Kim Golden's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing-challenge"
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #1
I told Nia Forrester that I'd join her for the 30 Days, 30 Stories challenge and I've already missed a couple of days due to mushy brain, so I will start now.
Story #1: The Kiss
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What I remember most about our first day together (after five months of being separated by an ocean) was that he kissed me like there was no beginning and no end. The first kiss--a quick kiss in an airport--didn't count. We were too shell-shocked that we were finally together again after so many months apart. Lack of sleep and jet lag frayed my edges. The air smelled different here--dry, cool...without the strange damp I was used to from Richmond and Philadelphia. I was in Sweden for the first time--why did he seem so much taller, so blonder than I'd remembered? He'd let his hair grow. It waved and curled now, silvery blond locks that made him look much younger than twenty-four. The only thing that mattered was that he felt the same when he hugged me and when I breathed in his scent, it rekindled the intensity of our summer together.
He took my suitcase and led me out of the arrivals hall. Outside the sky was a flat gray--I'd come to learn this was standard Stockholm in winter weather--and not as much snow as I'd assumed there'd be. We held hands. I loved the strength of his grip on me. I was his girl. He was mine. I felt safe, I felt home. I loved his nervous smile. I loved how different his voice sounded when he spoke Swedish--deeper, self-assured, somehow grounded. I couldn't understand the language then, but even the act of buying bus tickets and hearing him speak his native tongue made me love him more.
We boarded the bus to the city. He told me it would take 45 minutes. Once we found our seats, he did what I had been longing for--he dove in for a kiss that sealed our fates. That kiss that never seemed to end, that carried us from Arlanda into downtown Stockholm, past all the crowds and onto the subway to Norsborg, past the snow-covered hill and into his bedroom.
That kiss changed everything.
I knew I'd go wherever he asked me to.
I was his. #30Days30Stories #vignette #amwriting #thekiss
Story #1: The Kiss
-------------------------
What I remember most about our first day together (after five months of being separated by an ocean) was that he kissed me like there was no beginning and no end. The first kiss--a quick kiss in an airport--didn't count. We were too shell-shocked that we were finally together again after so many months apart. Lack of sleep and jet lag frayed my edges. The air smelled different here--dry, cool...without the strange damp I was used to from Richmond and Philadelphia. I was in Sweden for the first time--why did he seem so much taller, so blonder than I'd remembered? He'd let his hair grow. It waved and curled now, silvery blond locks that made him look much younger than twenty-four. The only thing that mattered was that he felt the same when he hugged me and when I breathed in his scent, it rekindled the intensity of our summer together.
He took my suitcase and led me out of the arrivals hall. Outside the sky was a flat gray--I'd come to learn this was standard Stockholm in winter weather--and not as much snow as I'd assumed there'd be. We held hands. I loved the strength of his grip on me. I was his girl. He was mine. I felt safe, I felt home. I loved his nervous smile. I loved how different his voice sounded when he spoke Swedish--deeper, self-assured, somehow grounded. I couldn't understand the language then, but even the act of buying bus tickets and hearing him speak his native tongue made me love him more.
We boarded the bus to the city. He told me it would take 45 minutes. Once we found our seats, he did what I had been longing for--he dove in for a kiss that sealed our fates. That kiss that never seemed to end, that carried us from Arlanda into downtown Stockholm, past all the crowds and onto the subway to Norsborg, past the snow-covered hill and into his bedroom.
That kiss changed everything.
I knew I'd go wherever he asked me to.
I was his. #30Days30Stories #vignette #amwriting #thekiss
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #3
Time for Story #3 of the 30 Days, 30 Stories challenge. This one is a little different from the original story I'd planned.
Story #3: Edelweiss
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When I was a kid, my mother and I watched "Sound of Music" whenever it was on TV. It didn't matter that we'd both seen it way too many times. As soon as Barbara found out it was coming on TV, she'd get as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning. Back then, the US networks tended to show "Sound of Music" around Easter. My mom and I would sing along with all the songs and sigh happily as Maria and Georg von Trapp fell in love. We both hated the Baroness for sending away Maria, but we loved that the nuns and the Abbess convinced Maria to go back. Sometimes my great-aunt would join us for our "Sound of Music" lovefest. We'd pop some popcorn and swoon when Christopher Plummer realized he'd fallen head over heels for our Maria.
One year I realized all three of us had a crush on Christopher Plummer. My great-aunt would shake her head and say, "Mmm-hmm- That Christopher Plummer has always been a handsome son of a gun." She still says it.
