if he found out.

And so, he won’t find out.

I’ll keep this a secret, between me, and Hannah, and Everly.

And I’ll figure out some way to move on from Anders.

I just have to confront him first.

I stare at myself in the mirror, breathing in deep through my nose, trying to steel my nerves. I let the anger flow because it is better to be angry than sad. Anger I can work with.

I burst out of the bathroom, feeling like a million bucks, fueled by vengeance. “Let’s go.”

Since we’re not planning on drinking or staying at the party for long, Everly drives us over to Doug’s house. It’s on the outskirts of town, so it takes a bit to get there, and by the time she pulls her car down the cul-de-sac, people haphazardly parked everywhere, I’m trying to fight down a wave of nausea again. I’m so nervous and angry and sick, I’m not sure what to do with myself and I’m second-guessing everything.

God, I hope Jen isn’t here. I’m not a violent person and my hand still hurts from punching the locker earlier, so I can’t imagine punching someone in the face. But I’m so angry, I don’t know what I’m going to say, and Jen is one of those chicks who loves fighting other girls. Looking back, I’m not really sure why Everly and I were friends with her to begin with. I guess she just seemed cooler than us. Turns out, she wasn’t. She was just a bitch.

“We can go back home,” Everly says to me as she puts the car in park.

I shake my head, holding my fists so tight that my nails make marks in my palms. “No. Let’s go in. I’m fine.”

All a lie, of course.

We get out of the car and head across the street. Music is thumping, there are some people I recognize making out on the porch. The neighborhood is quiet and though the other houses aren’t that close, it probably won’t be long until the party is shut down.

We go inside, Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” blasting, and I swear everyone is looking at me. I know I always think that, but this time I know they are. They whisper to each other behind their red plastic cups, and I hear someone go, “Holy shit, Shay is here.”

Which means everyone already knows that Anders cheated on me with Jen Brown.

I can see it in their eyes. The pity. They all feel sorry for me.

I raise my chin and pretend like I don’t care.

“Shay,” Erin Spence, who I have math with, comes over to me. I don’t think she’s ever talked to me before. “What are you doing here?”

I give her a nasty look, enough that she shrinks back a little. “I’m friends with Doug.”

“No, I know, but…” she leans in. “Anders is here. I heard what happened…”

“Where is he?” I ask, my teeth grinding together.

She nods toward the sliding door in the dining room that leads to the backyard.

I glance at Everly over my shoulder and her eyes go wide. Perhaps she didn’t think that the first thing I’d do would be to seek out Anders, but I’m not here to mingle and I’m not fucking around.

I march past Erin, past the group of guys who go “Oooooh noooooo here she comes!” and through the dining room, pulling open the sliding door, Everly on my tail.

Outside there’s just a few people milling about, drinking, laughing, and then I see Anders talking to Ted Lee, in what appears to be a deep, drunken conversation.

Everything in me stills. Anders has this hazy look in his eyes and he still hasn’t looked over at me yet. I watch him for a moment, conscious of the crowd of people at my back, wishing I could be alone with him.

More than anything, I wish I could turn back time. Wish I could go back to when I felt Anders pull away, wish that I could have done something, anything, to stop him from sleeping with someone else. I wish we could go back to the early days, when we were so in love, when we didn’t need anything except each other.

My heart is torn open and bleeding for him and nothing will ever be the same.

Finally, Anders lifts his head. Looks at everyone.

Looks at me.

Shame washes across his brow.

And the anger inside me rears its ugly head.

Before I know what’s happening, I’m walking across Doug’s lawn toward Anders. Marching, actually. A broken-hearted girl with so much pain to give.

“Anders!” I bark at him, and someone in the background goes “ooooh” but I don’t even care anymore if people are watching. Let them see.

Ted looks at me fearfully, probably because of the violence on my face, and he quickly steps aside, walking away from Anders, deserting him.

“Shay,” Anders says, his voice making me unravel further.

I can’t stop myself.

I walk right up to him and SLAP him hard across the face.

He stares at me, stunned.

My palm stings.

Adrenaline rushes through me.

Behind us, the crowd lets out a quiet gasp.

“How dare you!” I scream at him. “How dare you sleep with her? How dare you do that to me!”

And then I slap him again, harder this time.

His mouth drops open, his hand going to his cheek.

I’m breathing hard, trying not to cry, my chest collapsing on itself.

And I’m staring at him, waiting for him to say something, to tell me why. We’re all waiting for it.

But he doesn’t say anything. The look of guilt and shame grows heavier on his brow and he just shakes his head slightly.

“What!?” I yell, throwing my hands out. “What is it? Tell me something! Anything!”

He swallows hard. “I’m so sorry.”

I blink, my face hot. “That’s it? You’re sorry? That’s all I get?”

His eyes grow wet. “I fucked up. I fucked up, Shay, and I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks.

Not good enough.

I’m this close to telling him that I’m pregnant, to really rub that in. But I don’t want my classmates to know. They’d judge me. They’d especially judge me after getting an abortion. I have to keep that secret tucked away, forever.

“Fuck you,” I tell him. “Fuck you for making me trust you. Fuck you for breaking my heart! I loved you! I loved you and you threw it away!”

“Shay,” he says, making a move for me, but I rip out of his way.

“Don’t!” I scream, the tears now spilling down my cheeks, breakdown imminent. “Don’t you dare try to touch me. It’s over. We’re through. I never ever want to see you again.”

I whirl around and march to the gate at the side of the house, Everly running behind me.

“Don’t worry, you won’t,” I hear Anders say quietly.

I believe him, too.

My heart feels like it’s breaking all over again.

14

Shay

Now

The surest way to turn a good situation into an awkward one is to let your ex-boyfriend kiss you in a barn whilst milking a cow, and then proceed to get caught by his disapproving uncle.

This was exactly the kind of thing that I was trying to avoid.

And believe me, I was trying to avoid it.

It’s just hard when…well, fuck. It’s hard when it’s Anders. I know we have all this tumultuous history between us, that we never got the closure we needed from each other, or at least I never did, but even if I didn’t have all that with him, I’d be in over my head.

I mean, look at him. He’s built like a Nordic god, gorgeous from head to toe, and would definitely rack up all the views if he ever put out a Tik Tok with him chopping wood or doing other manly mountain stuff or whatever. And then there’s his soul. So damaged and soft and he doesn’t even try to hide it. He’s got the artist’s heart beating underneath a laborer’s body and sometimes there’s such purity to him that it catches me off guard. Any woman worth her salt would feel revered, respected, and adored in his presence.

And yet, I can’t seem to forget what he did to me. And I know it was so long ago, I know I shouldn’t care anymore, but it’s become this big steel wall that slams shut every time I think about giving in to him. Every time I think, maybe this can work? And even if it can’t, maybe it can work for now? What’s so wrong with hooking up with your ex for a few weeks before you part ways? Isn’t that what most people do, especially if there is unfinished business between them? Maybe I’m the one who’s being the problem here.

Actually, I know I am. Because for that brief moment when he caught me before the walls could come down, when he kissed me, I felt something inside me break open, something I’d been trying to hide.

It scared me to death, to have that feeling again, to feel that alive, even if it only lasted for as long as his lips were on mine, for his hands to coast over my body, feeling so much more than it ever did.

And now, well, everything is awkward. Per caught us in a compromising situation and immediately needed my help with the sheep. Thankfully he didn’t bring it up again (and if he did, I didn’t notice—score one for not understanding much Norwegian) and by the time I was done and headed back in the barn to change out of my oversized jumpsuit, Anders had taken off on his motorbike.

He’s been gone most of the day.

I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I hung around the house for a bit, tried to make small talk with Per, but it’s not easy when neither of you speak the same language, so I just sat down in the living room with him, on the floral-covered couch, and watched some reruns of MASH, subtitled in Norwegian, then made us both cut up pears with local goat cheese and crackers, which I think Per begrudgingly enjoyed (despite having his own orchard, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a piece of fruit cross his lips).

Now, well, I figured there’s no sense in stewing in my bedroom. I decide to grab the old camera that Anders gave me and go for a long walk down the road, hoping to hit up some of the really photogenic houses. There’s still film in the camera, and I have no idea how old it is, but I figure it’s worth a shot. At the very least, it gives me time to stew over what happened and over-analyze the shit out of it. You know, what I do best.

I walk down the lane, taking in a deep breath through my nose, smelling the fresh air. At the edge of the property, there’s a hint of the ocean, which is as calm as a lake. A few sheep walk along the water’s edge, nibbling at flowers. On the other side of me the mountains rise up and up, their peaks disappearing behind puffs of cloud. At first the mountains made me feel grounded, being so enclosed in this valley, but now I have a sense of vertigo, like if I look up too high the mountain will crush me.

But that’s just a metaphor, isn’t it?

Because I’m scared.

Scared that being with Anders, physically, intimately, will somehow undo all my resolve. He ruined me so badly that it took so much time and emotional energy to learn to be the person who would never make that mistake again. Yes, things with Danny went south, but I never felt like my heart, like the soul of me, was on the line.

Now, it feels like it is. It shouldn’t. But knowing that doesn’t make the feeling go away. If I give in to Anders, if we make things even more complicated than they already are, am I strong enough to walk away unscathed this time?

I keep walking and taking photos until I’ve run out of film. I don’t know how much time has passed, it’s hard when the sun stays up so late, but the birds are chirping and there’s a cool breeze in the air. Every corner is a new vista waiting to take your breath away.

Honestly, in another life, I could live here. To be surrounded by this beauty all the time, to slow down to a simple pace of life. It’s the kind of place that makes your heart dream.

I hear the motorbike from behind me, slowly growing louder, and my ribs suddenly feel too tight. In moments the sound engulfs me and Anders pulls up, looking too cool for school, a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Where are you going?” he asks me, as if I’m a stranger who needs a lift.

“Just going for a walk,” I tell him. I lift up the camera. “Taking pics.”

He manages a smile. “I’m glad you’re using it. Is there even film?”

I nod. “Used it all though.”

“Ah but that’s the kind of camera that always gives you one last shot.”

“One last shot?”

“It feels like it’s done, keeps winding. But if you press the shutter, you’ll get another pic out of it.” I lift it up, aiming it at his face. He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare waste it on me.”

I stare at him through the lens, enjoying making him uncomfortable for once. Then I lower it and give him a look like, now what? Are we going to talk about you kissing me? Or the fact that I kissed you back?

But I chicken out. “Where have you been all day?” I ask.

He nods at the mountains. “Exploring some trails. Getting dirty.”

I eye his clothes—dark jeans, a white Henley that showcases his rounded shoulders, his broad chest. Not a spec of dirt on the man. “You don’t look dirty to me.”

“Had a shower. Changed. Had to look nice for our date.”

I laugh. “Date? What are you talking about?”

He sticks a toothpick in his mouth and then jerks his chin over his shoulder. “Get on.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I know what’s happening.”

He grins at me, his eyes twinkling in a way that makes my heart skip several beats. “What happened to Miss Spontaneous, always up for an adventure?”

Gah. He’s got me there.

I flip my camera around the strap so it’s resting on my back and then I stride over to him, grabbing his shoulders as I pull myself on the motorbike. I wrap my arms around his chest, place my cheek on his shoulder blades, the backpack pressed up against me.

“You okay?” he asks, his accent sounding thicker, voice husky, and I’m getting inappropriate goosebumps.

I clear my throat. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

We move, much smoother than the other day, and after a while I lift up my head to take in the sights, the camera bouncing along my spine as we hit bumps. The ocean gleams on our right, a small fishing boat plying the waters, heading home. That is obviously just a villager catching what he can; I know we’re hours away from the actual open ocean where all the good fishing is (according to Anders, anyway).

Anders takes us over a bridge, past the town, then past the dumpling hotel, which feels so long ago now, until the houses get further apart and the road turns to gravel. I keep a tight hold on him as the road gets rougher and narrower, a river on one side of us, a forest of birch on the other. You can’t hear over the roar of the motor, so we ride in a silence that’s feeling more and more comfortable by the second. It feels right to be back here, my arms wrapped around his firm stomach, my body pressed against his. A little too right.

Eventually the valley opens up, wide, like it’s yawning. A couple of farms and red houses dot the green expanse that stretches between the mountains, the river running through it.

Anders takes us over another bridge and then we start heading along the river on the other side, the road turning to a path until eventually it peters out into a grassy area and we come to a stop in front of a small waterfall.

“Here we are,” he says, turning off the bike. Birdsong and the roar of the waterfall fill my ears.

I’m looking around in awe as he helps me off the bike.

“Is this your secret spot? Because it’s beautiful.”

He takes off his backpack and brings it over to the water’s edge, setting it down and unzipping the top. “It’s not exactly a secret. Long time ago the furniture factory used the hydro from the waterfalls on this river to power their machines. If you walk upstream for a bit, you’ll find what’s left. Someone went and put picnic tables there for the hikers in the area, but this spot is a little more private.”

I watch as he brings out a wool blanket, cornflower blue with white designs, very Scandinavian looking. “Is that your grandmother’s?” I ask him.

He shrugs, adjusting the ends. “Probably.” He gives me a quick smile. “It was my mother’s.” He nods at the blanket. “Here. Sit. I’ll be your server tonight.”

I let out a small laugh and get down on the blanket, sitting cross-legged, watching as he removes a bottle of hard liquor. “To start our night off, we’ll be having some aquavit. Have you had this yet?” He gets down on his knees, holding it out.

I shake my head, eying the bottle. It looks like strong booze, has a ship on the bottle.

“I thought Astrid would have made you drink this at some point,” he comments, bringing out a couple of shot glasses and pouring the booze in it. He hands one to me then raises the one in his hand. “Skal.”

I sniff it first. My eyes water already. It’s like turpentine and something familiar yet strange. “What the hell is in this?”

“It’s surprisingly smooth,” he says, taking a shot back, though he does wince a little. “Might put a little hair on your chest. It’s why Norwegians are so hairy.”

I laugh and then take back the shot. God. It burns like hell.

“Not sure smooth is the right adjective,” I tell him, and I swear I already feel the effects of it as it warms my chest. “Why do I taste dill?”

“It’s made from caraway seeds,” he says. “It’s a right of passage here in Norway. I promise you the second shot will taste better.”

I smirk at him. “You’re trying to get me drunk.” I hold out my glass.

“You’re not saying no,” he says, pouring us both another round.

I keep my eyes on the glass, avoiding in the intensity in his gaze. Because he’s right. I want to get drunk. And I don’t want to say no. Not anymore. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol already coursing through my veins, if it’s the scenic location by the small waterfall, if it’s the fact that in this golden late evening light Anders looks hotter than ever, or if it’s the kiss from earlier, still imprinted on my lips, but I want to throw all caution to the wind.

And it still scares me.

I raise the glass, meeting his eyes for a moment, and I swear they hold me hostage for eons. Then the corner of his mouth tilts into a half-smile and he takes the shot back. I do the same.

He was right. It is better the second time around.

Maybe it will be the same for us.

I swallow it down and cough a little, enjoying the buzz. I lean back on my elbows and tilt my head to the sun, which is disappearing behind faraway mountains. It makes me want to see what’s behind those mountains, to see where the wild Norwegian Sea meets the coast. It makes me want to take Anders up on his offer.

But that’s drunk Shay talking. “So how is your mother?” I ask Anders.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Well, I guess.”

“Astrid told me you don’t talk,” I tell him.

He nods, squinting off into the distance. “We don’t. We’ve never been close. As you know.”

I give him a steady look, weighing my words in my mind. “But that’s just the thing, Anders. I don’t really know. I know you think you told me everything when we were going out but…you didn’t.”

His eyes sharpen. “I did too.”

“Poetry doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because it only tells me how you feel. It doesn’t explain where the feelings come from. What made you this way.”

He stiffens, growing defensive. “Then it should be enough.”

“Anders,” I say, and I know I should hold things back, that I shouldn’t ruin what could be a romantic moment. I know I should just let it go, but my mouth keeps moving. “I deserve to know why you did what you did. You say that you were a fuck-up when you were younger, well why? What were your demons? You never shared them with me. I knew you had problems, but you never let me in.”

His jaw tenses and he averts his eyes, looking off. “I was just an asshole. Plain and simple.”

I reach out and grab his arm, forcing him to look at me. “You weren’t. At least not at the beginning. Something changed. Something made you that way. Was it…was it me?”

His eyes go soft. “No. No, Shay. You were perfect. You were…so fucking lovely. I just…” he licks his lips and sighs. Runs his hand through his hair. “Do you know what it’s like to feel like your own family doesn’t want you?”

His words cause my heart to grow cold and heavy.

I nod slowly. “Yes. I do. Anders, you know I do.”

He gives me a sharp look. “Do I? Because for all you’re saying about how you don’t know anything about me, did you ever consider that I barely knew anything about you?”

I shake my head. “That’s not true. You knew what it was like for me back then. Never having my mother around, having her chase after my father, who clearly gave no shits about us. All I had was Hannah, and she had her own life to live. She never asked for any of that, to have to look after me. We were pretty much abandoned, Anders. Abandoned, and then I became a burden.”

“And so was I!” His eyes flash. “I was sent to be with my mother because her abandonment of our family fucked me up so much that my father couldn’t handle me. Couldn’t even stand to be around me. I was sent to be with her, and she didn’t even want me. I went across the Atlantic, pulled from my school and friends, and I wasn’t wanted there either. I had nothing, I had no one…except for you.”

“Then why did you fuck it up?” I cry out.

He swallows hard. “Because I knew I didn’t deserve you. Because…you were pure and so good and I really did love you.”

Fuck. Those words shouldn’t hit me the way they are. Right in between the ribs.

“But,” he continues, his voice going low, “I also knew that it wasn’t forever. That I would eventually have to leave. I couldn’t stay where I wasn’t wanted. I knew I’d head back to Norway, try and create a life for myself, and that we would have to part, and I guess…I guess I thought if I fucked things up enough, if I could get you to hate me, it would make it easier for both of us.”

I let out a derisive snort. “There was nothing easy about it.”

I suck on my bottom lip, feeling the truth rising up inside me. He still doesn’t really know what happened, he doesn’t realize that it wasn’t just about him cheating on me. He doesn’t know I was pregnant, or that I had an abortion, and that those things have weighed me down all this time.

“Anders,” I say softly, my eyes skimming over his beautiful face before looking off to the mountains, the bare peaks kissed with gold from the setting sun. “I…”

He reaches out before I can say anything and places his large, warm palm against my cheek. “Forgive me, Shay. Please.”

His eyes search mine, and in their depths I see the boy I knew and loved, and the man in front of me now, and I know I would still do anything to ease his pain.

“Forgive me,” he says again, a whisper now.

I nod, pressing my lips together, trying to smile, to speak.

Because I do forgive him. Don’t I?

Then relief passes through his eyes before being drowned out by fire.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s leaning in, his fingers moving back into my hair, holding my head in place, and his mouth covers mine in a hard, bruising kiss that steals my breath.

Anders kisses me like a man going off to war.

But the only war is the one raging inside me.

The one between the past and the present.

The present is winning.

It takes a moment for me to realize what’s happening, but then my mouth opens in total surrender. His tongue slides in against mine, wet, warm, stirring something in the dark depths of me, like a flock of gossamer-winged birds taking flight. The way his lips devour mine, both hard and soft at once, makes me feel like the world is spinning, tipping over, and this kiss is the only thing keeping me centered.

Then I’m leaning forward, grabbing him by the shoulders, my fingers digging into his shirt, trying to hold on, trying to keep him to myself, afraid that if I stop for a moment, I might let him go and he’ll never come back to me.

“Shay,” he whispers against my mouth, his voice rough, brimming with urgency.

I can only whimper in return as he kisses me harder, and then I’m being pushed back, back, until I’m lying down on the blanket. He moves on top of me, his massive body nearly blocking out the waning blue sky and the gold-tinged clouds.

His jacket comes off.

So does mine.

Then my shirt, my bra, his eyes going wide at the sight of my breasts, nipples hard.

Then I’m trying to tug off his shirt, running my fingers over the muscles in his shoulders, his hard pecs, nails scraping down his rigid six-pack, marveling at all his tattoos that he’s added over the years.

But he doesn’t give me a lot of time to gawk.

“Are you…do you have protection?”

I nod. “IUD. Had it for ages.”

He bites his lip, his eyes now coasting over my body as he reaches down and unzips his jeans, pulling out his cock.

My eyes widen at the intimidating sight.

My god, Anders has gotten bigger in every single way possible.

Suddenly I’m slammed with this desperate urge to have him inside me, and I’m unzipping my jeans, shimmying out of them, not self-conscious in the least that I’m now naked beneath him, outside, in daylight. Thank god it’s the flattering glow of magic hour.

Besides, his own naked body is distraction enough.

He positions himself between my thighs, stroking his cock, holding back.

I bite my lip, watching him, wanting him.

His brow furrows, and I can tell he wants to thrust up inside me and go at it, that it’s taking a lot of restraint for him to control himself. His nostrils flare and he’s breathing hard, his breath hitching further as he guides his cock between my legs, rubbing the swollen head against me.

I gasp lightly, my body responding with waves of fire and ice down my spine, my legs spreading further, wanting him inside me. I’m already wet, surprisingly so, and the sound is X-rated, filling the still evening air around us.

His eyes coast over my body, the heat in his eyes building and he shakes his head, letting out a shaking breath. “Words cannot do you justice,” he whispers gruffly, a hint of awe as he takes me in. “They never could.”

