Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
He sighs and kisses my palm before moving off the bed and pulling back the bedspread, both of us shuffling under it, a cold draft coming in from the thin windowpanes now that our body temperatures have returned to normal. “We better get some sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow is going to be hard.”
A lump builds in my throat as I rest on his chest and his arm goes around me. “I know.”
He kisses my forehead. “And even though it’s going to be hard, I’m going to be here with you, every step of the way.”
I give him a quick smile, appreciating the hell out of him.
He’s going to be by my side for now.
That’s going to have to be enough.
Seventeen
JAMES
Helge’s funeral was beautiful, held at a white church in the middle of town. It felt like everyone in the town showed up. There must have been at least sixty people or more, some even standing outside the low stone walls of the graveyard and watching from afar.
She was buried next to her husband, Kolbjorn, and next to her children, Hedda and Erik.
I held Laila’s hand the entire time. I wanted to be her wall, the thing that could shield her from the world and everything bad in it. But I could not shield her from her grief, and that was a hard thing to come to terms with. Each tear that fell, each sob that escaped her lips…I wanted to take it all from her, free her from her pain.
But I couldn’t. I could only be there and try to be a source of comfort.
I wasn’t the only one doing that, of course. Laila had an endless stream of love from the villagers, neighbors, and friends. I met her cousin Peter, someone she doesn’t speak of very often but who I understand is her only family left, and it was touching to see them together. He’s a very quiet, stoic fellow in his late sixties, with a wife and a daughter who live in Canada. He promised Laila that though the house is hers now, he will take care of it for as long as she needs him to, which she seemed so touched by. The house is special and should be passed on through the generations, but at the moment, with her job in Oslo, it doesn’t seem like she’ll be able to use it anytime soon.
“That was nice of your cousin,” I tell her on the walk back to the house. We were given a ride to the funeral by the neighbors, Ann and Terre (they insisted, practically snatched the rental car keys from my hand), but Laila wanted to get some exercise and process everything by walking back. She said it’s only a half-hour walk, but the roads aren’t fully plowed, so it makes it a rather slow stroll through the snow.
“Yeah,” she says with a sniff, wiping at her eyes with her mitten. “He’s always kept to himself, you know. Growing up I didn’t see Peter’s daughter, Ingrid, very much. I think they, like so many people my age in this town, weren’t sure what to do with me.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “I was a strange kid. I mean, I still am, but…yeah. I listened to dark music—you know, Norwegian metal, that type—I dyed my hair black. Did everything except tattoos and piercings, and that’s only because I’m a wimp when it comes to pain.”
I can’t imagine Laila with black hair. “But everyone goes through that phase growing up, and I’m sure you weren’t the only metalhead.”
She gives her head a shake. “I didn’t have very good control of my emotions back then. It all felt too much. I liked to do things that maybe seemed young for my age. I started reading more, spending more time online. That’s where I could be real, in fandoms and chat rooms and all that. I could just let myself be free.”
“Do you feel you can do that now?”
She lets out an acidic laugh. “Are you kidding me? No.”
“Not even with me?” I have to say, I feel a little insulted.
An apologetic smile plays on her lips. She doesn’t have to answer.
She’s going through something, and you lost her trust long ago, I remind myself. Don’t make this about you.
I decide to change the subject. “And so what is your plan for the future?”
She frowns. “What do you mean?”
I gesture to the wide frozen fields that lead out to the dark fjord, the mountains towering above, the red, yellow, and white houses dotted across the landscape. We’re walking in a damn painting.
“Will you ever make this your home again?”
She rubs her lips together in thought, and I’m astounded by how beautiful she is, as tends to happen when I’m with her. It always hits like lightning.
“I want to, one day,” she says. “With Peter taking care of it and the neighbors keeping an eye on it, I know it’s in good hands. I can just focus on my life in Oslo, working, and then maybe if I have enough money saved, I’ll come up here. Or, hell, maybe I’ll get a job somewhere in town. Do something online. Start a business. I don’t know.”