After our first summer together, Tord had to go to Switzerland to do his research at CERN. We sent many email to one another. That first month, he even sent me a dozen roses to remind me of how much he loved and missed me. But what I loved most was the box full of Swiss chocolate bars he sent. I shared the chocolates with Kendra and Michele. I think they were some of the best chocolates I'd ever had. But what I treasured most in that box was not the chocolates--it was something small and white he'd tucked inside the letter he'd written. A perfect edelweiss he'd picked for me while he was hiking in the Alps with a colleague.
I gasped--how had he known? I'd never told him how much I loved "Sound of Music" or how that scene when Georg finally sings with the children and Maria watches him with her heart on her sleeve was my favorite part of the movie... He'd picked it for me simply because he loved me.
My great-aunt likes to tease me and say I have my own Christopher Plummer. I guess I do. When Tord cuts his hair, he does look a bit like Georg von Trapp...and he does indulge my love of Austrian Christmas markets and glühwein and singing "Edelweiss" off-key whenever I am on Austrian soil...
#30Days30Stories #writing #challenge #vignette #edelweiss
http://youtu.be/O_rwb39L3Eo
Story #3: Edelweiss
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When I was a kid, my mother and I watched "Sound of Music" whenever it was on TV. It didn't matter that we'd both seen it way too many times. As soon as Barbara found out it was coming on TV, she'd get as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning. Back then, the US networks tended to show "Sound of Music" around Easter. My mom and I would sing along with all the songs and sigh happily as Maria and Georg von Trapp fell in love. We both hated the Baroness for sending away Maria, but we loved that the nuns and the Abbess convinced Maria to go back. Sometimes my great-aunt would join us for our "Sound of Music" lovefest. We'd pop some popcorn and swoon when Christopher Plummer realized he'd fallen head over heels for our Maria.
One year I realized all three of us had a crush on Christopher Plummer. My great-aunt would shake her head and say, "Mmm-hmm- That Christopher Plummer has always been a handsome son of a gun." She still says it.
After our first summer together, Tord had to go to Switzerland to do his research at CERN. We sent many email to one another. That first month, he even sent me a dozen roses to remind me of how much he loved and missed me. But what I loved most was the box full of Swiss chocolate bars he sent. I shared the chocolates with Kendra and Michele. I think they were some of the best chocolates I'd ever had. But what I treasured most in that box was not the chocolates--it was something small and white he'd tucked inside the letter he'd written. A perfect edelweiss he'd picked for me while he was hiking in the Alps with a colleague.
I gasped--how had he known? I'd never told him how much I loved "Sound of Music" or how that scene when Georg finally sings with the children and Maria watches him with her heart on her sleeve was my favorite part of the movie... He'd picked it for me simply because he loved me.
My great-aunt likes to tease me and say I have my own Christopher Plummer. I guess I do. When Tord cuts his hair, he does look a bit like Georg von Trapp...and he does indulge my love of Austrian Christmas markets and glühwein and singing "Edelweiss" off-key whenever I am on Austrian soil...
#30Days30Stories #writing #challenge #vignette #edelweiss
http://youtu.be/O_rwb39L3Eo
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #7
And now it's time for another installment of 30 days, 30 stories. This time it's fiction. :) Sorry I forgot to post the other installments here.
Story #7: Drive
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“Is she happy?” It was the first thing my father said to me since he’d met me at the arrivals hall. A quick hug, a shake of his head. And then that question. Not are you okay? Or what the hell were you thinking? Or even You know you’re grounded, right? No, the first thing he said to me was Is she happy? And by “she”, he meant Laney. He never said her name.
OK, I’m exaggerating. He said her name, but he never said it around my mom. And he never talked about her when my sister Siri was around.
“She’s okay,” I muttered. I didn’t want to tell him anything. Even though my dad tried to avoid talking about Laney with my mom, there were still those times when her name would come up in conversation. Dad would bristle and fidget but never defended Laney when my mom or Siri began ripping her to shreds.
“Did you meet…him?” By him, he meant Mads, the Danish guy Laney left him for. He never said his name either. And when I say never, I really mean never. For my dad, Mads was just a pronoun, said as though it filled his mouth with a bitter aftertaste.
“Of course I did, Dad. They live together.” We were driving along E4, heading back to the city in the heavy Stockholm gloom that typified winter. I’d hoped there’d be a little snow but instead it was raining.
My dad did that throat-clearing thing he always does when he’s uncomfortable. I let out an audible sigh and stared out the passenger window at the drab line of strip malls we passed. This time yesterday I was still at the workshop with Mads. He'd shown me how to make a tenon joint and how to use the mortiser. He was making a bed frame, well, a crib I guess. For the baby they were expecting. I'd wanted to stay a few more days, finish helping him with the crib. Working in his wood shop was better than being stuck in school, better even than being stuck here listening to my dad go on and on about how he and Mom were worried about me. I didn't really buy it. If Mom was so concerned, why didn't she call me during the entire time I was there?