He reaches out with one hand, his rough fingertip brushing over my lower lip, then over my chin, between my breasts, over my stomach.

Then he’s leaning forward, capturing my mouth in his and I’m kissing him, lost to the passionate undertow as he starts to push his cock inside me.

Ah. It hurts. Just a little. There’s a pinch and I’m so tight that it takes a bit for my body to loosen, no matter how wet I am. It’s been ages since I last slept with anyone, and it’s not like I brought a handy collection of dildos on my travels. I feel brand new.

It must feel the same way for Anders too, because he lets out a tight noise of pleasure against my mouth, pulling away and sucking in a deep breath. “Jesus.”

Then he looks down at me, and in his stormy blue eyes, I know that this is a big deal for him too. We lost our virginity to each other. We gave each other our bodies a long time ago, learning as we went, figuring out what sex was all about, figuring out what we wanted.

Now we’re older, we’re different, and yet our bodies fit just the same. The way he pushes his cock in, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, brings out some sort of muscle memory in my body. It relaxes through the pain, surrendering to him, remembering.

“Fuck,” he swears, now in to the hilt, and his breath shudders as he exhales, a thumb going over my lip again as he gazes at me with reverence. “Are you okay?”

I can’t help but grin, biting the end of his thumb. It tastes like salt.

“Better than okay,” I manage to say, my voice thick, throaty, relishing the feeling of him so deep inside me. I reach down and grab his ass, all muscle, and pull him into me so that he sinks even deeper.

He groans loudly, the sound turning me on like a switch, and suddenly I don’t want this slow and sensual build. I want him to fuck me, ravage me, take no prisoners.

“Greedy girl,” Anders says in a husky voice.

Then he starts to pull back, bracketing his arm on one side of me, his muscles straining as he pushes himself back in, harder this time.

I gasp, my fingers curling around the blanket beneath me, and my eyes close for a moment, letting all the sensations wash over. The feel of his girth inside me, the raspy quality of his breath, the babbling stream flowing past us, far-off bird song, the chill in the evening air. It’s more than just sex right now, it’s a fully primal experience, one with nature, one with each other.

God, I have fantasized about this.

I open my eyes as he pushes in again, his rhythm picking up, and from the look on his face, his brow knitted together, his eyes pinched shut, the moans that are grinding out of his mouth, he’s feeling everything that I am. When his eyes open again, they hold me captive in their gaze, the eye contact more intimate than anything else.

But I know these eyes.

I used to be in love with these eyes.

Then he reaches over and gathers my wrists together, moving them above my head, pinning them there and he starts moving faster, his hips slamming against mine, full of power, the air knocked from me with each and every thrust.

“Fuck,” I whisper, breathless, looking away from the endless intensity in his eyes, his eyes that are starting to demand more than just my body, but my heart and my soul. I focus on the mountains, on the peaks tinged with gold of the setting sun, and I feel like I’m soaring just as high.

Will I ever come down from this?

I let my eyes fall closed, succumbing to every feeling. The scratchy wool of the blanket on my bare back, the cool air as it hardens my nipples, the sound of Anders’ quickening breath, the slide of his cock as he pumps inside me, feeling so full and lush, like he was made just for me.

When I open my eyes to see him, the look on his face has intensified, and sweat is starting to appear on his brow. For a moment, I can’t believe this is happening, that this man, this man of all men, with his god-like muscles, and those poetic tattoos, is fucking me senseless.

“I want you to come,” Anders says through a rough grunt, his body a well-oiled machine hell-bent on giving me pleasure. “I want to see you come, out here, among the flowers. I want to see you bloom.”

My skin is already hot and tight, but now a flush is creeping across my face.

Wow.

I don’t have a witty retort to that, in fact, it feels like all words and thoughts are starting to leave my body with each and every pump of his cock. So he reaches down between my legs and start rubbing my clit in slick wet circles.

Oh god.

That’s it.

That’s always been it.

“Keep going,” I cry out softly, my legs spreading wider for him, the pressure building inside me, making me feel like my veins are running molten hot.

He grunts in response, and I watch as he concentrates on getting me off with feverish intensity.

I need to remember that look. It’s the look of a man possessed by lust, a man that wants nothing more than for me to come.

And in this moment at least, he’s my man.

“Don’t stop,” I say again, bringing out another gruff moan from him, his breath hitching, his fingers working faster as his cock drives in deeper, like he’s nailing me into the ground.

Oh god. Here I go.

The pressure inside me starts to build, thick and hot and sweet, and I feel like I’m seconds from going over the edge. He leans down, adjusting his grip on my wrists, capturing my lips in a wet and sweaty kiss. His tongue fucks my mouth as thoroughly as his cock, then he brings his warm tongue down over my chin, throat, until it licks over my breasts. They bounce with each hard thrust but he manages to suck my nipple in his mouth, giving it a delicate pinch before he sets me off.

“I’ve waited for this,” Anders says thickly, just as my orgasm rushes for me, making my back arch, my vision blur.

This man just destroyed me.

“Oh fuck,” I cry out as I come, immediately drowning in the tsunami, feelings I had buried, feelings I had dreamed of, they all come for me in a vicious wave, a riptide, an undertow. I’m shaking, shuddering, crying out in garbled words that don’t make any sense, and my eyes focus on him, and then the sky, and then it’s like I can see the universe too.

Anders grunts, brings his large, hot, calloused hands down to my hips, holding me in place as he keeps fucking me like a desperate man, like he’ll die if doesn’t, like an animal on the loose. It’s not long before his back is arching, his head thrown back, and he’s coming with a long and helpless groan aimed at the sky.

I’m still coming, still riding it out, but I’m not missing this show. I watch him come, watch him fall apart, piece by piece, loving how it looks on him.

“Jesus,” he groans, gasping. “Fucking hell.”

I grin, sated, lazy, watching as the orgasm continues to roll through his body, just as it rolled through mine. Anders is completely undone, his taut torso slick with sweat from his own exertion, his hair messed up, beard wet from our messy kisses, his chest heaving as he breathes.

Then, the world seems to come back into focus for the both of us.

With a long, slow shuddering breath, he looks down at me, and in his eyes I see peace. I see relief. I see both the past and the present and just a hint of a future.

I know he sees the same in mine.

15

Anders

For the first time in a long time, when I wake up before dawn breaks, I’m not alone in my bed. I feel Shay beside me, the soft skin of her hip against me, the easy sound of her breath. Outside the light from the east is glowing, but the light inside my soul is already bright.

She’s here.

In my bed.

Naked and asleep and so god damn beautiful it makes me ache all over.

I watch her for a moment, watch as her features become sharper in the room, the look of peace and innocence on her face, even though I know she’s anything but innocent. Especially after last night.

My thoughts rewind back.

To her on her back, the evening glow on her face.

The look as she came.

The feel of her around my dick, soft and tight and slick, holding me as if we were magnets finally coming together after being restrained for so long.

Fuck, I’m hard again.

And I know I don’t have a lot of time before I have to get up and start chores for the day. I reach down, wrapping my fingers around my cock, squeezing tight until I’m breathless. I slowly slide my fist up and down the hard length, feeling like I shouldn’t be doing this next to her, but doing it anyway.

Then she stirs, adjusts herself on the pillow, and her eyes delicately flutter open. So big and brown and warm as she takes me in.

She’s fucking magic.

She’s all the poetry in the world.

I still, giving her a lazy grin. “Good morning.”

A smile spreads across her face. It’s like watching the sun come up. “Good morning,” she says in this husky, half-asleep voice that makes me inexplicably harder. Then her smile turns sly and it’s like I might explode.

I lean over and kiss her, lips so soft I feel like I might sink into her forever. She responds with warmth, wrapping her arms around me, hands in my hair, fingers sliding over my scalp.

A groan escapes my lips and I move over her, wanting more.

But while it would be so easy to just slip my dick between her legs, I want something she never gave me before. When we were together before, she never let me go down on her. The most I could do was fuck her with my fingers, and while she always enjoyed that, I wanted to taste her, feel her come on my lips.

I give her a wicked grin and start moving down over her body, my rough palms gliding over the smoothness of her honeyed skin.

Her brows raise. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” I ask her, my voice dropping as I grab her thighs, spreading them. “Better yet, what does it feel like?”

Before she can answer me, I dip my head between her legs, pausing for a moment before I devour her.

She lets out a loud, breathless gasp as I run my tongue along her and up to her clit, swirling around until she’s pressing her thighs against my head. I smile against her, luxuriating in every sensation, from her salty-sweet taste, to her eager groans, to the way her body starts to move beneath me, so warm, so willing.

She tastes like she’s surrendering, letting go.

Letting me in, in a way she never did before.

I won’t take this for granted.

I’m spurred on, my mouth faster now, my tongue plunging deep inside her until she’s squeezing me, gripping the sheets, her back arching, perfect tits pointed at the ceiling.

I could eat her all fucking day.

But it doesn’t take long before her breaths gets shorter, until her hands find my hair and make a fist, pulling just right. She comes into my mouth, her body jerking off the bed, her cries filling the air before she has the mind to stuff the pillow over her face, muffling herself in case Per hears.

I pull away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, then make my way back up her body, pulling the pillow off of her face. Her dark hair spills around her and she’s breathing hard, smiling, eyes blinking up at me, shining. “Wow,” she says.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I tell her, grinning at her like an idiot.

She lets out a small laugh, gazing up at me. “I’m sad I missed out on that all those years ago.”

“Don’t be sad. I would have been rubbish back then,” I admit.

She tilts her head and studies me. “I don’t know. You probably would have gotten extra points for effort.”

“That I would have.”

She licks her lips and runs her hands down my back, digging her nails into my ass and pulling my erection against her. “Can’t let this go to waste.”

“Never,” I tell her, bracketing her between my elbows. “But I know that alarm is going to go off any minute.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” she says, another coy look.

Fuck.

She’s right.

I push myself inside of her, so hot, slick, tight, and then it only takes a couple of hard thrusts before I know I’m close to coming. I don’t miss any opportunities though. I reach down and rub quick circles along her clit until she’s coming again.

“Shay,” I cry out, my orgasm sneaking up on me and the world goes tumbling, my lungs breathless, my body shuddering with release. I swear under my breath in Norwegian, lowering myself against her, trying to catch my breath, just as my alarm goes off.

I laugh, resting my forehead against Shay’s for a moment, staring blissfully into her eyes before I reach over and hit snooze.

“Time to get up,” she says to me, reaching out and running her finger over the bridge of my nose.

I playfully pretend to bite it and she giggles, taking her hand away. God, I could just spend the rest of my days in bed with her, hanging onto moments like this one, where everything fades into the background and it’s just us, together again, but better this time.

“I don’t want you to be late,” she says, staring up at me with adoring eyes, a look that jumpstarts my heart.

“Me? Don’t you mean we?” I tease her. “Or was your pretending to be a farmgirl just a ruse to get in my pants?”

Her eyes go round for a second before she bursts out laughing. Forever the sweetest sound.

“Oh, that’s rich, Anders,” she chortles.

“Hey, I wouldn’t blame you,” I say, knowing she can see the twinkle in my eye. “I’ve got the goods.”

“What you’ve got are cows that need to be milked. And please, don’t turn what I said into something sexual.”

Now I’m laughing. “You’re the one who likes to make it weird.” Then I feel a strange pulse of fear run through me, the idea of laying myself on the line. I clear my throat and she frowns, noting the serious expression on my face. “Listen, Shay…what we talked about the other day. About me showing you the country…I’d still like to do that.”

She studies me, brows coming together. “Like…traveling with me? But the farm…”

“Don’t worry. Kolbjorn will take over. I’ll talk to him and Per today, it will be fine. We can take a week off.”

“And the fishing?”

“Still have time before I have to go out to sea.”

“Will a week be enough?”

I give a melancholy smile, brushing her bangs off her face. “No. It won’t be enough. I want all the time with you possible. I want to wrap myself in every single second of you.”

She swallows, pressing her lips together for a moment while my fingers brush over her soft skin. “What happens when you go out to sea? You’ll be gone for how long?”

I shake my head. “It depends. But I don’t expect you to wait around. And I don’t think we need to talk about it either. Let’s just…take each day as it comes. Starting with today. I’ll help out Per this morning, call up Kolbjorn, he’ll come help out. Won’t be a problem.”

She observes me for a moment, worrying her lip between her teeth, and I’m holding my breath, praying she’ll say yes. I need to take her away from her, to give us both space to be together, be ourselves. I know I’m different when I’m not at the farm, and I want to give her all of my attention. Plus, I want her to fall in love with the country even more, in the vain hope that she won’t ever want to leave.

“Okay,” she says, smiling. “Let’s do it. Let’s take a road trip.”

I grin at her and kiss her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips, just as my alarm goes off again.

I groan and pull myself away from her, knowing I need to get going. I sit on the edge of the bed and grab her hand, giving it a squeeze. “You sleep in. Take a shower. Then get yourself packed and ready. We’ll go before noon.”

She stares at me. “So soon?”

“I’m not wasting a single second with you, my sparrow,” I tell her, lifting up her hand and kissing her knuckles. “You’re mine until you fly away.”

I know I’m being bold, but I don’t care.

And, thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind. She just gives me a shy smile, the kind of soft happiness that will leave an imprint in my brain all morning long.

I quickly get ready, her tired eyes watching me from the bed, and then I’m stepping out into the dawn, seeing that smile in my head, rising with the sun.

* * *

“Pull over.”

I look over at Shay, frowning. “You going to be sick?”

She gives me a dry look and smacks my arm. “No, though I’m starting to think you were a rally driver in your past life. I want to take a picture.”

“Oh, a picture,” I tell her. “This a new hobby of yours?”

She sticks her tongue out at me as I find the next pullout alongside the fjord, waiting for a car to pass before I head across and put the car into park.

We technically only left Todalen about ten minutes ago and Shay’s managed to take a million photos already. I guess the drive is extremely scenic, with the mountains dropping straight off into the fjord, but I’ve driven it so many times it doesn’t look like anything much to me. She’s good for that, though, among a million other things. Helping me see the things right in front of me.

Shay gets out of the Datsun and brings out the Pentax. We stopped by the corner store, which happened to have a roll of film (something to be said about a town that clings to the past), and she’s been alternating between her phone and the film camera.

I watch her as she takes her photos, the breeze brushing her hair off her shoulders. I feel like pinching myself that I got this lucky, that I have this chance to be with her like this.

It was easier than I thought, too. Per almost looked relieved when I said I’d be going off with Shay for a week. I guess he can get tired of me too sometimes, plus I’m not sure how much of Shay he heard this morning, but it’s got to be awkward to have the two of us in the house. And if it’s not awkward yet, it certainly will be, because I can’t keep my damn hands off this woman.

Anyway, Kolbjorn agreed to it, no problem, and so now I just have to slow down and hold onto every moment I can, like this one.

Finally, Shay turns around, putting her camera down, and smiles at me.

I automatically beam at her right back, feeling so much darkness lift inside me. As long as I don’t think about the future, as long as I only think about the here and now, that darkness can’t touch me. Not like it usually does.

She gets back into the car. “Okay, I promise not to do that again. I know we’re in a rush to catch the ferry.”

“Actually, the ferry leaves quite regularly,” I tell her. “It’s just the faster we go, the faster I get you to the hotel and get to fuck you until you can’t breathe.”

Her eyes go big, her mouth dropping slightly. She smiles, wagging her brows. “Oh. Oh my.”

That’s a look I won’t get tired of.

But while we end up taking the small ferry across the fjord and drive along the snaking road, the Datsun impressing Shay on every corner, I know that we should make a brief stop in Kristiansund before we go to our remote hotel for the night. It’s the last bout of civilization.

“Kristiansund,” Shay says as she reads a sign as we head into the city. It’s actually more of a big town, about twenty-four thousand people spread out along the rocky coast and inlets. “Are we going to see your boat?”

I didn’t even think about that. I’m refusing to think about that part of my life right now. “Actually, I thought we would grab a late lunch somewhere. You must be starving. You used to get so hangry, it was frightening.”

“Still do,” she says. She twists in her seat to look at me. “But I insist you take me to your boat. What’s its name again?”

“Midnight Sun,” I tell her. “It’s just an old fishing vessel, Shay. Nothing to write home about.”

“Maybe to you,” she says, her expression turning grave. “But it belonged to your father and it’s a big part of your life. I want to see it. I want to see that part of you. Your mistress of the sea.”

I let out a caustic snort. “That’s a new one. Fine,” I tell her with a sigh, pulling down the road toward the marina. “But you won’t be impressed.”

“I’m not trying to be impressed. I’m trying to get to know you.”

The corner of my mouth lifts. Can’t say that doesn’t feel good, that she wants to know me, more than she has before. It’s just a little terrifying at the same time, because I know all the dark parts I try and keep hidden. She’s seen my poetry, but that only scratches the surface of who I really am. That’s my ugly soul rearranged into pretty words.

We get to the marina, park, and get out of the car. It’s busy today, a lot of boats heading out. I grab Shay’s hand and we walk over to the dock, heading toward the boat at the end of it.

To my surprise, Epsen is on board, a bucket and a scrubbing brush in hand. I know that he cleans it between trips, I just didn’t think he’d be here today.

“Anders,” he says, just as surprised to see me. Then he looks at Shay and his brows go even higher. “And hello there.”

Of course he’s saying this all in Norwegian, but Shay has already picked up quite a bit.

“Hello,” she says in Norwegian, her accent ridiculously cute. “I’m Shay. Anders’…friend.”

Espen laughs, clapping his hands together. “Friend, huh?” He gives me a salacious wink, then switches to English. “I’m Espen. I’m Anders’ first mate and sometimes friend. Just not in that way.”

“First mate?” she says. “He talks highly of you.”

I swear Espen is turning a shade of pink beneath his beard. “That can’t be right. All Anders does is insult my mother.”

“Hey,” I say. “Your mother deserves it,” I add as a joke.

He gives me a mock glare before turning his attention back to Shay. “Well, are you going to come aboard?” Espen asks. “I’d like to say I knew you were coming and I was just cleaning up for you.”

Shay looks to me in question and I nod. “Go on.”

She walks to the steps and then Epsen reaches out, taking her hands and pulling her up on deck. I follow, right behind her.

“Wow,” Shay says, running her hands along the cabin and peering inside.

I chuckle. “You don’t have to say wow, unless you’re talking about what a heap of junk she is.”

“No, I mean it,” she says to me, looking earnest. “She has so much character, like she’s sentient or something.”

“I believe it,” Espen says. “A stubborn old mule is what she is. Always trying to drown us.”

Then he grows quiet, remembering what happened to my father.

I clear my throat, trying to gloss over it. “A lot of boats are heading out,” I say, nodding at the harbor.

“Yeah,” he says, obviously grateful for the change of subject. “The fishing right now is bonkers, an area just outside the upper bank.”

Part of my gut twists. What I really should be doing is not taking Shay on a trip around Norway, but heading back out to sea to take advantage of the bounty. Cod stocks have been depleted over the years thanks to overfishing, so it’s rare to have a good batch. The bank that Epsen is talking about is in a really rough section of water, further out to sea than we like to go, but it’s doable for our boat.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath.

“What?” Shay asks, and I know if I tell her, she’ll take the first opportunity to insist we cut our trip short. As close as we are now, I still feel like she has one foot out the door.

“Nothing,” I tell her.

“Hey, you know Dag is here on the docks,” Espen says. “He says he’s heading out but he’s having engine problems.”

“Who is Dag?” Shay asks.

“He used to be my father’s first mate,” I tell her. “He taught me everything I know.”

Espen clears his throat and gives me an expectant smile.

“Yes, Espen, and you taught me the rest,” I go on. “Remind me again who is in charge here?”

“Only because it’s your ship.” He winks at Shay. “He’d be nowhere without me.”

“Well, why don’t you and Dag take the boat?” I say to him. “Today.”

“Without you?” Espen asks. That’s certainly never happened before. But I trust both of them, and why should they miss out on this opportunity? I know I’m not going at any rate.

“Yeah, without me. I’ll go the next round.”

Espen gets that gleam in his eyes, the kind he gets when he thinks about money. “I’ll have to ask Dag.”

“Ask me what?” Dag says from behind me, his accent thick. “And why are we all speaking English?”

“Dag,” I say to him. “Come aboard. I have a proposition for you.”

Dag puffs on his cigarette for a moment, then climbs aboard with ease. He’s about seventy, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he moves, and even though he smokes like a chimney, he seems in better health than most people. To add to his constant smoking, he wears a jaunty Greek fisherman cap, striped shirts, and has dark leathery tanned skin, even in the middle of winter. He’s what you picture when you think about stereotypical rough fisherman, although Dag is far more intelligent than he seems. I think he has several degrees, and might have even been a lawyer in a past life.

“And who is this?” Dag says to Shay as he glances at her appreciatively. She’s standing by the cabin door, giving him a shy smile.

“Shay,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Anders’ friend.”

Dag swipes his palm across his grease-stained pants before shaking her hand. “Dag. Sorry. I was messing with the engine.”

Shay just nods and when he lets her hand go, she subtly wipes it on her jeans.

I look to Dag. “Espen told me you’re having engine troubles.”

He sighs, blowing smoke away from us. “Seems that way. Was just about to go out but I think I need a new alternator. Hate to miss this opportunity.” He looks at Shay. “Cod isn’t what it used to be. When you find a good spot, you have to get out there. You never know if it will be your last.”

“Anders just told us to take the boat out,” Espen says to him.

“Is that so?” Dag says, raising a brow at me. “And the girl is coming?”

I shake my head adamantly. “No. Shay is staying here. On land. With me. I just think since I’m not going to go out, that you both should take it. Go get the fish.”

Dag frowns. “You sure?”

“I know you’re good for it,” I tell him, reaching over to slap him on the back. “Just bring her back in one piece. Oh, and save me ten percent of your paychecks.”

“I knew there was a catch,” Dag mumbles under his breath, but he looks pleased nonetheless.

With Dag and Epsen now getting ready to go, I bring Shay off the boat. They need to go find some crew, but that shouldn’t be a problem on a day like today.

We say goodbye and I lead Shay back to the car, wanting to get her alone. The hotel is still a bit of a drive.

“You’re okay with them taking the boat?” she asks as we walk toward the Datsun, occasionally looking over her shoulder at the boat where Dag and Epsen scramble to get things ready.

“They’re the best you can have,” I tell her. “Better than me. They’ll be fine. That’s how it is here. If you don’t help each other out, then the community suffers as a whole.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go with them?”

I knew she’d say that.

I stop and grab her hands in mine, holding on tight. I peer down at her.

“You couldn’t pay me to go out there right now. You’re the only thing that’s important to me right now, Shay. It’s you. Only you.”

She averts her eyes, her cheeks going red. I love it when I make her blush.

“Come on, let’s go,” I tell her, kissing her softly before leading her toward the car.

I need to make her blush some more.

16

Shay

Happy.

That’s the sensation flooding through me as the crisp ocean air sweeps in through the open window, brushing back my hair, making me feel invigorated from head to toe.

I’m happy.

Just here, just now, in this moment.

Sitting in the passenger seat beside Anders in his sexy vintage car, cruising down the Norwegian coast, a place I’d been dying to see. The sun is peeking through the clouds, lighting up my face. Every now and then Anders will reach over and hold my hand and I’ve stopped trying to fight the memories it brings up—the ones of us together in his stepfather’s car, cruising to Echo Lake, no cares in the world. Instead, I welcome that memory in and then I concentrate on making a new one.

This is a new us, after all.

I bite my lip at the thought. At the word. Us. It does seem like too much and yet not enough. We’re this undefinable entity, maybe we were from the start, and I have no idea where it’s going or what’s going to happen next. I know neither of us want to talk about the future, about the after. What happens after this trip? What happens to us then? Will there be an us in the way there is right now?

It’s a lesson in staying in the moment. In appreciating this for what it is. Two people coming together for a second chance. It doesn’t mean that we get another go at our relationship. We’ve both changed too much for that to continue, for us to pick up where we left off. It also doesn’t mean that this is going somewhere again.

It’s just for now.

As Anders said, we’re taking it one day at a time.

It’s too bad I can’t bottle this feeling, though. Of feeling both free as a bird, as a sparrow, and tethered at the same time. Tethered to him, wanting to fly but always coming back around, because I want to. Because his pull is too strong, too magnetic for me to resist.

We had a late lunch right after we left Kristiansund, at a small restaurant overlooking the wild sea. I had klipfisk soup, which is this dried salted cod that they’re famous for up here (actually very similar to bacalhau I had in Portugal) and a beer, and we just sat beside each other and watched the waves come in. Anders was mostly silent, but content, holding my hand the entire time as I asked him question after question about his boat and fishing.

That was something I wasn’t expecting. Not only to see the infamous boat that steals him away from his farm life for so many weeks at a time, but to meet his first mate and his father’s friend. I really felt like I was seeing a side of Anders I had only peeked at sometimes. Back at the farm, even though it seems that Per and Anders run things as a team, Per does take the lead. He is Ander’s uncle and elder and was running the place before Anders was even old enough to help out.

But on the boat? Even in the brief moments I saw, there was no mistaking that Anders was in charge, and there was something undeniably sexy about that. Oh captain, my captain.

“Do you think you’ll do it forever?” I ask Anders. We’ve lapsed into a silence for most of the drive, so he takes a moment to snap out of his head.

“Do what?” he asks, large hands palming the steering wheel, the tattoos on his knuckles moving. The sparrow looks like it’s taking flight.

“Operate the fishing boat,” I tell him. “Be the captain.”

His dark brows furrow and he gnaws on his lip for a moment. “I’ll do what I have to.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising.”

He sighs. “I know. I know it doesn’t. But I don’t have a choice. You know the farm barely pulls in enough as it is. There’s no other way to supplement our income. I mean, look at me.”

I look at him. At his storm-blue Henley shirt that shows off every inch of his hard muscles and sets off his dark blue-grey eyes, at his thick beard, his brooding brow, at every inch of man that he is. “I’m looking,” I say quietly.

He shakes his head. “I’m not meant for anything else, Shay. It’s what I’m here to do, just like my father before me. I didn’t even graduate high school, not officially. I was expelled before that could happen. There was no college for me. There was just…nothing. I was so lost. So fucking lost. And the boat, the boat was the only thing that gave me anything to stand on.”

“And does it now?”

“Yes,” he says, a determined slant to his mouth. “It gives me…”

“Purpose?”

“No. Not purpose. Just…a means to an end, I guess.”

“But you don’t love it…”

He gives me a quick, resigned smile. “You’re not supposed to love your job, Shay. It’s just a bonus if you do. It’s hard work, but it brings in the money. It’s something I can do, and that alone is a good feeling.”

“But don’t you feel like you’re having to take on your father’s legacy?”

He starts to knead the wheel, nodding slowly as he brings his eyes back to the road, a hardness in them. “Yeah. I do. More so because he died at sea. Sometimes…I wonder how my life would have turned out if he was still alive. Not just in that I wouldn’t have so much guilt and anger over how our relationship was when he…when I lost him. But I wonder about my own life. What I would have done with it. I took on my father’s life, I never had much chance to make one of my own.”

We both fall silent after that, and I turn my attention back to the steel grey ocean, the way the sun glints off it like light off a blade. It reminds me of his eyes.

“You know, our lives might be different,” I say to him after a moment. “But I know exactly how you feel. But instead of having shoes to fill, I have nothing at all. No purpose. I’m just aimless. Never had anyone in my family to guide me toward anything, even shitty prospects. My father’s tech company in Mumbai is booming, but he never took any interest in me, never cared to try and pass the torch my way. You’d think that he’d view Hannah and I as future protégés, but paid us no attention. My mom said it was because he always wanted boys, and I have no doubt that’s true, and it definitely made Hannah buckle down and work harder. I knew she was working for his approval. I just don’t know if she ever got it.”

I take in a deep breath, the feelings thick like sludge, and yet it’s freeing at the same time to talk about it, like I’m clearing the cobwebs in my soul. “And obviously he didn’t care, because why did he leave us to work there? Why didn’t he bring us all there? We would have gone. We could have been raised in India instead of the US. At least we would have been raised. But instead, he left us and my mother still followed him. She followed and left us to fend for ourselves. She chose him over us. He cheated on her, you know.” I glance at Anders and see the shame on his face. “He had an affair. A mistress. So they got divorced, but even then my mom still went back to him. After all he had done to her, she still went back to him and I don’t think I’ll ever understand why.”

The words fall around us like snowflakes. Anders has tensed up. Because that’s what’s happening now, isn’t it? I know it’s not the same, or particularly fair, to compare my parents’ marriage to what Anders and I had and what we kind of have again, but I do understand it. My mother chased my father because something in her soul felt pulled to his, no matter what he did to her. Didn’t make it right, didn’t mean it was smart, but it was something she was powerless against.

And now, after all that Anders did to me, I’m sleeping with him again. I’m with him in ways I never imagined I would be. Does this make me like my mother?

I clear my throat, hoping to clear away that loaded feeling. “Anyway, I’m babbling. I’m just trying to say, I get it. I get you. Even though things couldn’t be more different. Even though you have a clear-cut path and I have just a trail of overgrown weeds. I never had my father or mother take much interest in me, in what I do, so I’ve just been trying to find myself and it’s like every time I look around a corner, hoping to see me, find me, end the journey, there’s just another corner. It’s like…I’m constantly out of reach, like the longer I go for, the harder I look, the more elusive I become.”

“Maybe you’re looking too hard,” Anders says. “Maybe what you’re looking for is right in front of you. Maybe you’re not so much seeking out something as you are running away from something.”

Damn. That was a truth bomb and a half. It seems to denote in the car.

“And what am I running away from?” I ask softly.

He gives me a kind smile. “What we’re all running away from. Ourselves.”

We both ponder that as he takes the Datsun off the highway and we start down a narrow road, the scenery catching my attention. Here, there aren’t many trees, just a lot of rock and tundra-like plants and shrubs, but they provide a stunning contrast against the rows of small red, white, and gold houses lined up at the water’s edge.

“Where are we?” I ask, taking out my iPhone and snapping photos through the open window.

“I don’t know the name of this settlement,” he says. “But the guesthouse is called Svegvikka.”

We continue along the narrow road, dipping past the houses, skirting along the Atlantic, until we come to a large white building that looks built right into the sea.

“This used to be a cod factory,” he says to me as he parks the car. “A warehouse for klipfisk. It had good ratings online, so hopefully it’s to your liking.”

I laugh. “To my liking? Anders, I’ve been living out of a backpack forever at this point. I’m used to sharing dorm rooms with smelly foreign boys who snore. Now I’m with you. I couldn’t care less where we stay or go.” I glance at the quaint building. “This looks perfect.”

And it is perfect. The staff is young and friendly and give us a key with what feels like a small anchor hanging off of it. They tell us we can eat in the communal dining room in a couple of hours and that they have a set menu (I’m gonna guess dried salted cod is on the menu), then let us know that if we want to take part in tomorrow morning’s dive, we’re more than welcome to.

“Dive?” I ask Anders as we head up to our room. “People go diving? Here?” I shiver at the thought, the water looks so dark, deep and cold.

“You’d be surprised how much a dry suit can do,” he says to me as we stop outside the door and he inserts the large key. “And the waters here are surprisingly clear. It’s beautiful. I’ve never done it, of course, but I’d like to get my certificate one day.”

I want to ask him about what other dreams and goals he has for himself, the things he wants to do one day, even if he believes that day will never come. But the moment he opens the door, I forget about that.

The room is large and plain, all white from the wood-planked walls to the floor and the bed. But it’s the view that steals my breath away. I drop my bag on the bed and go straight to the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the water. It drops straight down. You could literally go fishing right out the window.

“Wow,” I say. “What a view.”

“I agree,” Anders says, and his voice takes out this rough, husky quality that instantly makes me shiver.

I turn around to see him staring at me with a heated look that borders on desperation.

My body immediately kicks into high gear.

We attack each other, kissing each other hard, hands grabbing each other in desperation, my fists in his jacket trying to pull it off, his at my pants, trying to unzip my jeans. We can’t seem to work fast enough and we’re nearly falling over, trying to get at each other, trying to consume.

Anders pushes me against the wall and places hot, fevered kisses down my neck as he brushes the hair off my shoulder, then his head dips to my breasts, where he gently cups and cradles them, before his fingers curl along the neckline of my shirt, pulling it down until my breast is popping free out of my bra. His tongue swirls around my nipple, sucking it into his mouth, making it pebble-hard, my nerves electric.

I moan loudly, my eyes closed, head back against the wall as his wide palms roam over my breasts, down my waist, between my legs. I step back, trying to help him get my jeans and underwear off, and I only have one leg freed before he’s pushing me back again, rougher this time, grunting in my ear.

My god, he’s intense.

Especially when I catch sight of his eyes, the way they burn into me, letting me know exactly how much he wants me, desires me, needs me.

He reaches down between my legs and I immediately let him in, the slow tease and push of his fingers where I’m already wet and waiting impatiently for him, while he pulls my nipple into his hot mouth, pinching the hardened tip between his teeth.

Another greedy noise escapes my mouth as it sends shockwaves down my spine, making me feel like I’m molten hot, my body running wild now with building desire.

“I’ve been dreaming of this all day,” he says hoarsely, the lust dripping in his voice as he kisses my mouth.

“Is that so?” I manage to say against his lips. “I recall something similar this morning.”

“Not enough for me,” he grunts.

“Good,” I tell him flirtatiously, placing my hand against his chest. “Then you won’t mind if I return the favor.”

I reach down and place my palm against the crotch of his jeans, feeling the hard mass of his erection before I unzip them. I reach in and grab his cock, making a fist, and kiss him madly as I pull him free, pumping my hand up and down his shaft, feeling his hard heat sink into my palm.

He groans, biting his full lip, eyes pinched shut from the sensation. I can’t help but grin, loving the way pleasure looks on his face, particularly when I’m giving it to him.

Then I sink down to my knees and take his cock into my mouth, carefully, wanting to take my time in teasing him, letting him know what I can do for him, how badly I love the feel of him between my lips.

His hands go to either side of my head and they grip me hard, holding me in place as I fist the base of his dick and start pumping him into my mouth, faster now. It’s messy and wet and my teeth occasionally raze along the rigid, veiny length, something I think he enjoys judging by the way he gasps and how hard he’s holding my head in place, like he wants to fuck my mouth into oblivion.

“God I want you to suck me dry,” he says, voice gruff, and a thrill runs through me as he seems to get even harder in my mouth. “Shoot my load straight down the back of your throat.”

Hello, my dirty talker.

I almost stop to tell him that it can easily be arranged, that I’ll swallow him whole, lick him all up, every last drop, but then he suddenly moans and stops fucking my lips.

“Wait,” Anders says breathlessly. “I need to come inside you.”

I pull my lips away from his dick, his skin velvet soft and hot, and get to my feet, shooting him a coy smile. As much as I wanted to finish him off, I’m not complaining about this going in a different direction.

Before I can say anything though, he’s kissing me fiercely, enough so that it steals the air from my lungs, makes my toes curl against the floor, and then he’s whirling me around until my arms are up high, palms pressed flat against the windowpane, my breasts pressed against it.

It is the middle of the day and my breasts are on full display here, spilling out of my bra.

Luckily, there’s no one out in the small bay right now, and the only ones who can see us are the seagulls.

I’ll have to let Anders know if that changes.

But he’s already moving on. With a caveman-like grunt, he roughly parts my legs by sliding his hand between my ass and the back of my thighs. Then he grips my waist as he adjusts the swollen tip of his wet cock against me.

He wastes no time before pushes himself inside me, deep and hard as hell.

FUCK.

I gasp loudly from the feel of him, the tight squeeze that makes me feel short of oxygen. He’s whispering Norwegian sweet nothings in my ear, and I eventually relax as he slowly eases in and out, and my body starts to expand around him, wanting more.

He fucks me thoroughly, pumping himself up into me from behind, more and more, faster and faster, until I’m pressed up against the glass, and I wouldn’t even care if a boat full of divers came motoring across right now, seeing me get royally and thoroughly fucked.

All I care about is this.

All I care about is us.

It’s not long before we’re both coming. His fingers swirl around my clit until I’m lost to him, swept away, like I’ve broken through the glass and dove into the depths below. Then he’s crying out my name, pounding me harder and harder from behind, driving his cock up until he’s letting loose, body shuddering as he pours himself into me.

I feel spineless, boneless, and a little brainless.

This man is going to wreck me thoroughly, isn’t he?

* * *

I wake up to a roaring sound that shakes the bed.

I open my eyes to darkness and slowly prop myself up on my elbows, my head swimming with all the wine I had at dinner.

Anders is sitting at the foot of the bed, naked, his back to me. He’s facing the window, which suddenly lights up with a flash of lightning, a fierce forked display across the ink black sky.

“Anders?” I say gently, clearing the sleep from my voice. “It’s a storm?”

He nods but he doesn’t turn around. I can only see the side of his face, but he looks haunted, restless.

I sit up, conscious that I’m naked too, and move across the bed so that I’m kneeling beside him, draping my arm over his shoulder, resting my head there. We both stare out at the darkness, watching the lightning strike, showcasing the waves pounding the shore across the small bay, hearing the thunder rumble and roll, the water sloshing against the building.

“I hate storms,” Anders says quietly. Though it sounds like a simple fact, I can tell it’s something larger than it seems, that it’s coming up from the depth of him.

I press my lips against his shoulder, kissing him gently, holding him tighter. I love the feel of his skin beneath my mouth, how warm he is, both hard and soft. I know why he hates storms. It’s because that’s how he lost his father.

“You must get them a lot here,” I say to him, wanting him to keep talking.

He nods slowly, wiggling his jaw. “Yeah. We do. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.”

I put my hand at his cheek, turning his face gently so that he’s facing me. His eyes are so impossibly deep, and there’s a storm raging in them too. “You know I’m here, right?”

He stares at me for a moment, eyes searching mine. “Are you, though? Sometimes…sometimes I think you’re already gone. Already moved on in that head of yours. In that heart of yours. Or maybe it’s foolish of me to think your heart was ever truly mine.”

I swallow hard, his words stirring up things I don’t want to feel.

God, I don’t want to feel more for him than I already do. I don’t want to make this complicated, to set us up for heartbreak, when I know he’s eventually going to have to return to the sea and I’m going to go on my way, looking for a version of myself that will never quite appear.

“I’m here,” I say again, feeling stupid, wishing I could say more. Wishing I believed it.

For now, is what I don’t add.

Then I lean in and bring his mouth to meet mine. I kiss him, soft and sweet.

At first.

But the more I kiss him, the more I feel a match being struck from deep within my core, a fire burning brightly, a fire burning for him.

He kisses me back, the storm rolling on, and then I’m lying back on the bed, giving myself to him, wanting him to take me in every way possible.

And he does.

Even though it’s dark, the lightning illuminating the room from time to time, Anders keeps steady eye contact with me as his hands slowly, carefully, skim all over my naked body, treating me like I’m made of porcelain, a sharp contrast to the way he was with me earlier, so rough and wild.

With that same deliberation, he skillfully slips his finger down between my legs and over my clit, through the slick folds and back up and, fuck, I’m soaked for him already. My back arches, my clit pulsing, practically begging for more of that, more of him. His touch alone has the ability to make me see stars and I’m making fists in the sheets.

“How badly do you want me?” he whispers gruffly. Whatever sadness and fear were in his eyes is now gone, replaced by my dirty-talking Nordic god. All pure primal lust.

All mine.

“Badly,” I manage to say, still feeling a bit rusty when it comes to saying what I’m thinking during sex. The dirty talk comes so easily to him.

“How badly?” he says, his finger still working me, teasing me to the point of insanity. “Like you’d die without my fat cock spreading you wide? Like you’d beg me for it? Like you’d beg me to make you come?”

I practically growl in response, my body becoming a tightened wire, back already arching, trying to get purchase from his finger.

But he moves his finger away, a tease, and in the dark I can see his white teeth, the devious grin. He really does want me to beg, doesn’t he?

“Shay,” he says as a warning, voice thick and throaty. The rough tip of his finger comes back and slides back and forth, the wet sound filling the air.

“Yes, yes I’m begging,” I say through a moan. “I want you to fuck me. Come inside me.”

He lets out a sharp hiss. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“You know, there’s something to be said for delayed gratification,” he murmurs, moving his body down me now and lowering his face until I can feel his breath on my clit.

“Don’t tell me this is some metaphor about using the film camera,” I warn him.

But before he can give some smart-ass remark, he touches my clit with the tip of his tongue and I shudder, gasp, my hands moving to his hair now and grabbing hold of his thick, dark strands. His tongue slowly moves up along my clit and back down, as teasingly deliberate as his finger, before he starts plunging his tongue deep inside me, fucking me over and over, in and out.

Shit. He’s good. Too good. My back curls and I raise my hips, trying to get more purchase, to get more of everything that he’s giving me. I want to feel his tongue as deep as it can go.

And he dives in deeper.

God, I can’t believe this still, that this is my Anders doing this to me, turning my world upside down until the stars are in my eyes.

I feel him smile against me briefly, as if he can hear my thoughts, then he goes back to fucking me with his tongue and as I’m clenching for more, he starts pressing it up against my G-spot and before my brain can even make sense of the sensation, a different kind of pressure is building inside of me, like it might split me in two.

My orgasm blindsides me, and I’m yelping, loud enough to wake the other guests before my cries crash with the thunder outside. I’m coming hard, my body torn apart as his tongue feels me from the inside, and I’m just a thread unspooling, over and over again.

“Anders! Fuck!” I cry out, screaming, bucking my hips up into his mouth, my thighs clamping on either side of his face like a vice.

He’s smiling against me before he pulls away, and it honestly takes a moment to figure out where I am and what’s happening.

A room in Norway.

On the coast.

With Anders Johansen.

Fuck, it’s like he just slipped me some of the best drugs in the world.

I hear him chuckle, obviously amused by my state of mind, and I open my eyes to see him move on top of me. In the dim light I can make out the intimidating silhouette of his cock jutting out, see him reach down and stroke himself, and even though I just came, even though I’m still pulsing from my orgasm, I’m insatiable for him to be inside me.

Greedy, even.

“I can feel your eyes burning through me in the dark,” he says, in a thick voice. “Guess I’ll have to fuck you even harder this time. Make you come again. You’re hard to keep satisfied, you know that? Greedy girl.”

I clear my throat, trying to get a better look at him, wanting to turn on the light, though I know the dramatic flashes of lightning and the rumbling thunder are acting like an aphrodisiacs themselves. Nothing wrong with a little drama with your sex.

“Are you complaining?” I ask.

“Not even a little,” he says.

“Then I want you to come inside me,” I say, pushing my self-consciousness to the side.