"Are you listening to me, Jeppe?" My dad jolted me out of my thoughts.
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you."
"You can't just take my credit card and book an airline ticket when you feel like it."
"I know. I won't do it again." It was good to play the remorse card now. If I didn't, he'd psychoanalyse me from here to Vasastan. I freaking hated that. "I was upset, and you weren't here and I missed Laney."
He cleared his throat again. I was starting to think he needed to keep some cough drops with him all the time.
"How is she?"
"She?"
"Laney. Is she okay?"
"Yeah...she's fine," I said. "You know she's pregnant, right?"
Dad coughed. He flicked a glance at me. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something but then he pressed them together.
"You didn't know, did you?"
"I didn't think she really wanted a baby..."
"Well, she's having one. With Mads."
We drove in silence for a while. I could see the cogs turning in Dad's head. He was processing the news. I'd bet anything he was wondering if she would have stayed if he'd changed his mind about the vasectomy. He didn't think I knew about it. I heard him overheard him telling Mom about it--how Laney had told him she wanted to have a baby with him, but he said no. Maybe he regretted it now. Even if he and Mom were sort of back together again, he seemed more confused than anything. I guess he was wondering how the heck he ended up back where he started.
"He told me he would take her seriously if she was his girlfriend," my dad said out of nowhere. "When I mentioned she wanted to have a baby. I thought it was just a whim of hers. But he knew...he already knew."
Story #7: Drive
------------------------------
“Is she happy?” It was the first thing my father said to me since he’d met me at the arrivals hall. A quick hug, a shake of his head. And then that question. Not are you okay? Or what the hell were you thinking? Or even You know you’re grounded, right? No, the first thing he said to me was Is she happy? And by “she”, he meant Laney. He never said her name.
OK, I’m exaggerating. He said her name, but he never said it around my mom. And he never talked about her when my sister Siri was around.
“She’s okay,” I muttered. I didn’t want to tell him anything. Even though my dad tried to avoid talking about Laney with my mom, there were still those times when her name would come up in conversation. Dad would bristle and fidget but never defended Laney when my mom or Siri began ripping her to shreds.
“Did you meet…him?” By him, he meant Mads, the Danish guy Laney left him for. He never said his name either. And when I say never, I really mean never. For my dad, Mads was just a pronoun, said as though it filled his mouth with a bitter aftertaste.
“Of course I did, Dad. They live together.” We were driving along E4, heading back to the city in the heavy Stockholm gloom that typified winter. I’d hoped there’d be a little snow but instead it was raining.
My dad did that throat-clearing thing he always does when he’s uncomfortable. I let out an audible sigh and stared out the passenger window at the drab line of strip malls we passed. This time yesterday I was still at the workshop with Mads. He'd shown me how to make a tenon joint and how to use the mortiser. He was making a bed frame, well, a crib I guess. For the baby they were expecting. I'd wanted to stay a few more days, finish helping him with the crib. Working in his wood shop was better than being stuck in school, better even than being stuck here listening to my dad go on and on about how he and Mom were worried about me. I didn't really buy it. If Mom was so concerned, why didn't she call me during the entire time I was there?
"Are you listening to me, Jeppe?" My dad jolted me out of my thoughts.
"Yeah, yeah. I heard you."
"You can't just take my credit card and book an airline ticket when you feel like it."
"I know. I won't do it again." It was good to play the remorse card now. If I didn't, he'd psychoanalyse me from here to Vasastan. I freaking hated that. "I was upset, and you weren't here and I missed Laney."
He cleared his throat again. I was starting to think he needed to keep some cough drops with him all the time.
"How is she?"
"She?"
"Laney. Is she okay?"
"Yeah...she's fine," I said. "You know she's pregnant, right?"
Dad coughed. He flicked a glance at me. His lips twitched like he wanted to say something but then he pressed them together.
"You didn't know, did you?"
"I didn't think she really wanted a baby..."
"Well, she's having one. With Mads."
We drove in silence for a while. I could see the cogs turning in Dad's head. He was processing the news. I'd bet anything he was wondering if she would have stayed if he'd changed his mind about the vasectomy. He didn't think I knew about it. I heard him overheard him telling Mom about it--how Laney had told him she wanted to have a baby with him, but he said no. Maybe he regretted it now. Even if he and Mom were sort of back together again, he seemed more confused than anything. I guess he was wondering how the heck he ended up back where he started.