“Was already planning on it,” he responds gruffly, and I swallow hard in anticipation as he prowls over me like a predator. I’m practically getting goosebumps.

He lowers himself, his cock pressed against my pelvis, skin velvet soft, length rock hard, then his hands are taking hold of my wrists and pinning them above my head. In the flashes of lightning I watch the strain in his massive biceps as he holds me, transferring the weight to one hand as he reaches down with his other and slips his thick hot cock between my legs.

I close my eyes for a moment, spreading my legs for easier access, and when he pushes his dick inside me, it’s like I’ve lost the ability to breathe. I’m wet as sin and yet he’s so big and thick that it’s like there’s barely enough room for him.

“Breathe,” he whispers to me. “Breathe, Shay.”

I open my eyes to make out the feverish glint in his eyes as he stares down at me. I suck in my breath, feeling as he slides himself inside, then I exhale, willing myself to relax around him.

“That’s a good girl,” he says to me, voice both rough and soothing. “Good girl, make room for me. Let me fuck you right.”

He pulls out, almost all the way, then slowly, deliberately, pushes in. I gasp, reminding myself to breathe around him, and then we settle into an easy rhythm. He’s able to push in deeper, though the fact that he has to go so slow is making him shake with tension and strain, and I’m feeling every single inch of his dick until he’s shoved up inside me to the hilt.

“Shay,” he groans, and then he starts swearing in Norwegian. There’s a wildness to his voice, and maybe it’s the storm raging outside, maybe it’s the way we started off, with him full of fear, and maybe it’s his way of working through that, but Anders is transforming into something feral, real and raw. Like a primal being, something born to just fuck until they die. “Such a good girl, Shay. You feel so fucking good. Do I make you feel good?”

I let out a garbled yes. But good doesn’t quite explain it. Good doesn’t encapsulate all that he’s making me feel. This is more than just good. I feel alive. I feel like I’m connecting with him in such a raw intimate way, that it makes every fuck I’ve had before pale in comparison, including when we used to have sex. This is something else, something you don’t just find with anyone.

And yet you have to let this go, unless you find a way to make it work.

Fuck that voice. And fuck that fear.

“Fuck me,” I growl, grabbing hold of his shoulders, sliding my fingers down his back, nails scratching. “Fuck me harder, please.”

A lightning flash shows the surprise on his face, surprise that turns liquid, molten, and before I can do anything, he’s flipping me over on my stomach and raising my ass in the air. He places a hand at the back of my head and forces my face down into the duvet cover.

Then, with a bruising grip, he holds my hips and shoves his cock inside me again.

Tight.

So tight now, I can barely breathe.

“Anders,” I say through a groan, and then he’s moving fast, fucking me wild. He pistons his hips into me harder, slamming against my ass, the angle making him hit me deeper than ever before.

Holy shit.

I can’t even keep my head on straight, I’m lost to the feeling of him, like I’ve been taken for a ride that I can’t stop, that I don’t want to stop. He starts moving a bit faster, the force causing my legs to spread wider and wider across the bed, letting him in. His grip tightens around my wrist and he slaps my ass hard.

Very hard.

I yelp, jolt up from the sharp sting of his slap, back arching.

“Keep your legs together,” he growls. “Tighter. I want you to feel me fuck every inch. I want to imprint the head of my cock deep inside of you.”

Jesus.

Okay then.

He means it. With the hard thrust of his cock as it slides along each sensitive inch inside me, the feel of his hips as they slam into my ass from behind, the way his hands feel around my waist, keeping me bound and in place, I feel him. All of him.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling him, not when he’s fucking me like this.

“You ready to come for me?” he says, voice gruff, slapping my ass cheeks again, the bed bouncing from our steady fucking. “I want to hear you unravel. I want to hear you like I’ve never heard you before.”

My god.

I mean, does he want me to wake up the whole guesthouse?

But then his fingers slip underneath my hips, finding me slippery and soaked, and it’s all I need to completely let go. A calloused tip slips over my clit and it’s like he pulled the plug on a fucking hand grenade.

I go off like a fucking bomb.

“I’m coming!” I yelp, the orgasm taking hold of me while ripping me apart. He makes a fist in my hair and tugs at it, the pain shooting down my spine as his cock keeps steadily thrusting up into me, my body squeezing around him, ravaged by the endless convulsions that never stop coming.

“Anders.” I manage to say his name before I trail off, before the wave pulls me in every direction and I don’t know what way is up anymore.

“Fuck, baby,” Anders says, voice low and gruff with desperation, and he starts driving in deeper, every muscle in his body starting to shake from the effort. “Such a good girl, taking my cock so fucking good. Oh god.”

He comes, driving in so deep as he shoots his load inside me, Norwegian swear words falling from his lips. He grunts loudly his body finishes, pushed into the hilt again, his balls pressed against my ass, and then he slows, sweat dripping off his body onto my damp back.

“Fuck me,” he says through a ragged groan, his hips pumping once, twice, before he leans forward, nearly collapsing on me. His sweaty chest brushes against my back and he holds his weight off of me with a shaking arm.

“Think I just did,” I manage to mumble into the pillow.

He laughs softly and then slowly pulls out, leaving me bereft and empty without him inside me. He rolls over onto the bed beside me, and I turn my cheek against the covers so that I’m facing him.

He reaches out and brushes my bangs out of my face, just as another lightning flash lights up the room.

But this time, there’s no fear in his eyes.

This time he looks happy.

17

Anders

“The flight is young, we’re getting deep without an aqualung,” Skye Edwards from Morcheeba softly croons from the radio in the corner of the bar.

Getting deep without an aqualung is right.

I’m screwed.

Utterly and completely screwed.

I knew from the moment I saw Shay again, that I was in deep. I just didn’t know it would be fathoms’ deep. I was already so eager to have her back in my life, to have that chance to make amends and get things right again, that I wasn’t really thinking clearly about what actually having her back would do to me. What it would mean.

I still don’t know, to be honest. Even sitting here in this dimly lit bar in Alesund, with a pint of cold beer and a hawking klipfisk pizza, I feel lost as I’ve ever been. It’s been a few days since we hit the road in my Datsun, looking for escape and adventure, and if I wasn’t steadily falling for her back in Todalen, then I’m almost free-falling now. A deep dive, through clear water that turns murky and complex the further down I go, as I try to wrestle with my feelings for her, sinking, sinking.

The thing is, there are too many feelings to process and they’re all leading me in different directions. I’ve taken to writing some shitty poetry to try and figure it all out, pulling out the notes section of my iPhone and letting the words visit me, like an ebbing and flowing tide. I have no idea where I’ll end up in the end, but I just know that it probably won’t be pretty.

It’ll be real though. Real and raw.

Just like us.

The town of Alesund was supposed to be just an overnight stop. After we left the Svegvikka Guesthouse, we drove along the infamous Atlantic Ocean Road, taking our time so that Shay could photograph and document every breathtaking moment. The road is world-renowned for a reason—half the time it feels like you’re driving suspended above water, with only little islets to ground you here and there, mountains lurking in the background. There’s a bridge, Storseisundet, that has such a steep incline that when you’re driving up it the road seems to disappear. and it looks like you’re about to re-enact parts of the movie Speed.

With so much to see, we got to Alesund late, and it wasn’t until the next day that Shay fell in love with the place and asked if we could stay a few more nights. Of course I said yes. I’d say yes to anything she asks of me.

Our room is pretty amazing, right above the water, just like our previous room at the guesthouse was, except this time we’re on a busy harbor, with sailboats and fishing boats cruising past, taking pictures of our bright hotel, sometimes of us waving from the window. The hotel even gives you fishing roads which you can hang outside your window in hopes of catching something. Obviously, fishing is the last thing I want to do right now, but Shay’s been enjoying herself, caught up in the wavering hope that she’ll catch something. So far, no luck, but she has patience I definitely don’t have.

So we’re here, just staying in place, exploring the shops and the bars and the restaurants and trying to enjoy each other’s company while we have the chance. It feels like a vacation, like we’ve found a little space for ourselves to just be with each other and discover each other all over again.

But I’m so conscious of time, marching forward and slipping through our fingers. The harder I try to hold on, the worse it gets, like trying to hold back grains of sand from the hourglass. I didn’t even want to let her go shopping alone today, I wanted to stay at her side, soaking up her company as much as I can before it’s too late.

She insisted that clothes shopping would be too boring for me, and that she’d meet me at this bar for dinner and drinks. Who knows, maybe she needs some time to be alone. Maybe I’m crowding her a little. Maybe I’m being too much. She seemed to like that aspect of me back in the day, but I have to stop thinking in the past. I have to start thinking of our present, and our future.

And what future is that? I ask myself. The one in which she stays on the farm, helping Per, having no life of her own while you’re out at sea for most of the month? That future?

I hate how it is. How it will be. I wish I could let go of the rusted shackles keeping me in place, keeping me stuck in a life I don’t want to be stuck in. My duty. My destiny. I’m bound for it and yet I want to be bound to her.

Ease up, I remind myself. You’re coming on too strong. Don’t ruin what little time you have.

And there she is.

Shay opens the door to the bar, stepping inside. She must have gone back to the hotel room to change because her jean jacket and scarf are draped over one arm and she’s wearing a new dress, white with tiny pink flowers, the kind that hugs her tits, putting them on display, making her skin glow. I know people are looking at her as she walks toward me, giving me a shy smile as she brushes her bangs off her face, and I can’t blame them.

I’m the luckiest guy here.

She’s turning all the heads but I’m the one she’s chosen.

“Hey,” she says, taking the seat across from me.

I can only stare dumbly for a moment.

“You look gorgeous,” I finally say. “Can I keep you?”

I add a smile to my words, so she’ll think I’m joking, but I’m also kind of not.

She laughs. “I’m all yours, Anders. And thank you. I wasn’t sure about the dress because it’s not quite dress season here, hence the boots.” She sticks her leg out, showing off her combat boots. “But I was so fucking sick of my clothes, you have no idea. I think I might just leave half of them behind at the hotel, maybe the housekeeper will want them. I bought so much stuff, found the best little store with all these cool Norwegian brands. At least I think they’re Norwegian brands.”

I can’t help but smile at her, hanging off her every word. “Good. You deserve it. I can’t imagine having to live out of a backpack for so long.”

She gives me a dry look. “Oh whatever, you’re a dude. A fisherdude! You probably wear the same damn thing every day when you’re out at sea.”

I give her a look that says, guilty.

“Anyway,” she says, “it kind of feels like my life has found a new chapter, you know? So I might as well dress appropriately.”

And what chapter is that? I want to ask. Is it a chapter that I’m in? Am I a part of this new narrative?

But fear has tempered my boldness. I’m afraid to ask certain things in the event that it will scare her off for good. I know we should both be free with each other right now, that I have nothing to lose, and yet…yet it feels like I could lose everything.

Like I said.

I’m screwed.

“So, should we get something to eat here?” she asks, her slender fingers pulling the menu toward her. For a moment I picture a diamond ring on her left hand, a ring that I would have given her. I imagine us in the future, here, living this life together, trying to make the best of it, make it work. Would it be so unfair to ask her to stay with me? To have her be with me…

Have her…love me?

Can I give her the life she wants, the one in which she finds herself, where she finds a home and stability and the family she’s always been yearning for?

Will she let me try?

The feeling has so much elation behind it that it feels like a bird about to take flight and soar above the seas, and with a heavy, sinking feeling in my heart, I know that it’s asking too much. Asking her to stay with me here in Norway, to be with me, would only stifle her life. We’re both young, but in some ways she’s so much younger. I’ve already settled down, in the same deep ruts that I’ll die in. She has her whole future ahead of hers. To ask her to stay with me is to deprive her of that. I’ve already fucked her life up once before, I won’t do it again.

“Klipfisk pizza?” Shay asks, glancing up at me from the menu. I give her a wary smile. “That can’t be good, can it? Fuck, I’m tempted to order it. That, and a whole bunch of that elderberry cider I had the other day.”

She bites her lip and suddenly I don’t give a fuck about cider or pizza or anything else.

All I care about is her.

Being with her as much as I can, while I can.

I get to my feet and reach for her hand. “Come here,” I say gruffly.

Then I lead her across the bar, not caring if anyone is watching us go to the restrooms together.

Once inside the bathroom, I lock the door, making sure it’s secure, and then I attack Shay, fire burning through my veins until my skin feels too hot and there’s only one way to get relief.

My hands grab hold of her sweet face, fingers digging into her jaw, while I move with urgency, driving her backward toward the tiled wall until she’s pressed up against it. My mouth covers her mouth, lips ravenous, tongue thrusting against hers. Fucking her good. She whimpers into my mouth and I feel the vibrations shoot down my spine, straight to my cock, which is already rock hard.

It whips me up until I’m something wild, savage, feverish, my dick is growing impossibly stiff and trying to break through the fly of my jeans, begging for release, for relief. I reach down and pull up the hem of her pretty little dress until it’s bunched at her hips then I slide my hands under her ass and lift her up so that her legs are wrapped around me, holding me tight.

“Anders,” she says through a throaty gasp, and I can’t help but grin at her, remembering how she used to be so game for anything, including fucking in a public pool. She can protest all she wants, but I know she’s still that same adventurous girl.

I also know that I can’t keep my fucking hands off of her even if I tried.

Suddenly, I spin her around and carefully place her on the edge of the sink, testing its weight for a moment, pulling away from her eager mouth.

“What are you…?” she begins, her lips wet and wanting, but from the devious look I’m giving her, her question is quickly answered.

I place my palms at her thighs, spreading them in front of me while she reaches forward with one hand and holding my shoulder to keep from falling, while the other hand braces against the sink.

“Fuck me,” I growl. She’s not wearing any underwear at all. It’s all her, open and pink and bare for me to drink in, in every way I can.

I give her a quick, heated glance. “As if you didn’t plan for this,” I say gruffly. “You’re such a good fucking girl, aren’t you?”

She grins at me, biting her lip again. “Good or bad, I’m whichever way you want me.”

And I’m a goner.

I crouch down and immediately bury my face between her legs, licking up and down her soft crease, tasting every single inch of her. She’s so fucking wet already, I’m practically drowning in her honey. My sweet, sweet sparrow.

“Oh fuck, Anders,” she cries out, legs spread wider for me while she reaches down and grabs my hair, making a fist, yanking at my head in bursts of wonderful pain. There’s nothing better than this, devouring her like a man craving oxygen, fucking her harder with my tongue, tasting her, feeling her clit throb beneath my lips, until I’m just a hair trigger away from coming myself.

Shit. Slow down, Anders.

Then her body tenses and she’s coming in my mouth and I don’t let up the pressure, don’t hold back my need to ravage her inside and out.

“Oh god, oh god,” she cries out, her voice choking, and I’m smiling against her slick skin, loving the sound of her, the way she calls out for me, as if I’m her god. Fuck, that’s all I want.

I straighten up, keeping her legs spread even as her head rolls to the side, her mouth open, panting, her body still quaking from her orgasm. I swiftly unzip my jeans and take my cock out, hot, tight and rigid in my hand. It’s nearly painful, this need I have for her, a need I can’t deny myself any longer.

While she’s still limp, trying to catch her breath, I wrap my hand around her waist, holding her in place, and tighten my grip around my cock, pressing it up against her, the sound wet, slick. I hiss softly, the anticipation building, then I push myself inside her with one hard, eager thrust, holding her steady against me.

She gasps loudly, her hands digging into my shirt, holding tight, and I’m letting out a low, animalistic groan as I drive myself inside of her, to the hilt, so we’re as close as fucking possible.

I pull back an inch and stare into her eyes, lost in their warmth, their desire for me, a look that I’ll never get tired of seeing. Like she sees me, all of me, for who I really am, even the parts of me I’ve never shown her. The parts I’m too afraid of.

I kiss her, soft, hard, feeling too much of everything, like she’s slipping through my fingers just as the days are, the time we have together. I don’t want to lose her, I don’t want to let go of her. I want to keep fucking her like this, buried so deep inside so that she’ll never be able to shed me, or forget me.

I want her to stay with me and I’m too fucking scared to ask for it.

So, instead, I let out a guttural groan, and she whimpers in response, and our need for each other fills the room, becoming something bigger than the both of us.

Let me have this, let me just have this.

I keep pumping into her harder and harder. My hips slam against the sink as I fuck her, faster, and her legs wrap tighter around me, keeping me as close as possible.

“Yes, yes,” she whispers, and I glance at her, watching as her eyes pinch shut, as her head starts to slam back against the mirror. Fuck, this is hot. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.

Her hands move frantically up and down my shirt, nails digging into my muscles and trailing down to my ass where she yanks me into her, until I’m driven so deep inside her that the air is knocked out of my lungs and I’m gasping for breath.

“Fuck, Shay,” I swear, grunting with each thrust, the sweat beading on my forehead and rolling off onto her tits, which are practically popping out of her dress. “I’m not going to last long.”

“I’m ready for you,” she says, nails digging in deeper. “I want to feel you come inside me. Make me drip with you.”

Holy fuck. I have never heard Shay do any sort of dirty talk before, and I have to say, I’m in fucking love with it.

“Good girl,” I grunt, pressing my hand against her throat, holding her head back against the mirror as I fuck her longer, deeper. “Such a good girl, Shay.”

She watches me with wild eyes and then I reach down with my other hand, sliding over my slick shaft where it disappears into her at breakneck speed, bringing my fingers up until I’m rubbing at her clit.

“Oh fuck!” she calls out, coming already, and now I can’t hold back any longer. I arch my back, driving my cock up at an angle while she orgasms, her thighs quivering as she convulses around my cock, squeezing and…

There.

So close.

Fuck.

I come, eyes rolling back into my head, the bathroom spinning until we’re in a galaxy of our own. I think I’m swearing in Norwegian, my words turning into nonsensical animal sounds as I keep coming inside her, shooting straight into her as my pumps begin to slow.

I feel like I’m being emptied, not just physically, but emotionally. Like I’m being drained, giving Shay every single ounce of me, hoping she’ll keep me safe and close to her heart.

But as my orgasm starts to leave my body, and I’m aware that I just fucked her inside a public washroom in Alesund, all my old worries come back to me.

That I won’t be enough for her.

That this is all I’ll get of her.

And that I’ll spend the rest of my days regretting that I didn’t do more to keep her this second time around.

Because the problem now, the problem that I see so very clearly, is that I can’t just let Shay go, and I can’t keep her either. One is unfair to me, the other is unfair to her.

The problem is that I love her.

I’ve fallen back in love with her.

And if history has taught me anything, it’s that this isn’t going to end well.

18

Shay

One of the first things the guidebooks to Norway will tell you is that you have to get out to see the fjords. There are so many of them, including the one that leads to Todalen, that most travelers will be overwhelmed with choices, but it’s Geirangerfjord that most people talk about. It’s definitely the one on the actual cover of the guidebooks.

Right now, standing beside Anders on the top deck of the ferry, I can see why it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and the fairy-tale like subject of so many photos. It’s narrow as hell, with countless waterfalls splashing down the sharp sides of the towering sheer mountains, plunging into the depths of the ocean. There’s barely any shoreline, and when there is a pocket of land, picturesque remains of abandoned farms, accessible only by boat, add some color to the endless green, gray and blue.

More than anything, this fjord makes you feel impossibly small. This car ferry looks like a miniature ship in comparison, and everything seems too big to contain with your eyes.

In a way, it reminds me of how I feel around Anders.

How being in his presence sometimes makes me feel like I’m so small next to him. It’s not just that I’m short and he’s this hulking Nordic god, nor is it that he makes me feel like I shrink. I don’t shrink around him, I bloom. It’s that sometimes the way he looks at me feels too big for this world to contain, too big of a feeling to even grapple with.

Sometimes I catch Anders staring at me with this yearning look in his eyes. It’s a look that’s different from the one I knew back in the day. It’s more than just lust, it’s this deep need, a need for me, one that I can feel in my gut, lifting open the cages and letting hopeful birds take flight. I want to take that look and give it to him right back and let him know that he has me.

But every time I’m about to do that, every time I take in a deep breath and ready myself to tell him something I can’t take back, to take a step into the unknown and put my heart on the line, that look in his eyes disappears. The mood changes, like clouds over the sun, a passing storm. It’s like he won’t let himself look at me like that for too long, like he’s not letting himself want me.

And that’s all it takes for me to take a step back too. He’s still Anders, still funny and warm, but that storm is closing him off to me. It’s like he wants to be with me, more than in just this moment, then some part of him steps forward and pulls him back.

Probably because he knows that there is no future for us here.

I know that too, and yet…yet I can’t help but dream and wonder.

And hope. That very dangerous thing called hope.

I’ve been on the road with Anders for over a week now. We’ve been taking our time. We’ve found a routine. We get up, have sex, spend time in bed talking. Not just talking with words, but with our eyes and our hands and our mouths. Our bodies say so much to each other, more than we often can verbalize. We use that time to communicate as only we can when he’s deep inside me and we’re moving together as one, feeling united in a way I never thought possible. The languages we speak to each other grow sweeter and deeper each time.

Then we get on with our day. If we’re hitting the road, I’m documenting things for my Instagram, writing up blog posts, taking and editing photos, while he takes pictures too, helping me whenever I need it, and sometimes I’ll even catch him writing poetry on his phone. He won’t show it to me, but I can tell it’s giving him an outlet, that it’s letting him figure out the things that turn his eyes into a storm, the things that pull his mood in so many different angsty directions.

If we’re not on the road, if we’re in a town, we just become tourists. We eat, drink, sightsee, and fuck. In that order, and sometimes not. It’s like the both of us have committed to treating each day like its own special, precious thing. We don’t talk about the future anymore. We don’t talk about what’s going to happen when this is over. We don’t even talk about when this is going to be over. We’re already doing this longer than we had planned. We just know that it will be over, and that fact is too raw and painful to bear. So we ignore it and we sink even deeper into each other, luxuriating in each other’s company as if we have all the time in the world. We give the future the finger. We’re living in twenty-four-hour blocks of self-serving happiness.

It’s funny, when I imagined being with Anders again someday (and let’s face it, I did imagine it—it’s no accident that I came to Norway), I automatically pictured us the way we were. These scrawny, acne-scarred teenage versions of ourselves. Our emotions constantly brimming over, hormones out of control. Hearts forever on our sleeves, sucked in the undertow of first love.

But this is so different. It’s like those versions of us belonged to other people, like an old TV show we would watch all the time. The essence is there, like we’ve captured those feelings, whizzing around like lightning bugs, and put them into jars, only to open them here, all these years later. Our past threading around us, lighting up the sky, with nowhere to go.

Anders puts his arm around me, his mouth at my ear. “Taken enough pictures yet?”

I laugh and turn my head to face him as he places a lingering kiss on my lips. “Not even close,” I tell him.

We’ve been on the ferry heading up the fjord for almost an hour, getting closer to our stop, the village of Geiranger at the end, and I haven’t put my phone or camera down for a second. At first, I thought shooting on film was going to be annoying—there are countless rolls of undeveloped film in my backpack—but now I get why Anders is still so fond of it. There is so much mystery now in a world where mystery is in short supply. Instead of giving you the image right away, an image that can easily be deleted, that takes up no space, it makes you wait. It makes you practice patience. It makes you stop and take note of everything. The light, the air, the movement, the depth. It makes you really pay attention before you click the shutter. It’s like it’s not only capturing the memories, but creating memories at the same time.

Now, as I lift up the camera and aim it toward the end of the fjord, where the mountains turn a corner and another ferry comes out from around the wall of rock, looking miniature in comparison, I’m know that when I later look at the photo I’ve taken, I’m going to remember being here with Anders, his warm, steady body at my back, the pine-scent of his body wash, the smell of the fresh glacial water coming off the fjord. The warm sun on my face. I’ll feel the way he’s holding me, how it makes me feel like he’ll never let me go, even though the look in his eyes sometimes says otherwise.

Right now though, his eyes are telling me that I’m his.

That’s all I need to be, for this second anyway.

And then what?

But I ignore that. I ignore that voice like I’ve been ignoring it all this time. We both didn’t want any complications. We both knew this thing, this new us, had an expiration date. There’s no point fighting it, no matter how I feel about him.

“There’s the town,” he tells me, voice smooth like whisky on the rocks now, and I watch as the ferry rounds the corner and the tiny town appears, most of it vertical, buildings dotted along a steep slope that goes up and up, switchbacks acting as a seam.

It’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. And naturally I’m back to taking a million more pictures.

Anders booked a hotel right at the top of the mountain, so as soon as the ferry docks and we’re in the car, we’re zipping up through the switchbacks, climbing until my ears’ pop, until we reach this quaint hotel that’s located so close to the mountain road that you’d swear cars are going to pass right through the patio.

We go up to our room and, though it’s small, it has this window that looks out onto the whole village and fjord, probably the best singular view in the whole damn place. I’m so used to having to book all my own accommodations when I travel, that having Anders take the reins has not only been a relief but a pleasant surprise with each and every place we stay at. He’s constantly wowing me, doing whatever he can to make sure the trip is the best it can be.

Honestly though, all I need is him. We could have stayed behind in Todalen for all I cared. Yeah, I wanted to see Norway and I’m grateful that he’s been my tour guide, but the most beautiful, breathtaking attraction is him. It’s knowing we have history, as tumultuous as it is, knowing that he gets me, that he understands where I’m coming from. It’s that poet’s soul that comes to surface every now and then, so close I can almost hold it in my hands. I just need to dig through a few more layers, find the version of himself he keeps hiding, let me see it for myself.

“This is gorgeous, Anders,” I say to him, taking a picture of the window frame and the stunning view behind it. “You never stop impressing me.”

“And I’ll never stop wanting to impress you,” he says. There’s a wistfulness to his voice that makes my heart do summersaults.

I turn around to face him, surprised to see a wash of sadness on his brow.

“You know you don’t have to do much to impress me,” I tell him, my voice getting choked with my own buried feelings that are suddenly rising to the surface. “Just being here with me is enough. Just…staying with me. It’s enough.”

I’m giving him a little, hoping he’ll take it.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, the corner of his full mouth lifting just a bit.

“Wish I could stay with you,” he says.

And he says it so fucking simply that it takes a moment to register. A moment before it kicks me right in the guts.

The truth of it all.

I should just nod and accept it, but I can’t. I don’t.

“But you can,” I tell him. “We don’t have to let this be it. This, us…it can work beyond this trip. Can’t it? I mean, I know we said we wouldn’t talk about it, but I also know that we don’t have a lot of time left before one of us has to make a decision and…and…I just think…”

I just think we should stay together.

Make it work.

Please don’t make me say that all out loud, not when you’re not giving me anything in return.

He stares at me, and that storm is back again, raging across his eyes, angry, dark and powerful, sweeping him away. I already know the answer. It already kills me.

He sighs, running a hand over his face, his beard, and I feel the tension rolling off him. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice a rough whisper. He walks past me and sits on the edge of the bed, lacing his hands together, looking at the floor. I already get the impression that he’s shutting down on me, like the way he used to when I asked questions he didn’t like.

“Well, I know,” I tell him, even though I’m bullshitting a bit. “Okay, so I don’t know. But I know what I want.”

Be brave, Shay. Time to be brave.

“And that’s you, Anders. I want you and I want us…I want us to give this a shot. I know I said I didn’t want things to get complicated, but things were complicated between us from the start. It’s too late for anything easy and simple, because we’re not easy or simple. We’re two lonely souls with a twisted history and so much excess baggage that it’s weighing us both down. We can’t even save each other if we’re both drowning.” I pause, my heart pounding in my throat, my honesty taking me by force. “But I want to at least try. I don’t want to say goodbye to you and move on. I can’t. I only want to move on with you.”

And there it all is.

My precious truth.

And yet Anders stares at the floor. It’s like he hasn’t even heard me at all.

My heart drops, a sickly feeling that spreads through my veins, making them run cold.

I walk over to him, stand right in front of him, wishing my heart wasn’t so loud.

“Hey,” I tell him. “Look at me. Please. Look at me when I’m baring my heart to you.”

Slowly, he raises his head and I hate what I see in his eyes. Hate how much it reminds me of his younger self, the one who grew cold and distant and pushed me away.

“Don’t be like him,” I say softly, my voice shaking softly with anger. “Don’t be like him. You’re not that boy anymore. You’re a man. You need to handle this, us, like a man. If you don’t have any feelings for me, real true feelings, if you don’t want to be with me, see a future that I’m a part of, then you have to flat-out tell me. Yeah it’ll hurt. It’ll destroy me. But I can handle it. The truth is what I deserve.”

He swallows thickly, licking his lips. “What you deserve, Shay, isn’t me.”

Oh no. Not this.

I shake my head. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” he says gruffly, frowning at me. “You don’t deserve who I really am. You deserve someone who will be with you all the time, who will give you their time and attention and affection, because you’re worth all of that and more. That’s not me.”

“That is you!”

“No. This…” he gestures to himself, to the room. “This is a version of myself that even I don’t recognize. This is what my life could have been. But it’s not the life I’ve been given. I’ll be gone all the time, and when I’m not out at sea, I’ll be working the farm. What the hell are you going to do with yourself? Sit around and wait while I’m gone? Waste your years working on a farm, milking cows?”

“Don’t assume I don’t know what to do with myself,” I tell him, glaring now. I hate when people make assumptions for me. “I would be plenty busy trying to figure out what I want from life.”

He throws his arms out. “Yeah? And what if you come to the conclusion that what you don’t want is me? That the life you have with me isn’t the life you wanted? Shay, you’re so beautiful and vibrant and smart and passionate and you have your whole future ahead of you and I can say with certainty you deserve more than just scraps from a fisherman.”

“Scraps!” I yell. “You think that’s what this is? You think you’re giving me scraps? Well, fuck, Anders, why didn’t you tell me that this wouldn’t be enough?” I lean over and point my finger at him, my heart on fire, my eyes searching his feverishly. “I had no idea that I wasn’t getting the best of you.”

“I’m giving you all that I have!” he says, voice deep and rising. “All that I can give. I don’t know if it’s the best, but it’s all I got.”

“Are you?” I counter. “Because it’s fucking impossible with you sometimes. You’ll write out your poetry, but when it comes to the person who wants to hear it, wants to feel what you have to say, you hold it back.”

“I’m not holding back,” he says gruffly, jaw grinding. “I’m just…trying to figure this out, just as you are.”

“Well, it sounds like you’re done trying to figure it out now, right? Best we just part and be on our separate ways then?”

“Shay, you deserve someone better than me,” he cries out softly, and the worst part of it is that I can tell he’s not just saying it. He really believes it, deep down, that he isn’t good enough for me. That fucking cuts me to the core.

“Don’t even say that. Don’t you dare say that.”

“You don’t even know what’s best for you, you—”

Oh no.

Not this.

“Don’t pull that you know what’s best for me crap!” I snap at him, my anger surprising even myself. “That’s some shit you would have pulled in high school, treating me like dirt so that I’d push you away, so that it would be easier for you. Well, it wasn’t easier for me. You don’t even know what really happened, Anders. You have no fucking idea. You think it was so easy that you left? You left me in a state from which I’ve still barely recovered.”

He stares at me, shaking his head slightly, dark brows drawn together to form a sharp line. “What are you talking about?”

And now I’ve said too much.

I press my lips together, hard, willing myself not to continue.

But, shit, it’s been too long. I’ve been keeping this a secret for too long. All this time and even my mother doesn’t know that I had the abortion. Only Everly and Hannah do. I never got the chance to tell Anders, and I told myself I wouldn’t now because I didn’t want to bring up the past, didn’t want him to feel bad, didn’t want to mess up the precious time we had together.

But since he wants to push me away, well, I guess now is a good a time as any.

“I was pregnant,” I tell him, my voice sounding so small and faint in the room. “It was…it was yours.”

His eyes go wide, mouth dropping open slightly. He stares at me like the world was just pulled out from under him. “What…I don’t…when?”

I close my eyes, trying to gather my nerves, to give myself a spine of steel.

“I think it was the time in the pool. We didn’t use a condom. I found out I was pregnant a week before I found out that you cheated on me.”

Silence is a live-wire between us.

I open my eyes and dare to look at him. He’s staring up at me, brow furrowed, anguish flooding his features. “You never told me…why didn’t you tell me?”

I balk, blinking at him, hackles raised again. “Are you kidding me? Anders, you pushed me away. You wouldn’t return my texts, you wouldn’t even look at me in the halls. You think I was suddenly going to tell you I was pregnant? First of all, I had to make sure with the doctor, and then by the time I did know, I already knew you cheated on me. There was no reason to tell you. You had made your choice. You pushed me away, so I dealt with it on my own.”

“And how did you…deal with it?” he asks, voice low, breaking.

“I had an abortion,” I tell him matter-of-factly, and his face falls just a little, enough to make me defensive. “That was the only option I saw for me. I was scared out of my mind. I only had Hannah, and she had so much riding on her plate with school. I couldn’t raise a baby and keep it, nor have it and give it up for adoption. So I got an abortion because it was the only thing that made sense.”

“Do you regret it?” he whispers.

I bite my lip for a moment before shaking my head. “No. I’ve done a lot of soul searching over the years, and no. I don’t regret it. I wasn’t ready to be a mother. Hell, I don’t know if I ever will be, if that’s ever something I’ll even want. I don’t regret it because it was the right thing to do at the time. But that doesn’t mean it was easy. It doesn’t mean it’s something I was able to push to the side and forget about. I’ve made peace with it now, but for the longest time it weighed on me. I felt…ashamed. And guilty. And because I had no one to really talk to about it, because I was so young and confused, it was just something I had to keep buried inside.”

He stares at me, eyes trailing over every inch of my face, the pain visible in the storm. “You know I would have…I would have been there for you. If you wanted to keep it.”

I give him a sharp look. “That doesn’t help, Anders. What’s done is done.”

“No, I mean,” he says, grappling for the words, “I just want you to know that I wasn’t entirely awful. I know you don’t believe it, but I would have stepped up. I would have tried. I wouldn’t have left you, I would have stayed in New York, we could have made it work. Maybe I could have gotten a job somewhere, my own place…”

He trails off, looking strangely hopeful, as if this is something he can go back in time and fix. But there is no fixing this. There never was.

“You say that now, because you know who you are now. You were a teenager, Anders, and as you’ve said many times before, you were fucked up. We both were. You can’t predict now what you would have done then. It’s not fair to either version of you.”

“Shay,” he whispers, voice shaking slightly as he breathes in deeply. “This is breaking my heart. That you had to go through all of that on your own. All because of me.” He exhales loudly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, well, so am I. I’m sorry it had to come to that. And as angry as I was, it was my fault too. It takes two in this situation. I should have known better.”

“I wish…I wish I had known.” He looks down at his hands, wringing them together. “I know why you didn’t tell me, but even so…”

“Well, now you do know.”

“No wonder you hated me so much,” he says quietly. There’s so much simmering pain in his voice that it’s a little punch to my heart. “I was awful. I was so fucking awful to you.”

The steel walls I tried to put up inside me bend, just a little.

I sit down next to him and put my hand on top of his. The feel of his skin against mine both calms me and makes me sad, because I’m worried that we won’t have any of these moments left anymore. “As I said, what’s done is done. Those people that we were? They’re done too. They’ve moved on. They’ve moved on and they’ve become us. This us.” I gesture at us with my other hand.

“And then what does this mean for this us?”

“It means the same as you said,” I say, tears starting to burn hot behind my eyes. “It means that soon I’ll get on a ferry heading south, and you’ll go back to the farm, and we can both say that we were able to make amends. That we finally got the closure we both needed.”

“If this is closure, then how come it feels like we’re leaving a door wide open?”

I give him an incredulous look. He’s the one who already said that he wasn’t going to be enough for me, that I was only going to get scraps, that I didn’t deserve a life with him, regardless of what I actually want. He’s already started the process of closing that opened door.

So maybe this proves it, I think. Maybe this proves he doesn’t know what the hell he wants.

“Maybe this is for the best,” I tell him with a sigh, my heart breaking in my chest. “Maybe we were just kidding ourselves. Maybe every first love is meant to stay there, as a first love. We should have left it where it was. In the past. In the garbage.”

His face pales slightly, like I just slapped him across the face, like he’s remembering the time I did. Okay, so my words had bite. So that might have hurt, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. We should have just left this new relationship at what it was, a few rolls in the hay to dissipate the sexual tension between us, plus some sightseeing thrown in. Why the hell did we have to go and bring all our feelings into it? Why did we have to make this into such a fucking mess?

Because your feelings were there, from the very start, and so was the mess.

I ignore that.

I get to my feet. “I’m going to take a shower. I need some time alone.”

I grab my bag and head to the washroom.

I make the mistake of looking at Anders before I close the door.

If I thought my heart was slowly cracking open inside my chest, I feel like I’m watching it happen to him in real time.

His eyes tell me everything hurts.

* * *

The next morning, I wake up to rain hitting the window pane.

Anders is snoring lightly beside me, a sound that annoyed me before in a playful way, but now the sound cuts like a knife.

This will be our last morning together.

Last night was the last time I’d ever sleep with him. Not that we had sex—we were both too emotionally exhausted and numb for that—but I already can’t imagine not waking up with him beside me.

Let me tell you, there is nothing worse than already mourning the person you’re lying next to. I have first-hand experience with that from Danny, which is why breaking up while you’re on vacation is a thing to be avoided.

Not that we’re breaking up, per se. Anders and I were never really together this time around. We both knew what we were getting into, knowing that we would have fun for a bit on a road trip, and after that, we’d part. But it sure fucking feels like we’re breaking up, especially after last night.

Which is why after we were done letting it all out, I went and made a reservation for a ferry out of Trondheim tomorrow. Better to cut the trip short instead of prolonging the inevitable. Today, Anders will drive us to up to Trondheim, this time going inland by the way of the famous Trollstiggen switchbacks, before dropping me off in the city. I’ll get a hotel room, he’ll head back to Todalen. Then I’ll get on the ferry and go check out Bergen and the destinations south of here. Wanderlust activated.

It should sound exciting. It should put some pep in my step to get back out there, traveling by myself again, but I don’t feel anything at all.

There’s just…nothing.

I don’t want to go. I really don’t. I feel like it’s a big mistake, even though I know this is a two-way street and my feelings aren’t the only ones that matter. Anders seems to have made up his mind, and though he’s being kind and sweet, and though his eyes are sad, there’s also this glacial coolness coming off of him, that defensive mechanism of his that stops him from feeling too much.

Well, I guess it’s time for me to wear that same mask. I don’t want to turn into the lovestruck girl begging for another chance. I was already that girl once, I won’t be her anymore. If Anders has decided that things won’t work between us with our lives, then I guess that’s that. I can’t do or say anything to change his mind. And anyway, who is to say he’s wrong about it? Perhaps it would be a colossal mistake to just drop all my plans and build my life around his. After all, we’re still in the process of getting to know each other all over again. It’s too soon to even think like that.

I sigh softly and roll over, hoping I don’t wake Anders up. He’s usually awake at the crack of dawn, his lifestyle ingrained into him, so to see him sleeping tells me he needs it.

Me, though, I barely slept through the night. I kept dreaming about a sinking ship, watching Anders go down in the waves, out of my life forever. Then I’d wake up and realize what was really happening. That the end was here and I was the one drowning.

And I know, I know I should be handling this better. There’s a lot of I told you so’s directed at myself, because I knew that getting physically and emotionally involved with Anders again would making my feelings spiral out of control, easily overpowering me. I mean I knew it. I shouldn’t have slept with him, should have just left it at that kiss in the barn. Definitely shouldn’t have gone on a romantic road trip with the very person I was struggling to keep from falling for.

But what’s done is done. I’m here now. I let myself fall for him all over again, and now I’m watching our relationship reach the very same conclusion. Maybe we really aren’t meant to be together. Maybe anything based on your first love is supposed to be doomed, the nature of the game.

The rain starts picking up harder and I carefully get out of bed, staring out of the streaked windowpanes. The sky is growing lighter, but there doesn’t seem to be an east or a west. It’s all this dark shadowed grey as heavy black clouds rush in from along the fjord, the wind whipping up. I hope the drive back to Trondheim won’t be a total loss in this weather, since I’m counting on the scenery to distract me from what is sure to be one hell of an awkward car ride.

I don’t know how long I stand there for, watching the storm roll in. The morning doesn’t seem to get any brighter.

Eventually Anders wakes up, gets out of bed. We exchange quiet good mornings and small talk about the weather and then he goes about making us coffee from the in-room Nespresso machine. I think both of us want to turn back time, but we aren’t sure how.

Maybe that was our problem from the beginning.

But we have places to go. We get dressed, get packed, and it’s not long before we’re taking some stale croissants and cold cuts from the breakfast table in the lobby and heading to the car. The storm has quieted a little, the clouds providing a dramatic backdrop as we zip along the edge of the fjord, hundreds of meters high in the air, with only a guardrail between us and certain death. At least that takes my mind off of things for a bit.

Eventually, we head inland and the weather clears just enough for me to get more photos. I don’t ask Anders to pull over this time, even though he offers, though eventually he makes the call when he finds a photogenic patch of sheep and a stretch of empty road. I get out and walk down the middle of the road, arms out, posing for the camera, grateful that Anders is far enough away that it’s hiding the tears in my eyes. Out here in this beautiful land, on top of the endless, undulating mountain tops of bare rock and moss, a prehistoric landscape that strikes at some primal part of me, I feel both free and trapped, like my old life, the one in which I had no real direction, will suck me back under and there’ll be no escape.

When I walk back to the car, there’s no hiding that I was crying through the photoshoot.

Anders see this too, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

We get back in the car and continue on our way, past desolate lakes, more sheep, then finally the famous snaking switchbacks, making a brief stop for coffee at the shiny glass cafeteria overlooking it all. We drink our coffees beside each other in silence, watching the cars, tour buses, and motorcycles making the twists and turns before we go down the infamous road ourselves.

I have to say, the drive back to Trondheim is just as gorgeous as the road along the Atlantic, and we’re driving along side an aquamarine river, me snapping photo after photo (I’ve become a pro at taking them from a moving car), when Anders’ phone starts to ring.

He answers it, even though he shouldn’t when he’s driving.

“Ja?” he says in Norwegian, already sounding worried. Then he says something so sharp, it can only be a swear word.

I look over at him, at the look of horror coming over his face, and my heart immediately sinks.

Something horrible has happened.

Anders is nodding, talking fast in Norwegian, and then he quickly pulls the car over at the first available spot along the river. He says a few more words and then hangs up, body completely tense.

“What?” I ask, trying not to panic and think ahead. “What happened? Who was that?”

He stares straight ahead for a moment, pain wrestling his features.

Then he turns to look at me.

Opens his mouth for a moment before the words come out.

“The boat,” he says. “The boat was lost at sea.”