"He told me he would take her seriously if she was his girlfriend," my dad said out of nowhere. "When I mentioned she wanted to have a baby. I thought it was just a whim of hers. But he knew...he already knew."
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #8
Time for another installment of 30 days, 30 stories. It's fiction again.
Story #8: Dance
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Asha extended her left leg and then tested her pointe shoe. It was pliable enough now that she’d warmed it a bit. She rose up en pointe, keeping her upper body perfectly balanced and still, then raised her arms, imagining they were feathery wings as she moved across the floor.
Careful, she reminded herself. It’s been months since you’ve done this.
Yes, her muscles were a little stiff, but she could still do a perfect jeté and relevé. And to feel her body moving again without the pinching soreness or the ache of healing fractures, oh…what freedom. She tested her battements, moving from adagio to allegro and then drifting to the floor in the most graceful of bows.
“That was beautiful.”
She raised her head enough to see Mia Wilkinson standing in the door. She applauded as Asha stood and curtsied for her. “Just wanted to test the old gams, see if they could still do it.”
“You’ve still got it,” she said. “And you’re still so tiny.”
“No, I’m not.” Asha walked over to her, a little self-conscious at being caught out dancing. It was so silly. Dancing was her life. It had always been. She reached for her wrap sweater. “At least it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Asha shrugged on her sweater and then pressed the stop button on the stereo. She tied the stays on her sweater. The dance studio was chilly even with the old steam radiators hissing at full blast. She’d have to talk to Horace about it. The little girls she’d taught this morning were covered in goosebumps by the end of their ballet lesson.
“I still remember when you and I used to take lessons together with Madame Vivienne.” Mia grinned. “You were always so much better at it. Even then.”
“I practiced,” Asha reminded her old friend, “while you mooned over Owen Cudahy.”
“Well, yeah, you were in pursuit of dance, I was in pursuit of love.” Mia linked arms with Asha. “And now I’m in pursuit of lunch. Aunty Mo’s?”
Asha’s stomach growled in reply. She didn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Had she even had breakfast? “Aunty Mo’s—just like old times.”
Story #8: Dance
------------------------------
Asha extended her left leg and then tested her pointe shoe. It was pliable enough now that she’d warmed it a bit. She rose up en pointe, keeping her upper body perfectly balanced and still, then raised her arms, imagining they were feathery wings as she moved across the floor.
Careful, she reminded herself. It’s been months since you’ve done this.
Yes, her muscles were a little stiff, but she could still do a perfect jeté and relevé. And to feel her body moving again without the pinching soreness or the ache of healing fractures, oh…what freedom. She tested her battements, moving from adagio to allegro and then drifting to the floor in the most graceful of bows.
“That was beautiful.”
She raised her head enough to see Mia Wilkinson standing in the door. She applauded as Asha stood and curtsied for her. “Just wanted to test the old gams, see if they could still do it.”
“You’ve still got it,” she said. “And you’re still so tiny.”
“No, I’m not.” Asha walked over to her, a little self-conscious at being caught out dancing. It was so silly. Dancing was her life. It had always been. She reached for her wrap sweater. “At least it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
Asha shrugged on her sweater and then pressed the stop button on the stereo. She tied the stays on her sweater. The dance studio was chilly even with the old steam radiators hissing at full blast. She’d have to talk to Horace about it. The little girls she’d taught this morning were covered in goosebumps by the end of their ballet lesson.
“I still remember when you and I used to take lessons together with Madame Vivienne.” Mia grinned. “You were always so much better at it. Even then.”
“I practiced,” Asha reminded her old friend, “while you mooned over Owen Cudahy.”
“Well, yeah, you were in pursuit of dance, I was in pursuit of love.” Mia linked arms with Asha. “And now I’m in pursuit of lunch. Aunty Mo’s?”
Asha’s stomach growled in reply. She didn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Had she even had breakfast? “Aunty Mo’s—just like old times.”
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #9
It's Day 9 of the 30 Days, 30 Stories challenge and I thought I'd combine it with #FLF or First Look Friday. I'm giving you an excerpt of one of my unpublished novels, The Time Is Now, as Story #9: Chris & Kyra:
She drained her glass too quickly but she didn't care. He saw that in the way her set stance dared him to criticize her. But he didn't say anything. He drank the rest of his scotch and stared out the window. This wasn't how he'd imagined their reunion. He blamed it on too many movies. He'd concocted a romanticized version of it in his head with her throwing him knowing looks and him suggesting they take a walk like in the old days. He hadn't factored in the rest of the cast of characters--the bitter ex-girlfriends, the hangers-on who'd want any piece of his attention they could get.