19

Anders

Numb.

I’ve gone completely numb.

I stare down at the phone in my hands, wondering if this all could be a bad dream. It certainly felt like a bad dream when I woke up, a bad dream in which Shay and I were to part, never to see each other again.

But she’s still here for now, sitting beside me in the passenger seat as rain starts to patter on the roof, and this bad dream has swiftly turned into a nightmare.

The boat is lost at sea.

My boat.

My boat with Epsen and Dag on board.

It can’t be real.

This can’t be happening.

“Please, Anders, talk to me,” Shay says softly, though I can hear the panic brimming in her voice.

But I don’t even know what to say.

“What do you mean it’s lost at sea? What does that mean?” she asks, reaching over and pressing her hand on top of my thigh. I stare down at her hand, at how small it is, delicate. A hand I know as intimately as my own. Soon, I’ll lose her. Soon, I’ll have lost everything. I’ve barely even processed what she told me last night, that I had gotten her pregnant, that for a brief period of time we had a fucking baby, something that felt like a boot to my ribs. And now…this?

I shake my head, trying to swallow, to speak. It feels impossible.

“The storm,” I manage to say. “There’s a storm out there. On the sea. On the bank. The other vessels started heading in but…they stayed. Tried to get more fish. They were heading back when things got bad and one of the vessels lost radio contact with them. Said they were taking on water. Then…that was it. Now no one knows. Now it’s search and rescue, hoping to find Dag and Epsen and the crew alive and…”

I can’t finish my sentence.

I’m suddenly choking, unable to breathe.

I can’t lose them.

I can’t lose them like I lost my father.

“It’s my fault,” I cry out, my voice breaking and I’m so close to breaking myself. Shattering into a million pieces and there’s no glue that will ever hold me back together.

“Shhh,” she says, running her hand over my cheek. “It’s not your fault.”

“I sent them out there!”

“They wanted to go, Anders. They were more than happy to. You said you were helping them, and you did. They are the ones that went, that was their choice. You didn’t give them an order.”

I barely hear her. All I hear is this sick thud of my heartbeat, all I feel is my chest closing up, tighter and tighter.

“Look, what can we do? We have to be able to do something,” she says. “Where abouts are the rescue boats leaving from? What’s the closest port?”

I try to think back to what the dispatcher told me over the phone. “Bessaker. I think it’s a small fishing village. North of Trondheim.”

“Then we go there,” she says. She puts her fingers at my jaw and makes me look at her. Inside, I’m completely lost, but in her eyes I see she’s in control. I surrender myself to her. “We go there. We help out. We do what we can. We don’t sit here, okay?”

I nod slowly, licking my parched lips, the world feeling like it’s at the bottom of a fishbowl. “Okay.”

“Do you want me to drive?”

I blink, her question snapping me out of it. “You? Drive? This car?”

She gives me a quick smile. I don’t think she meant it. Maybe. “Okay. Then if you can drive, let’s get going. I’ll plug in the location on my GPS.” She brings out her phone and asks me to spell the name of the town for her. Then she plugs it in, frowns. Shows me the screen.

We’re about two hours south of Trondheim right now, but close to the highway that bisects the country in half, the E-6. It will take us five hours, and hopefully the ferry we have to use is running on time.

“Let’s go,” I tell her, shoving my heartache and anxiety and doom somewhere deep down until I have to deal with it later. Until then, I need to concentrate on driving, on getting me and Shay there in one piece, especially with the weather being the way it is.

I bring the Datsun back on the road, zipping along the river and heading further inland. I glance at her quickly, my heart waterlogged. “You don’t have to come. I’ll have to drive through Trondheim anyway. I’ll drop you off at your hotel.”

She turns her head and gives me a steady look. “If you think you’re getting rid of me that easily now…”

“I was never trying to get rid of you,” I tell her, my hands gripping the steering wheel as our fight from yesterday settles over us. I don’t want to bring it up, I don’t want to rehash it, but I also don’t want her to think that I don’t want her. “Shay.”

“It’s fine,” she says, looking out the window. “Just drive. We need to concentrate on Epsen and Dag.”

And the boat, I finish in my head. Because the boat is as alive as they are. The boat is my father, my duty, my legacy, personified.

“We’ve got five hours,” I tell her. “That’s a long time to not discuss what happened yesterday. And I know we should be thinking about them right now, I know it, but I also know that if I do, if I let my imagination run away on me, that I might sink so deep I’ll never come back up. Okay?”

She doesn’t say anything to that.

“And so, I’m going to talk,” I go on. “We’re going to talk about what happened.”

“Nothing has changed,” she grumbles.

I sigh heavily. “I don’t…I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to be with you. That you don’t make me happy. Shay, you make me so unbelievably happy that it’s like, when I’m with you, I’m not even myself anymore. I’m someone better. Someone with a new purpose and that purpose is you and—”

“Stop,” she whispers, and when she looks at me, her eyes are wet with tears. “I don’t want to hear this. It doesn’t help. Why tell me all that if it’s not going to change anything? Because it feels good to say? Anders, it kills me to hear it. So please. Just please, stop talking. We said all there is to say yesterday, and you made it more than clear why this won’t work between us, and I get it. I get it now.” She pauses, pressing her lips together for a moment. “You’re right.”

“But I don’t want to be right,” I tell her.

She doesn’t say anything. Turns her body away from mine, resting her head against the window, closing her eyes. Shutting me out, just as I’ve shut her out.

So much for distracting me during our five-hour drive.

In fact, Shay ends up falling asleep until we get to Trondheim, when I reach over and purposefully wake her up. I guess with all this traveling, she’s become a pro at falling asleep in cars, planes, and trains.

My mind goes back to when she first got off that train in Trondheim, at the station, when I first saw her in the flesh after so many years. I had no idea what I was getting myself into with her, but I knew I had to do everything in my power to keep her in my life again. That I wouldn’t make the same mistakes I did before.

And what am I doing now?

Making the exact same fucking mistakes.

When I was a young fuck-up, I hated myself so much. It was hard not to hate myself. I had a father I didn’t see eye-to-eye with, who became a shell of a man after my mother left him. Maybe I reminded him of her too much, but he pushed me away, closed himself off to me, and I rebelled. I rebelled against everything, becoming the very thing I hated. I was tired of being the good son, the dutiful son, when I didn’t get any love in return. If he wanted to treat me like a bad seed, then that’s what I was going to be.

I played a role until it became the threads that held me together.

I lashed out.

I did drugs.

I made my father make the hard decisions.

And then I pretended it didn’t kill me when he made them.

My father sent me away because he couldn’t handle me, because I became the bad son, the fuck-up. He was starting to resent me anyway, why not take it all the way and give him a good reason?

So I went to America.

To my mother, who hated me so much that she left her whole family behind and chased after some guy who barely knew her. I knew my mother didn’t want a family to begin with, I knew she treated me, Astrid, Tove, Lise, like we were unwanted pets running around her house. But knowing that didn’t make it easier, didn’t ease the pain when she suddenly up and left us, breaking our family in half.

My mother definitely didn’t want me with her in New York, fucking up her new perfect life with her new man. But she had no choice. Though she wasn’t my mother in her heart, she was on paper.

And so I was shuffled between two parents who didn’t know what to do with me, who didn’t want much to do with me. How could I not hate myself?

Shay was the only thing I had. When I was with her, I could pretend that her love was all that mattered. I could pretend her love was the thing that was going to save me, redeem me, make me a better man. Make me a man, period, not just some scared damaged little boy.

But then it got to be too much.

I couldn’t keep up the charade forever.

I knew Shay deserved to be with someone that I wasn’t, because what I really was, deep down, beneath the emo poetry and the bad tattoos and everything else that I carefully crafted to hold me up, was someone inherently unwanted and unlovable. And, eventually, she would see that version of me. And she would leave me.

So I never gave her the chance. I pushed her away, put up the walls, started lashing out and cheating and doing more drugs and skipping school, because it was easier than being rejected by her.

That was my biggest mistake and I’m making it all over again.

I’m making excuses for us to be apart, I’m ignoring the fact that I’ve fallen back in love with her, that she makes me feel like a fucking god, and I’m pushing her away because I think it’ll be easier in the end.

But it won’t be easier.

It will hurt worse than before, and once again I’ll only have myself to blame. When you’ve lived most of your life in guilt and shame, the finger pointed inward, relentless in blame, it becomes second nature. You start to think you deserve it.

But she makes me feel like I don’t. Like I’m someone worth loving. That I have more to offer the world than what I’m currently giving.

I can’t lose that. I can’t lose her.

And yet it feels like right now, I’m about to lose it all. Every single thing that I love.

“What is it? Where are we?” Shay says sleepily, lifting her head and looking around.

“Just outside Trondheim,” I tell her. What I don’t add, is that this is her chance to say goodbye if she wants to take it. I don’t tell her because I don’t want to push her away anymore, and that’s exactly how she’s going to take it.

“I must have been tired,” she says, and then I take the exit onto the 707, away from the city and heading toward the coast. Her chance to leave me disappears in the rearview mirror.

She knows it too. She watches the exit disappear and a look of soft determination comes across her brow, her eyes focused on the road ahead. The road forward.

From where we are, it’s another three hours to the fishing village, and we’re silent most of the time. Sometimes the radio is on, but the pop songs and chipper yammering is too much for me to handle right now. Sometimes Shay talks about the villages we’re passing through, sometimes she brings up small talk, but she’s not taking any pictures and there’s this heavy weight that’s descended inside the car.

We’re both hanging on by a thread, waiting for what happens next.

Eventually, we reach the fishing village of Bessaker, nothing more than some old weathered red buildings along a rocky and lichen-covered coast. It’s hard land out here, bare and unforgiving, and though the sun would normally be out, right now the storm has swept most of the light away. It’s dark, almost as dark as night, and the wind flings itself off the Norwegian Sea, whipping against the car.

The docks are full of activity, with a news van from Trondheim, and other cars parked in the lot, people milling about, flares and flashlights at the ready for when the world plunges into night.

It’s so stormy, wet and rough out, that I tell Shay to stay in the car, pulling my Helly Hansen jacket out of the backseat and slipping it on, the rain already soaking me.

But Shay remains stubborn as always. She’s out of the car, yelping as the wind nearly knocks her over, and goes to the trunk, grabbing her flimsy rain jacket and pulling it on.

I grab her hand, part of me grateful that she’s by my side, even though it’s safer inside the car, then I’m pulling her along toward the crowd of people.

I make myself known, barely heard above the roar of the storm, and one of the search-and-rescue guys pulls us aside.

“You’re the captain of the Midnight Sun?” he says to me in Norwegian, looking me up and down. I get that a lot. Not that I don’t look like a fisherman, but that it’s not usual to have a twenty-five-year-old as the captain and owner of a fishing vessel.

“Yes, I lent the boat to my first mate, Epsen Larsen,” I tell him. “And Dag Nilsen is in charge of it for this round. They’re both very experienced, I don’t understand how this could happen.”

My voice is starting to crack, and I feel like whatever I’m being held together by is slowly unraveling. Even though Shay can’t understand what we’re talking about, she holds my hand tightly, giving it a strong, reassuring squeeze.

The search-and-rescue guy nods grimly. “I know. They started heading in when it got bad, but it was too late.”

I can’t breathe. “You know for sure the boat is gone?”

He shakes his head. “No. We don’t. But we can’t get a read off the boat. No signal.” He pauses. “We did pick up the signals from the survival suits, though. Six in total. That would be Dag, Epsen, and the deckhands, Erik, Tor, Hagen, and Vik.”

It’s happening all over again.

The survival suits.

They knew they were in trouble, they knew they were going down. The last radio transmission said they were bringing on water, so they put those suits on and activated the beacons, knowing they’d be sinking.

The signals often lead searchers to the dead.

My father went down the same way, except he was never found.

I stumble back on my feet, feeling dizzy, like there’s no air, and then Shay is holding me up, and the search-and-rescue guy has his hand on my shoulder, steadying me.

“Go and sit down,” he says to me. “I’ll let you know when we have news.”

I try to swallow, but it’s like I have chalk in my throat.

Shay leads me back to the Datsun, making me lie down in the backseat, the wind and rain battering the car. There’s so much darkness and fear in my heart, that it feels like I’m drowning too.

I lie there in agony, only Shay’s hand reminding me that I’m still alive, that she’s still here, and then darkness descends as the day turns to night. The only relief is that the storm abates, just a little.

But the vice around my heart, that clamps down even harder.

I must be drifting off to sleep at some point because I hear Shay’s sweet voice, sounding so far off. “Something is happening,” she says in a hush.

I open my eyes and slowly sit up and look out the rain-streaked window. The crowd has moved down onto the docks, lights moving around, and out on the water, I can see the spotlight of a rescue ship as it comes through the harbor.

Oh my god.

I throw the door open and start running across the parking lot, nearly stumbling as I go. I hear Shay yell after me, hear her footsteps splashing through the puddles, but I keep going. I go through the crowd of people, past the news cameras, past a few arms that try to hold me back.

It’s like my world goes into slow motion.

I see the boat pull in, people huddled on it, and my eyes are frantically searching for familiar faces. But I don’t see any, not really. It’s so dark and they’re huddled under blankets and I’m starting to fear that worst, that Epsen and Dag haven’t been found.

Then I start to recognize one of the faces as the boat comes to the dock. It’s a guy I’ve hired before as a deckhand. Yes. Erik Andersen. That’s him.

And then I start to see everyone else more clearly.

I see Dag.

And I see Epsen.

Both of them alive, wet, pale. Here.

I let out a choked cry and suddenly Shay is at my side, holding onto me.

“I see them, I see them, they’re alive,” she says.

Oh thank god. I’m not just seeing things.

I nearly collapse right to my knees.

They’re alive.

I can’t help but exhale loudly, a tear running down my cheek even though I’m smiling, and when Epsen and Dag see me, they manage to light up too, as much as they can. I was so certain I’d lost them, so certain that they went the same way my father did. The relief pouring through me is indescribable.

They’re alive.

They get off the ship slowly, the search-and-rescue team helping them, and it’s obvious that they were all pretty close to death out there. They can barely walk, huddled under blankets, moving like zombies.

They shuffle up the dock toward us, Dag giving me a solemn nod, looking weary and ashamed, barely glancing at me, while Epsen’s eyes are frantic and brimming with tears.

“We lost the ship, Anders,” Epsen says to me, shaking, his voice harrowed. “She’s gone. She’s at the bottom of the sea.”

I refuse to let those words sink in. “It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” I say to him, making a move to embrace him. “You’re here.”

But the search-and-rescue guy pulls Epsen along, just as two ambulances wheel into the parking lot, red lights flashing. “We have to take them to the nearest hospital,” the man says to us.

I nod, trying to hold it together, watching as they lead Epsen, Dag, and the rest of the crew up the docks, toward the ambulances. At least they’re going to be okay.

But am I going to be okay?

“I’m so sorry, Anders,” Shay whispers to me. “About the boat.”

“All that matters is that they’re alive,” I tell her. And while that’s the truth, it’s not the whole truth. That I bury deep inside, for now.

Time starts to pass in a daze. Because it’s so late, I don’t have the energy to drive to Trondheim, but the owner of a local guesthouse decides to put everyone, including the search-and-rescue crew, up for free, May still being the slow season out here.

They give me and Shay a small room with a view that’s probably beautiful when the sun is up, and I’ve barely just closed the door to the room when I feel like I’m sucked into an undertow.

I collapse to my knees on the wood floors, feeling like I can’t stand a moment longer, like every part of me is sinking inward, into the darkness. It all hits me at once, like a sledgehammer to the ribs.

Shay rushes over to me, dropping to her knees, arms around me, and I lose it.

I fucking lose it.

I gasp for breath, tears flooding through me, and I cry.

I cry because I’m losing Shay.

I cry because I almost lost my friends.

And I cry because I lost my father, that I never got to tell him that I loved him, that I was sorry for acting the way I did, that I didn’t want to hurt him. I lost my father and I never got a chance to properly grieve him, instead I was just handed his life, the life he left behind, and I knew I needed to keep it going.

And it’s not like anyone passed me the torch and forced me to become a fisherman, to keep the boat. My sisters never did. Per didn’t. My mother, well, she never cared enough, but she didn’t either. I chose to take on my father’s legacy and live his life, I chose to do that because it was the only way I could come to terms with what happened. With his death. It was the only way I could make amends and forgive myself and pray that somehow, somewhere, he was forgiving me for being the rotten son that I was.

But now, now it’s been taken from me. The boat is gone, my father’s legacy is gone. It was the only part of him that I had left, and now they’re both at the bottom of the sea and I have nothing but memories and wishes that things could have gone differently.

I want him back. I want him living his life again. I don’t want to live his life for him anymore.

I want to live my own life.

“It’s okay,” Shay whispers to me, holding me tight, and she brings me back around into the here and now, to this room, to this moment in our lives.

She brings me back to her.

I want to live my own life now, and I want her in it.

There’s no more boat. There’s no more past.

There are no more excuses, no matter how afraid I am of getting my heart broken and losing her.

I have to start anew, with her by my side.

I pull back, breathing hard, the tears rolling down my cheeks, making my beard damp. I grab her face in my hands, holding her, afraid to let go.

“I love you,” I tell her, my words shaking, the emotions swirling through me. “I love you, Shay. I don’t want to let go of you. I don’t want to lose you. I want you to stay here, with me, in Norway. I want you to be with me. I want to love you like I never really had the chance to before, with every single inch of my heart, as fucked up and imperfect as it is.”

Her mouth drops open, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes as she searches my face, looking for the truth.

I’m giving her all my truth.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” I go on. “I don’t want to be too afraid to love you and I don’t want to push you away. I know you do deserve better, but I also want a second chance at being a man who is deserving of your love. I may not always believe I deserve it, but I want to believe it. I want to change. And I want you to be with me as I do.”

“Anders,” she says through a sob, a smile breaking across her face. “I want to be with you too. I want to stay with you. I…I lo—”

“No,” I interrupt her, pressing my thumb against her lip. “Don’t say it back to me, my sparrow. It’s my word to give to you. It’s all I have right now.”

She leans forward and kisses me, tasting of salt, of love. Then she runs her hand through my hair, shaking her head. “We’ll get through this. All of this. We’ll pick up the pieces and move on. I know you lost the boat, I know that was your livelihood, that it was all you had left of your father, but I think he’d want you to start planning a new life for yourself. One that you want, not one that you shouldered because of guilt. And I want to be there for you, through all of it. I’m not leaving you Anders. I’m with you, by your side, to the end. Okay?”

Now I’m smiling.

Really smiling.

My heart feels like it’s bursting.

And, for once, I’m not burying it deep inside.

For once, I’m letting myself feel all of it.

All of my love for her.

For everything moving forward.

A second chance at life.

20

Shay

Two weeks later

“Everyone’s here!” Anders booms across the kitchen. “This emergency family meeting will come to order.”

Astrid gives me a withering glance from across the table before rolling her eyes. “We’ve all been sitting here for twenty minutes, Anders,” she says to him. “And you don’t need to yell.”

“I do need to yell,” Anders says, jerking his thumb at Per. “Because people like our uncle here keep leaving the room to check on farm animals that don’t need any checking on. The chickens now, really?”

Per shrugs. Even though they’re speaking in English and he can’t understand them, he gets the gist of it, and he’s as unbothered as always.

I’ve been in Todalen for two weeks now, back to working the farm with Per and Anders. I’ve actually come to enjoy it, the fresh air, the sense of comradery, plus the bonus aspect of working with cute animals. I’ve started enjoying it so much, that I’m starting to get some crazy ideas.

Of course, things have been kind of stressful these last few weeks too. Anders took losing the boat hard. I know that it symbolized his father for him, and that he never got a chance to really grieve his dad after he died. Losing the boat meant he had to face that grief all over again, and that’s not an easy thing to do. He has his highs and his lows, his moods swinging one way or the other, but at least he’s not pushing me away anymore. When I offer to help him, to let him talk, to let it all out, he doesn’t hide the darkness from me. He lets it out and he lets me in and that’s making all the difference in our relationship.

Because, yeah, this is a relationship now. Our relationship. Something familiar, and yet fresh and new. Though Anders is hurting over the loss of the boat, he’s also opening up to the new possibilities for his future. He needs to make money to help the farm out, but he no longer has to be a fisherman. He doesn’t have to live his father’s life anymore. He can carve something out on his own, something that he wants to do.

We just don’t know what that is yet, which is why Anders is holding this family meeting.

After the boat sank, he sat down with Per one evening and went over their budget, looking at what he needs to bring in to keep things afloat. To be honest, it’s a little less than Anders thought, which took a big load off his shoulders. It’s still something, though.

But there’s no reason for Anders to have to take all of this on by himself. This is the family farm for a reason. It’s as much Astrid’s, Lise’s, and Tove’s, which is why he asked them all to fly back home and talk about the future of the place.

So far, it’s been a riot. I’ve missed having Astrid and Lise around, and even though Tove has a biting dry sense of humor that cuts a little deep sometimes, I get along with her too. There’s been a lot of beer and cider (and whisky, Tove’s choice), and Tove’s son Harry is an absolute menace, which I find hilarious. He’s always getting into trouble and listens to no one. He reminds me a lot of Anders.

Right now, he’s bouncing around on the couch in the living room, after he just ran around the kitchen table five times. He’s hooting and hollering in Norwegian, but everyone is focused on Anders at the head of the table. Forever a captain and taking command. Be still my heart.

“Anyway,” Anders goes on, looking everyone sternly in the eye. “As you know, the reason you’re all here isn’t to drink and party like a bunch of loons, but to come together and figure out what to do with the farm.”

“Well, we’re not selling it,” Lise says, folding her arms.

“No one said we’re selling it,” Anders tells her. “We’re figuring out what to do so we don’t have to sell it.”

“Well, you’re getting a job, aren’t you?” Tove asks.

Anders gives her look that could cut glass. “I already have a job,” he says icily. “It’s called running the farm. Per can’t keep doing this on his own.”

“I could start contributing,” Astrid says, after she has a sip of cider. “Start a fund for the farm. I get paid enough, and sometimes people are really generous.”

“Me too,” Lise speaks up. “Karl and I were going to save up to buy a new car, but perhaps we can lease instead.”

“Well, I have a kid,” Tove says, just as Harry comes tearing back in the room making airplane noises, arms out like wings, knocking over Lise’s beer.

“You don’t say,” Anders says dryly, while Lise grumbles, wiping up the spill.

“Hey,” I say softly. Everyone looks at me. “I have an idea. Maybe one that’s better than everyone having to pitch in. What if we could make the farm make more money?”

Anders folds his muscled arms across his chest and I try not to ogle him. “How so? Getting more animals in? They cost a fortune and I’m not sure we’ll make up for it, not with the big dairy farms in the valley.”

“Kind of. What about goats? And donkeys? Llamas?” I ask.

Astrid laughs. “You’re going to milk donkeys now?”

I shake my head. “No. Not milk them. Just have them. As a tourist attraction.”

Lise snorts. “People don’t come here to look at llamas and donkeys and goats. Maybe in New York they do, but…”

“That’s not the attraction,” I tell her. I gesture to the house. “This is. The house, the farm. Look, I know my tourism stuff by now. This place is at the edge of getting discovered, of being on every Instagram traveler’s radar. People are always searching for the next best thing. Well, this is the next best thing. Todalen has it all. The beautiful valley, the farms, the mountains, the hiking, the fjord, the fishing.” I lean forward, pressing my fingers into the table. “Look. Let’s turn this place into a farmstay.”

Anders frowns. Silence fills the room.

Except for Harry and his airplane noises.

Finally, Per asks something in Norwegian, probably along the lines of “what the hell did she just say?”

Anders answers him in Norwegian, then looks back at me. But he’s no longer frowning. Something like realization is coming over him. “A farmstay,” he repeats, slowly running his hand over his beard. “That could work.”

“A farmstay?” says Astrid, looking between the both of us. “You really think that could work?”

I shrug. “Worth a shot, isn’t it? There are a ton of rooms upstairs, not to mention the old guest cottage out back. With a little fixing up, it could make nice accommodations for people. Total cottage-core hygge farmhouse chic. Look, I know travelers and backpackers. They want to discover a new place, not just because it’s free from crowds, but because posting pics that no one else is gives them bragging rights, and they want a total experience. It’s not enough to stay at a hotel these days, the place has to offer them something. Something they can document. Staying at a working farm does just that. The guests can help out, doing the fun chores I guess, and it gives them a sense of purpose and novelty while we get free labor.”

“Ah!” Lise says with an approving nod. “Now you’re speaking my language. They pay to stay here and they help out.”

“Exactly,” I say.

Tove looks me up and down. “And so, while Anders and Per are running the farm part of all of this, who is going to be running the hotel? Because it won’t be me. Or Lise. Or Astrid.”

I smile. “It’ll be me.”

I glance over at Anders, having felt his eyes burning on me. He looks surprised. And happy.

See, I told Anders I was with him till the end, but in the last two weeks we haven’t discussed the future beyond what to do with the farm and how to pay for shit. He hasn’t known just how committed I am to him, and, well, I guess I just told him.

“You’ll be running it?” Astrid says, brows raised. “So that means that you’re staying here? Like, for good?”

I nod. “I know. I’m not going anywhere. This feels like home to me already.” I look to Anders. “And my home is wherever he is.”

Lise lets out a soft, “aww.”

And Anders’ whole face lights right up, his smile breathtakingly beautiful, his eyes dancing for a moment before they turn serious.

He walks right across the room to me and grabs my face in his hands and leans down, placing a long, hot kiss on my lips.

“I love you,” he whispers roughly against my mouth, but before I can whisper the words back, he pulls up.

“Wow,” Astrid says, and I look around the table to see all his sisters staring at me with a mix of surprise and disgust, because ew, it’s their brother. Even Per looks caught off guard, his eyes wide. He may not know much English, but I have no doubt that he’s picked up on all this.

I’m here to stay.

“Okay then,” Anders says, clearing his throat, his cheeks tinged with pink. “So I guess it’s settled.”

“You might want to tell Uncle Per,” Astrid says, pointing her cider at him.

Anders gives her a dismissive wave. “He’ll be fine with it.”

“He’s not exactly Mr. Hospitality though,” Astrid says.

“Hei,” Per suddenly says. “I do know some English.”

We all look at him in surprise. Apparently, this is news to everyone.

Anders frowns at him for a moment before looking back to us. “Okay then. Well. Good. Uncle Per is secretly fluent in English, and now Shay is going to live here with me, running the Todalen Farmstay.”

I can’t help but grin up at him. “Sounds like a plan.”

He smiles down at me. “The best plan.”

“Skal then,” Astrid says, raising her cider. “To the new future of Shay and the Johansens.”

“To the new future,” we all say, raising our drinks.

* * *

“You’re brilliant, you know that?” Anders whispers to me, his voice thick with lust.

I manage a smile, though it falters as he pushes himself further inside me, my legs wrapping around his ass, holding him close. “That doesn’t sound like dirty talk to me.”

“No, but it’s true,” he says, kissing my neck.

I sigh and lean back into the bed, succumbing to him in every way.

After the Johansen emergency meeting, after my winning idea saved the day, we kept drinking and celebrating, moving the party outside to the picnic tables between the house and the fjord. Everyone was excited, in planning and brainstorming mode, taking a good look at the property and coming up with a million different ways that this could work. It felt good, knowing that my idea was absorbed so whole-heartedly by them all. The last thing I wanted was to suggest something that everyone was lukewarm to, but as the day turned to night, everything started to make more and more sense.

This was the future. This was our future. It was a way to keep the farm, to keep the home, while also providing a way for both Anders and I to carve out our own path. There was no legacy here to uphold, instead this was something new that the two of us could share and embark on together.

I already knew this was my future anyway, and even though I hadn’t told Anders until today, I had told everyone else in my life that I wasn’t coming back. I’ve made an effort these last few weeks to reach out to people more, to stop turning inward as I’m prone to do, just as Anders is prone to do. I’ve started texting Hannah on a daily basis, I emailed my mother, and I’m constantly chatting with Everly and Amber through Facebook. They all know that I’ve found my place here, that I plan to stay in Norway indefinitely, figuring out the visas and shit as I go along.

I’ve started focusing on my Instagram a little more too, looking at it not as some platform that might change my life, but just a conduit for change. After all, I have ideas and I have plans for this place, and those are going to happen without some app. It’s just an added bonus.

“Are you going to come for me like a good girl?” Anders murmurs, his lips trailing down over my breasts as his finger starts playing with my clit. Suddenly I’m ripped out of my thoughts and back into bed with him. Despite us drinking all day long, the moment we decided it was time for bed, we were ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Make me come then,” I whisper, and just like that, the pressure builds, my back lifts off the bed, and my orgasm takes me under. All the emotions that have been swirling around all day are coming to a head now as my body shakes, feeling beautifully torn apart.

This man.

I love this man with all my heart.

And even though he told me those words were from him to me, I never listened before, and I won’t listen now.

“Oh god,” I cry out softly as his pumps quicken, then he’s coming too, with a long, hoarse guttural cry that fills the room. “Anders…Anders I love you. I love you.”

His groan chokes in his throat and he stares down at me, breathing hard, eyes wild.

“I know you told me not to say it,” I tell him, my chest rising as the orgasm has me in its thrall still. “But I mean it. I love you. Maybe I never stopped. Maybe it was just put away until you came back into my life.”

He shakes his head, a bead of sweat falling from his brow, but then he’s smiling. Grinning. Fucking beaming. It steals my breath away.

“You mean it?” he says in awe. “This isn’t all a dream. You love me? All of me? Every part?”

“Every fucking part, Anders,” I say, grinning right back. “I love you and I’m yours. I’m here to stay. I’m home.”

“Home,” he whispers.

Then he leans in and kisses me wild.

Home.

Epilogue

Shay

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” I whisper, my voice choking in quiet awe.

I’m standing beside Anders down by the water, both our heads tilted up toward the sky, where the northern lights are flashing above the mountain tops. It’s so breathtaking that I’m having a hard time registering that it’s real. It looks like a projection of watercolor, neon greens and purples and blues that compete with the stars.

“Every single winter,” Anders says to me. “But it still stops my heart, every time. Just like you.”

I tear my eyes away from the light show in the sky, and look at him. The purples reflect in his dark eyes, making him look magical. He is magical. His fingers especially.

“You trying to woo me with your poetry again?” I ask him.

He grins and adjusts the knit cap on his head. “If it works, it works.”

Being that it’s winter, we’re both bundled up in our winter clothes, freshly fallen snow all around us. It came early this year, much to Per’s grumbling (for a Norwegian, the man gets cold easily), but I love it. We have quite a bit of the white stuff, and while we’ve been doing a lot of shoveling around the property for our guests, it makes everything extra beautiful.

Our guests love it too. We have these sleds that you stand up on and push with your legs called a spark or kick-sled. Basically it’s like a chair on skis (Norwegians will literally strap skis to anything). The guests take them out during the day, before the sun goes down at three in the afternoon. Luckily, winter also means the beginning of the auroras, something travelers specifically come to Norway for, and tonight I know it’s living up to their expectations.

It’s been about six months since Anders and I decided to turn the farm into a farmstay, and as you can imagine, it hasn’t been easy. We started in late spring, which meant it was busy on the farm and Anders was doing his farm stuff and helping Per as much as he could, which meant a lot of the farmstay business rested on my shoulders. And, let’s be honest here, I’m just a backpacker. I went to college for art. I know nothing about running a business, let alone a hotel.

But I’m also not a quitter. I was determined to make this all work. I pulled up my bootstraps and started working, doing the best I could, day-in and day-out.

First, I learned Norwegian. I mean, I’m still learning, but that was something I needed to know, especially as I started to make friends with people in town. Anders had said that it’s the community that really gives people the support they need, and he was right. I’m so used to being alone that I forgot what it was like to not only ask for help, but welcome help.

So I became friends with the people who run the chamber of commerce. Then I became friends with the couple that run the dumpling hotel. Then the hiking outfitters who take tourists through the park. Through them we made a plan that would benefit all the businesses in town when the tourists came, things like free advertising and discounts and the like.

One of the women who operates the hiking outfitters, Ana, became a fast friend of mine, and she’s also an interior designer. With her help, along with some muscle from Anders and Kolbjorn, we turned the guest cottage into new spaces for our guests, maximizing on that cottage-core hygge farmhouse Nordic chic look that everyone goes crazy for. Now there are four separate rooms, two upstairs and two downstairs, totally self-contained, and each big enough for four travelers. It’s right by the water too, giving them the perfect view of the fjord.

We were then going to turn some of the rooms in the farmhouse into guest rooms as well, but his sisters all complained once they realized their own bedrooms would be transformed. Being that they all visit quite often, we instead set about building yet another guest cottage, which only got finished in October. This cottage has two units, plus one large dorm-style room—a tribute to my backpacking days—since a lot of the people who come here are backpackers, looking to go hiking in the national park.

But even though dealing with guests face-to-face, making sure I’m constantly promoting the place on social media, and running the calendar and bookings takes up all of my time and can be extremely taxing, it helps that I’m good at it. I mean, really good at it. Like, I’ve spent a long time searching for my calling, looking high and low around Europe, hoping to find myself and my purpose, and yet I never thought this would be it.

Anders says I’m a natural. I guess I have the experience of a traveler, but I also know what it’s like to be looking for a home, a place to settle your bones and feel welcome. I want this farmstay to be that for everyone who visits here, and I like to go above and beyond and help make that happen for people, whether it’s giving personalized tours on our new (non-commercial) fishing boat, or letting children bottle feed the baby cows. As long as they leave with a satisfied smile on their faces and a heart full of memories, then I know I’ve done my job.

Of course, with Anders and I being so busy, we have to remember to carve out time for each other. Every night over dinner we check in, then we have a drink, put the phones and computers away, and find ways to just connect. It keeps us in this together, working as a team, not just on the farm, but on our relationship, which is just as important.

It’s not the most perfect relationship in the world. We fight sometimes. We’ve had second chances. We’ve had many rocky starts. Cynics might say that first loves should be left in the past, that we had too much baggage to weed through. But the truth is, I love him and he loves me, and that’s enough. It’s more than enough. There’s nothing better than true love.

So, while our relationship might not be perfect, it doesn’t matter because it’s our relationship. And it’s worth everything.

“Want to go for a ride?” Anders asks me.

I snap out of my thoughts and look over at him. While a lot of the guests are in their winter gear, settling down on the picnic tables with drinks, watching the northern lights, he seems eager to go somewhere. He has that adventurous gleam in his eyes, the kind he gets when he’s about to put me on the back of his motorbike.

“In the snow?” I ask.

“On the spark,” he says. “Come on.”

His gloved hand grabs mine and he leads me toward the driveway where the kick-sleds are parked. He pulls one out and gestures for me to sit down on the seat.

“Sit.”

I do so, resting my feet on the skis, and then he leans over and hands me a bottle.

“And hold this,” he adds.

I turn it over in my hands. A small bottle of aquavit, of course. I have no idea where he was keeping it.

“I don’t know why you insist on me drinking this,” I tell him. “I’m never going to like it.”

“Tastes change, Shay,” he says.

“Mine don’t,” I tell him as he starts to push the sled. I turn my head and grin up at him, the aurora of purples and greens flashing behind his head. “After all, I’m with you.”

“Ha,” he says dryly, and then the spark starts to pick up speed as he kicks faster and faster toward the small hill at the end of the driveway where it goes onto the road.

“Wheeeeee,” I cry out, hugging the bottle of booze to me with one arm, while my hand grips the edge of the chair, holding on. Kind of scary when Anders is driving, but so much fucking fun.

We go along the road for at least fifteen minutes, heading toward town, nothing but the soft sound of the skis on the snow and Anders’ heavy breath as he pushes us along. We go gliding through the thick forest at some points, feeling like we’re in a frozen fairy-tale, then by the water’s edge, where the snow has melted a little and turned to ice.

Finally, we come to a stop, though there’s nothing around us.

I look around, confused.

Then I look up at Anders. “What? You tired already?”

He doesn’t say anything back, though. Instead, he has this grave expression on his face. Now, Anders is still Anders, and he’s still prone to a lot of brooding from time to time, his mood swings not out of character. But I haven’t seen this kind of look in his eyes for a long time.

I mean, he’s looking intense.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He presses his lips together, rubbing them in a nervous gesture, then comes around the front of the kick-sled. Stands right between the skis in front of me. Reaches down and gestures for the bottle.

I wordlessly hand it to him, watching as he pops the cork out and then takes a huge swig straight from the bottle, wincing.

“Is it the aurora? The northern lights? Are they messing with your brain?” I ask him as he swallows it down, shuddering a bit. He wipes the back of his mouth with his gloved hand, then drops down to his knees. For a moment I think he’s doing so just to place the bottle of booze on the snow beside him, instead of giving it back to me.

But after he does that, he doesn’t get back up.

And he’s barely looking at me either. In fact, his eyes are closed as he unzips a pocket on his parka and that’s when it hits me.

Oh my god.

Oh my fucking god.

Is he…proposing?

“Anders?” I whisper, my heart in my throat, too afraid to read into this, too afraid not to.

He licks his lips, eyes opening to meet mine just as he brings a velvet jewelry box out of his pocket. “Shay…”

He holds the box out and, with shaking hands, opens it to show a diamond ring that takes my breath away. The aurora above us is bright enough to hit the ring, making the diamonds sparkle, like polar lights of its own.

I stare down at the ring, eyes wide, my heart loud in my head, a million brilliant butterflies unleashed in my stomach, like the polar lights are glowing inside me.

Is this happening?

Is this really happening?

“Shay,” Anders says again, taking in a deep, trembling breath. I bring my gaze up to meet his eyes and I’m melting on the spot, he looks so fucking handsome and nervous and adorable all at once. “I was planning to do this around Christmas. I was going to write a whole speech. Maybe get my sisters involved. Do something really elaborate, one of those proposals that you’d post on Instagram. I had it all planned. But then…”

He licks his lips and looks up at the sky, the lights reflected in his eyes. “Then I saw the aurora. And I took it as a sign. That I don’t need to plan anything, because life is what happens when you’re making other plans, and I think now, that really applies to us. Because we’re just taking this all one day at a time, as long as we’re moving forward.” He pauses, giving me a sweet smile, one that brings tears to my eyes. “All I know is I want to move forward with you. I want you to marry me, to become my wife, so we can keep moving forward together. Shay Lavji, you are my past, my present, and my future, and I would be so very honored if you would marry me.”

He glances down at my hand, which I’m clutching to my chest. “It would help if I could have your hand,” he says.

I start laughing, sticking my hand out, feeling so overwhelmed that I can hardly breathe, hardly think, hardly move.

He holds my left hand and peers at me with worried eyes. “And it would help if you said yes, too.”

I laugh again, trying to shake some sense into my brain. “Yes!” I exclaim. “Yes, yes. Always yes, Anders. Of course I’ll marry you.”

He grins at me, and with quivering hands, takes my glove off, takes the ring, and slides it over my left ring finger. It fits perfectly, pear-cut, shining like the godly lights above.

“It’s so beautiful,” I whisper, unable to look away. This ring, this gorgeous ring, is on my finger. Anders just gave me this ring. Anders just proposed.

I’m going to marry Anders.

“Oh my god,” I cry out, tears starting to fall down my cheeks, warm against my chilled skin. It’s all hitting me now. I’m fucking engaged!

Anders is laughing, his eyes wet, and then he’s pulling me to my feet, wrapping his arms around me. “I love you,” he whispers, kissing my neck, my ear. “Tusen takk for saying yes.”

“Vær så god,” I tell him, saying you’re welcome in Norwegian.

Then I pull back and let out an excited squeal, my happiness bowling me over, making me want to run around and yell at the sky with joy. I’m bright and shining too.

Engaged.

We’re getting married.

We’re getting married!

Anders grins at me, then cups my face in his large hands and gazes down at me with so much love, love that sinks right into my heart, making me his for life.

And in his eyes I see my past, present, and future.

I’m with him all the way.

THE END

Thank you for reading Bright Midnight. Did you know that Todalen is a real place? It’s where my father was born and where most of my family lives. I’ve been there many times & will be sharing pics of Norway and the village on my Instagram, so make sure you give me a follow-> Instagram

You can also keep touch by

-> joining my Facebook Group (we’re a fun bunch and would love to have you)

-> Otherwise, feel free to signup for my mailing list (it comes once a month) and Bookbub alerts!

PS reviews are ALWAYS appreciated! Thank you so much!

PPS If you’ve read my Italian-set romance, Racing the Sun, you will have recognized Shay from that. Conversely, if you want to see how Shay was in Capri, before she met Anders again, you can check out the book here, or wherever books are sold. Bright Midnight was originally to be published following the release of Racing the Sun, but the publisher cancelled the book. Once I finally got the rights back, I decided to share the book with the world. So a big thank you to those who have waited six years for Shay’s story. Hope you enjoyed it!

PPPS want to read another romance set in Norway? What about one about Norwegian Royalty? How about the bad boy Norwegian Prince and the arranged marriage he’s forced into? Check out an excerpt of The Wild Heir by turning the page.

The Wild Heir

A Royal Marriage of Convenience Romance

CHAPTER ONE

Magnus

“You fucked up!” Ottar says yet again.

Not exactly the thing you want to hear mere seconds before you’re about to fling yourself off a 3,200-foot cliff and free fall to the fjord below.

But in this case, as Ottar has spent the last five minutes drilling into my head what an idiot I am and how badly I’ve fucked up my life, hurling yourself off a cliff seems like the right thing to do. Maybe the only thing to do in this situation.

As I run toward the edge of Kjerag Mountain, I keep my eyes focused straight ahead at the fjord cutting through the valley like a blue knife, and let all thoughts, all worries, all self-awareness, melt away.

I jump.

Those first few seconds of free fall are what I imagine being born is like. A terrifying rush as you’re propelled from the solid and steady world you know into the cold abyss. There’s nothing like it, leaving safety and life for what should be certain death.

Then you’re flying, arms out, weightless, a bird in the sky, an angel’s descent, a step beyond being human.

Then you’re falling.

Wind rushing against your face, pulling your skin back into a smile, rattling your helmet. There’s nothing to anything anymore, nothing but you and the wind and the greatest adrenaline rush you’ll ever know. Better than sex, even.

Maybe.

The timer goes off, interrupting the rush before my brain has started to blur together. I quickly reach into the chute to deploy it and I’m jerked back, the blast of the free fall reversing for a second as the parachute spreads and the easy descent begins.

Usually this part of the jump is where your heart starts to slow, where you realize where you are, what you’re doing—that you made it. You’re safe. As you float down to earth, you carry nothing inside you but awe, knowing that you’re just a tiny bright-colored parachute soaring toward a cerulean-blue fjord, eagles at eye level.

But there is no peace and tranquility today.

There is none of that sharp focus and clarity that always comes during a jump, where my scattered world seems to pause, just for one wonderful minute as I fall from the sky.

All I can focus on are Ottar’s words slicing through my head. I fucked up. And it’s not just his words either. It’s my sisters, it’s my parents, it’s the press. It’s the damn prime minister.

When you’re royalty and you do something stupid, everyone in the whole world, let alone the whole country, gets to weigh in on it.

And I’m the Crown Prince of Norway, heir to the throne, and my latest scandal just set the public image of our country back another hundred years.

No wonder it was easier to jump today than most days.

A scream pierces my thoughts and I look up, even though I can see nothing above me but the electric yellow of the chute. That was Ottar’s scream. This is only the second time the guy has BASE jumped, and for him, it’s one too many. Hell, no sane person would attempt this sport, but I have the nickname “Magnus the Mad” for a few good reasons.

The screaming seems to stop after a bit, which means Ottar probably pulled his chute, and now I have the ground to worry about.

Focus, fuckface, I tell myself, willing my brain to stop racing around and work before it’s too late. Everything is throwing me off. I grab the pulleys in front of me and steer myself toward the people standing on the small peninsula below me, hoping Ottar follows suit. His last landing was about as graceful as a cow being flung from a catapult.

There’s only a small patch of grass to land on—overshoot that and you’re going to smash into rock or the ice-cold waters of the fjord. Maybe it’s because my mind has been so liquid, but the grass is rushing up fast and I know that this is going to hurt like a mother.

My feet strike the ground and my legs immediately crumple, sending pain up my shins. I duck into a roll across the grass and then spring up just before my shoulder hits a slab of rock.

Helvete.

All the bystanders standing around are gawking at me and my not so graceful arrival.

I push my helmet on straighter, adjust my goggles, and give them all a quick bow. “Not a bad landing when the alternative is death,” I say with a big smile.

A few of them clap. These people just seem to be tourists, their speedboats pulled up along the shore, cameras around their necks to capture the crazy fuckers like me who do this famous jump.

And Ottar.

He’s screaming again, his legs kicking out as he rapidly descends toward us, his arms jerking on the handles, completely out of control. If he doesn’t slow down and steer he’s going to smash right into a few people, and then the rocks behind them.

This is going to get ugly.

Everyone is scattering, unsure of what to do, and I know this is all out of Ottar’s hands now. Even with his goggles covering up his eyes, I can tell they’re open wide, his mouth agape as he seems to freeze from terror.

I don’t even think. I start running toward him and leap up, crashing into him in the air while trying to wrap my arms around his thighs.

Somehow I manage to pull him down, like I’m plucking a big, fat, hairy bird out of the air, and then he’s crashing on top of me, squeezing the air out of my lungs as I smash into the ground.

“Oh my god, Your Highness!” he yells at me, and even though my mouth is full of grass, I’m already mumbling for him to shut up.

He rolls off me, and then I lie back, trying to catch my breath and hoping no one else heard his address.

“I am so sorry!” he goes on, patting my arms and thighs. “Are you alive?”

Poor Ottar. He never wanted to do any of this shit with me. In the past, he was the guy waiting in the car, hovering on the sidelines. Then, with my father having some health issues this year, Ottar started actually going with me on my activities. If I wasn’t going to quit doing them, then at least Ottar would be there closer than ever, keeping an eye on me, making sure I was, well, alive.

But now it’s not just him making sure I’ll survive to be king, it’s to make sure I don’t run off into the woods and do something stupid. Or more stupid than jumping off a cliff. I have a bad reputation with my family as being slightly impulsive. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve been blowing off the bodyguards and royal guards and escaping every chance I could get.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, sitting up and looking around. The people are crowded together, watching us from a distance as if Ottar was a bomb dropped from the sky.

“You saved my life, sir,” Ottar says, placing his meaty palm on my shoulder. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

I eye his hand and then shrug it off me. “Well, you can start by dialing back your Samwise Gamgee.”

“Of course, sir,” he says, looking a little embarrassed. I think it’s more from nearly dying and me having to save him, rather than the Lord of the Rings nickname, because I swear he’s always two seconds away from calling me Mr. Frodo. “But again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault,” I tell him. Not my fault either. “You could help me up though.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, grabbing my hands and hauling me to my feet. I can feel the crowd inspecting us even more now—probably because of the way Ottar is addressing me, like I’m someone—and I’m tempted to do yet another bow to play off two bad landings in a row.

But someone has their camera out, aiming it in our direction, and I can't tell if it's because they want to take a picture of the two fools who just landed or if they think I'm someone of importance.

I give the camera a tight smile and look down at Ottar, who is a good half a foot shorter than me. "We should probably get this stuff off and head to the boat."

Down along the shore is a sleek, white speedboat with teak trim, the name Elskling written with flourish on the side. The man waiting patiently behind the wheel is Einar, one of my bodyguards and my getaway driver. Like Ottar, he's always nearby, usually trailing me, because I'm trying to lose him. He used to be in the military though, so he's a hard man to lose.

I hear the faint click of a few more cameras coming from the crowd but this time I don’t indulge them with a second glance. I quickly get my gear off and then as Ottar is still fumbling with the straps across his chest, help him too.

There’s a collective “oooh” from the bystanders and I crane my head back to the sky where the next jumpers are descending, three of them in a row. From this distance they look like brightly colored stars that have burned through the atmosphere.

Another click steals my attention.

Everyone is watching the jumpers except for two men.

Men with cameras aimed right at Ottar and I.

Men I should have recognized before but with all the commotion, my mind wasn’t able to focus.

You’re an idiot, Magnus.

“Hey, isn’t that—?” Ottar asks, but he trails off as the two men turn around and start running toward one of the waiting boats.

“Shit,” I swear, wondering how many photos they got.

It’s not that I was doing anything inappropriate, per se, but I had promised my family I would stay out of the paparazzi’s eye for the day, and well, those two fuckers are the bane of my princely existence. The whole reason I came out here was to avoid having my photo taken since usually the paparazzi don’t follow me all the way out to Kjerag.

But these guys aren’t the normal paparazzi. First of all, they’re Russian twins who look an awful lot like the T-1000 from The Terminator. Second of all, they act like the T-1000 too. They’re fucking unstoppable. No matter where I go, those douchebags are there, taking photos and selling them to the highest paying gossip mag or trashy tabloid. I’m not saying that I cry myself to sleep at night over being known as the “hot and sexy single prince,” but it sure makes you a media darling.

“We need to go,” I tell Ottar. “Now.”

Normally I would just let this go, but since these assholes will without a doubt be selling the first photos of me of what will be known as “The Aftermath” followed with the headlines “Suicidal Prince Jumps Off Cliff (His Personal Secretary Tries to Save Him)” and “Not Fit to Rule,” I feel like it’s my duty to care as much as it’s their duty to treat me like I’m an animal in a zoo.

We start jogging across the grass to the boat and throw our stuff on board, then wade into the ice-cold water up to our knees before climbing in. Einar is at the wheel, frowning beneath his aviator glasses that glint violet and blue like they’ve been polarized a million times over.

I step beside him, shouldering the brute out of the way and taking over the controls.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll drive,” I tell him, glancing over my shoulder at their speedboat which is zooming off, before shoving the gear into reverse and gunning it away backward from the shore.

Ottar nearly falls overboard, holding on to the rail for dear life as Einar grabs the console to steady himself.

“I’m pretty sure your mother would file this under reckless driving!” Ottar yells, trying to straighten back up, only for me to whip the boat forward and take off after the Russian’s boat.

“Pretty sure my mother wouldn’t want me to be paparazzi fodder either,” I tell him with a wink.

“Just let it go,” Ottar says with a sigh that’s squeezed out of his lungs as he falls into the railing again.

But even though I’m pretty fucking good at escaping from my problems, the fact that they’ve followed me here says I’ve got to face them. Head on. Mad Magnus style.

“Let it go?” I repeat. “You’re the one who told me I fucked up just moments before I jumped. I fucked up, so now I have to fix it.”

“Sir,” Einar says, clearing his throat. Even if his psychedelic sunglasses weren’t covering his eyes, I wouldn’t be able to read them. Sometimes I think Einar is built in the same robot factory as the Russians, but his maker decided to give him extra muscle.

“I’ve got it, Einar,” I tell him. “Why don’t you make sure Ottar doesn’t fall overboard?”

Einar doesn’t move, and from the way his mouth is pressed into a firm line, I don’t think he likes it when I tell him what to do. I know he doesn’t. I can order Ottar around, but Einar is just a bodyguard, there to protect me, not anyone else.

I don’t need his protection, but that doesn’t stop him from going everywhere I go. Even when I go on a date with a lady, he’s somewhere lurking in the background. The only privacy I get is when I’m fucking them and I have to hope he’s not spying through a window. Don’t get me wrong, the idea of being watched while having sex excites me to no end, but seeing Einar’s grave, pockmarked face would totally kill the vibe.

That said, in some ways I wish he had been watching the other week when I’d gone into Heidi’s house.

When I’d gone into Heidi’s room.

Not necessarily when I proceeded to screw her senseless that first time.

But the second time, when she propped up her phone and said she wanted to record us having sex as a keepsake, a memento.

I’d agreed to it, because, well why the fuck wouldn’t I want to be filmed sticking my dick in her? Usually I don’t even bring it up with the ladies because their adventurous sides only involve doggy-style and maybe some light choking or spanking. Filming us having sex? Forget it.

And I was feeling bad since earlier that evening I broke it off with her. Not that Heidi and I were anything serious, but we’d been on a few dates we somehow managed to hide from the public—and her father—and I could tell she wanted a lot more from me. As in, she wanted to become the next princess of Norway.

Naturally, I had to nip that in the bud, even though apparently when I break up with someone I still think it’s cool to film a sex tape afterward. Just another example of my impulsiveness getting me in trouble.

God, did I ever fuck up.

But that’s all out of my control and who knows what’s going to happen to me now. Since the news broke yesterday, I’ve yet to speak to my parents about it, though I could feel their anger simmering all the way from their palace in downtown Oslo.

I’m feeling that same anger simmer through me right now with only one place for it to go.

I increase the throttle on the boat, and now we’re steadily catching up to the paparazzi speedboat. Soon we’ll overtake them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Einar says quietly, his eyes focused on the boat as it gets closer and closer.

“Do I ever know what I’m doing?” I repeat, biting back a smile.

And even if this doesn’t work, who cares? They deserve it and more.

“Hey!” I yell at the photographers as we pull up alongside their boat. “Get any good pics?”

My voice is carried by the wind but they both look over and in unison raise their cameras.

I proceed to give them the finger and a big fucking smile.

Then I swiftly grab the wheel and yank our boat to the side, creating a giant wake and ensuring a wave of water flows over the side of their boat, soaking them from head to toe.

I burst out laughing and then gun our boat in the opposite direction toward our boat launch at the end of the fjord, leaving the two fuckfaces yelling at us in Russian, sopping wet and shaking out their cameras which are no doubt ruined.

Serves them right.

“Nice maneuver, sir,” Einar says after a moment, and I glance at him to see the hint of what could be called a smile pulling at his mouth.

“Thank you, my good man.”

“You know they’re going to try and sue you for that,” Ottar pipes up, slowly staggering up the side of the deck, never letting go of the railing.

“You’re a killjoy, Ottar,” I tell him. “Let me have my fun.”

I know it’s the only fun I’m going to have for a while.

* * *

Even though I’ve always had my pick of where I wanted to live, including various royal palaces throughout Norway, I’m rather fond of my tiny apartment. Okay, maybe it’s not tiny by normal standards. It does take up the entire top floor of a corner building in Majorstuen, one of the city’s “hip” neighborhoods, and I have more room than I know what to do with, but it makes me feel a lot more normal to live this way rather than in a palace.

Ignoring the fact that the floor below me is where Einar and Ottar and various rotating guards live, the floor below that is an H&M. On the street, trams trundle on by, a sound I find soothing, and people hurry to and fro, shopping and hitting up the bars.

The paparazzi know I live in the neighborhood but aren’t exactly sure where. The windows that face the street are tinted, obscuring me from people and when I need sun, I head up to the roof where I have a whole private deck free from prying eyes. And there are more than a few entrances into the building, including a tunnel that pops up a block away in a small gated courtyard.

That’s how my mother will be getting here tonight. I feel bad having her go through the tunnel since it was built in the 1800s and it can get pretty dank in there, but she was insistent that she come visit me as soon as possible.

It’s all bad news. The fact that she wants to discuss something with me here instead of at the palace where my father and youngest sister, Mari, are says a lot. Like there are less witnesses in case she wants to murder me.

I’m looking around the apartment, wondering if I should hide my knives, or, at the very least, the large Viking axe I have on display on the wall, when there’s a knock.

I stride over to the door, running my hand through my hair to make sure it’s all in order (my hair is usually messy and longer than she thinks is appropriate), take in a deep breath, and open it.

My mother and her bodyguard, Per, are standing in the hall. I catch a glimpse of Einar in the background, heading down the stairs.

“Magnus,” my mother says to me in a curt voice, which is her default voice at any given moment.

“Mother,” I say right back. I flash her a smile which used to charm her but doesn’t seem to have that effect anymore. I meet Per’s eyes, but just like Einar, they give me nothing. More robots in fine suits.

I clear my throat and gesture to the apartment. “Well. Come in, then.”

She nods and glances at her bodyguards with an internal message for them to stay where they are. Then she steps inside and I close the door after her.

“You cleaned up,” she says, stopping in the middle of the living room and looking around. It’s an open plan apartment which means you can see most of it from any location, and normally it’s a mess. Even though I have a housecleaner who comes in here every other day, it doesn’t take long for the place to look like a tornado ripped through it. Let’s just add Messy Magnus to my list of nicknames.

“I tried to make it fit for a queen,” I tell her.

“Bullshit,” she swears, shaking her head and eyeing me sharply.

That’s my mother for you. She might be the Queen, but she can be as crude and blunt as I can be. While my father is easygoing and gregarious, if not a little loopy, my mother says what she wants, when she wants. She’s fearless.

At least she normally is. As sharp as her gaze is tonight as it cuts into me, I can see the sparks of fear behind her eyes, which in turn brings out the fear in me.

My heart starts to speed up and she nods at the two armchairs by the fireplace, an heirloom bearskin rug between them. “Sit down. I have something I need to talk to you about, and for once, I need you to listen.”

I swallow hard. “You don’t want coffee or?” I glance at the kitchen as if making her an espresso will buy me some time.

“Magnus,” she says sternly. “Sit.”

So I sit, and she sits across from me. She’s a petite woman, only about five feet, two inches tall, but even in a casual silk pantsuit that borders on pajamas, she’s formidable.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment which ratchets up the tension in the room to an unbearable amount. I finally have to say, “Look, I am so sorry about what happened—”

“Stop,” she says, raising her palm. “Just stop. You don’t need to apologize. Though I do wonder if you are ever truly sorry about anything.”

That was a cheap shot.

“What happened, happened,” she goes on. “There’s no stopping it. All we can do is damage control, if we can even do that.”

“I’m sure the prime minister understands that—”

“The prime minister,” she roars, her dark eyes blazing, “does not understand! For crying out loud, Magnus, you filmed a sex tape with his daughter!”

“I was breaking up with her,” I say feebly, covering my face with my hands because fuck I don’t want to talk about a sex tape with my mother, even though it’s all over the fucking news.

“That’s how you break up with people?” She’s incredulous. I peer up at her to see her shaking her head in disgust. “First of all, what the hell were you doing with Heidi Lundström to begin with?”

“She’s a fan,” I try to explain. “I mean, she wanted to go out with me. We’ve met so many times over the years, you know it was kind of inevitable. She’d just broken up with her boyfriend and we were at that fancy charity event for frogs and wetlands or something and…”

“Did you not think for one second that perhaps she was off-limits?”

I shrug. “Well, no.”

“Of course not. Because you never take one second to think about anything. Always jumping into everything like you’re out of control. You are out of control, Magnus. Always have been. I—we—have tried everything to rein you in over your twenty-eight years and nothing has worked.”

“Hey,” I say, hating that she throws this shit in my face. “I did think. In fact, I thought maybe for once it would be a good match since she has a similar lifestyle to mine and knows what it’s like to grow up in a family of power, but she’s a lot, uh, more unstable than I realized.”

“Well, since you’re unstable too, I can see why you bonded,” she says, pretending not to notice me wince at the unstable remark. “But honestly, a sex tape?” She says the words like they’re in a foreign language. “You didn’t once think about the repercussions of that?”

“Why would I?”

“Because that sort of…thing, it always gets loose. Haven’t you learned anything over the years with celebrity scandals?”

“That’s Hollywood.”

“And the same dynamics apply here. Obviously you’ve learned nothing about being a prince. Instead, you try and shun it every chance you get. Is that what you want? You want to abdicate? Is that why you’re self-sabotaging?”

“I’m not self-sabotaging! And I don’t want to abdicate.”

But my voice trails off at the end of that sentence as it always does when abdication is brought up, when I’m reminded of what a poor choice I am for a king, how terrible I will be.

“Look,” I continue, leaning forward with my elbows on my thighs, my fingers laced together as if in prayer. “I made a mistake with Heidi. I obviously didn’t want to humiliate her or the prime minister, even though I think he’s always hated me to begin with. Can’t we do damage control here? Can’t we tell the press that it’s a fake? Surely someone did hack into Heidi’s phone like she says. Can’t we say that person made the whole thing up with, like, Photoshop or something like that?”

She exhales through her nose and gives me a steady look. “Not when Heidi has already admitted to the press what happened. Rather proudly, I might add. I think that girl has some, how do you say, daddy issues.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” I mutter under my breath, having a flashback to some rather questionable words Heidi muttered during sex. “So what do I do?”

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Magnus. And you’re not going to like any of it.”

I take in a deep breath, wondering what kind of royal terrors await me. “Okay,” I say slowly. “What is it?”

She rubs her lips together, taking her time. I know she does this because I’m terribly impatient and hate having to wait. I also know she loves to see me squirm.

“First of all, you’re going to have to apologize to the prime minister and Heidi. In person. And then later on camera during a press conference.”

“What!?” I exclaim. “On camera? But…the world will eat that up with a fucking spoon. That will make us look weak.”

She gives me a sour smile. “We already look weak, thanks to you. The entire monarchy has now been razed to sub-standard levels. We are the laughing stock of the country, of Europe, of the entire world. Magnus, the damage you’ve done with this is just the straw that broke the damn camel’s back. All respect that this royal family has earned is gone and in a world where monarchies are no longer in vogue nor in real power, this will have lasting effects.”

Well, fuck.

“Okay,” I tell her, gathering my courage. “I’ll do it.”

“Yes. You will do it. And you’ll do the next thing as well.”

“What next thing? It can’t be worse than that,” I say softly, but from the look in her eyes I can tell it is. I brace for impact.

“The next thing…” she starts and then seems to wince at what she’s about to say. “Magnus. You’re going to have to get married.”

Continue the story HERE.

About the Author

Karina Halle, a former screenwriter, travel writer and music journalist, is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of The Pact, A Nordic King, and Sins & Needles, as well as over sixty other wild and romantic reads. She, her husband, and their adopted pit bull, live in a rain forest on an island off British Columbia in the summer, and in the sunny climes of Los Angeles in the winter.

www.authorkarinahalle.com

Also by Karina Halle

Contemporary Romances

Love, in English

Love, in Spanish

Where Sea Meets Sky (from Atria Books)

Racing the Sun (from Atria Books)

The Pact

The Offer

The Play

Winter Wishes

The Lie

The Debt

Smut

Heat Wave

Before I Ever Met You

After All

Rocked Up

Wild Card (North Ridge #1)

Maverick (North Ridge #2)

Hot Shot (North Ridge #3)

Bad at Love

The Swedish Prince

The Wild Heir

A Nordic King

Nothing Personal

My Life in Shambles

Discretion

Disarm

Disavow

The Royal Rogue

The Forbidden Man

Lovewrecked

One Hot Italian Summer

The One That Got Away

All the Love in the World (Anthology)

Bright Midnight

Romantic Suspense Novels by Karina Halle

Sins and Needles (The Artists Trilogy #1)

On Every Street (An Artists Trilogy Novella #0.5)

Shooting Scars (The Artists Trilogy #2)

Bold Tricks (The Artists Trilogy #3)

Dirty Angels (Dirty Angels #1)

Dirty Deeds (Dirty Angels #2)

Dirty Promises (Dirty Angels #3)

Black Hearts (Sins Duet #1)

Dirty Souls (Sins Duet #2)

Horror & Paranormal Romance

Darkhouse (EIT #1)

Red Fox (EIT #2)

The Benson (EIT #2.5)

Dead Sky Morning (EIT #3)

Lying Season (EIT #4)

On Demon Wings (EIT #5)

Old Blood (EIT #5.5)

The Dex-Files (EIT #5.7)

Into the Hollow (EIT #6)

And With Madness Comes the Light (EIT #6.5)

Come Alive (EIT #7)

Ashes to Ashes (EIT #8)

Dust to Dust (EIT #9)

Ghosted (EIT #9.5)

Came Back Haunted (EIT #10)

In the Fade (EIT #11)

The Devil’s Duology

Donners of the Dead

Veiled (Ada Palomino #1)

Song For the Dead (Ada Palomino #2)

Black Sunshine