Chris inched closer to her until their knees touched. Kyra watched him. The expression on her face was unreadable. She licked her lips. "I want to kiss you so badly," he said, not bothering to pretend any longer. "I've been wanting to since I saw you earlier."
Her lips parted but she didn't say anything. She licked her lips again. She was nervous. He realized that now. So he took the initiative. Just as he had 15 years ago. And when he kissed her, she tasted the same and her body felt so good in his arms. He had to remind himself they were in a public place. And when they parted, she was trembling but she was smiling too.
"Some things never change," she murmured.
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
"You're still a great kisser."
He grinned and kissed her again, this time lingering over her moist lips and breathing in the scent of her perfume. "You want to take a walk...?"
She nodded fervently. They paid the bill and left without a backward thought for their former classmates and catching up.
She drained her glass too quickly but she didn't care. He saw that in the way her set stance dared him to criticize her. But he didn't say anything. He drank the rest of his scotch and stared out the window. This wasn't how he'd imagined their reunion. He blamed it on too many movies. He'd concocted a romanticized version of it in his head with her throwing him knowing looks and him suggesting they take a walk like in the old days. He hadn't factored in the rest of the cast of characters--the bitter ex-girlfriends, the hangers-on who'd want any piece of his attention they could get.
Chris inched closer to her until their knees touched. Kyra watched him. The expression on her face was unreadable. She licked her lips. "I want to kiss you so badly," he said, not bothering to pretend any longer. "I've been wanting to since I saw you earlier."
Her lips parted but she didn't say anything. She licked her lips again. She was nervous. He realized that now. So he took the initiative. Just as he had 15 years ago. And when he kissed her, she tasted the same and her body felt so good in his arms. He had to remind himself they were in a public place. And when they parted, she was trembling but she was smiling too.
"Some things never change," she murmured.
"Oh yeah? Like what?"
"You're still a great kisser."
He grinned and kissed her again, this time lingering over her moist lips and breathing in the scent of her perfume. "You want to take a walk...?"
She nodded fervently. They paid the bill and left without a backward thought for their former classmates and catching up.
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #10
I was out all afternoon with some friends so I didn't have time to write a brand spanking new story for Day 10 of 30 Days, 30 Stories. Sharing an excerpt instead from my unpublished novel, The Time Is Now.
Story #10: Unsettling News
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She hated thinking about that night when her dad's partner showed up with another officer she'd never met before and asked to speak to her mother. Kyra had been at home alone. Her mother was working the night shift at the hospital so the officers told her the news in slow, careful tones. She remembered how their words disappeared. She could see their mouths moving but she heard nothing; her dad's partner, Joe Schmidt, was sobbing--heart-wrenching sobs that unnerved her.
"Your dad was the best partner I ever had," Joe Schmidt said again and again. "The absolute best--damn it, he should be here. He should be coming home to you and your ma."
The other officer was calmer. He kept calling Kyra "ma'am" which she couldn't understand at first. Her mother was "ma'am"...she was Kyra, sixteen years old, Kyra Amelia Halliwell. She was the girl who was in love and was accepted to five different colleges and was going to the prom soon. Her hands shook and then her entire body seemed to vibrate and clatter. And then she was on the floor and she was screaming but she didn't know if the noise was really her or if she was imagining it. But a black hole was opening beneath her and the darkness was pulling her in, and swirling and mawing. She didn't remember anything until something cold and wet stunned her back to reality. The other officer had placed a compress on her forehead and was asking her if they could take her somewhere so she wouldn't be alone. She told them to take her to Chris's house.
"Don't you want to go to your aunt's house on Brown Street?"
She shook her head fiercely. "I want to be with Chris."
So they drove her there. It was nearly midnight when they arrived and Chris's mother didn't want to let her in until Officer Schmidt explained what had happened. Even then, his mother hesitated. It was Chris's father who'd ushered her in and called for Chris. She was still shivering, tears were still streaming down her face and she felt her legs giving way beneath her.
When Chris appeared at the top of the stairs, she just sobbed his name and he practically flew to her. He took her upstairs and ignored his mother's protests that Kyra should go to the guest room. He took her into his room and laid her on the bed and covered her with his quilt. Then he lay down beside her and melded his body to hers, holding her and whispering in her ear that everything would be okay and urging her to close her eyes and just hear his voice. And she drifted to sleep and heard only him and the sound of his breathing and his heart beating and blood rushing through her ears.
They lay like that all night.
Downstairs his parents argued. His mother didn't want some stranger showing up on their doorstep with her problems.
That was how Mrs. Morrison saw it--a police officer, a father gunned down in the line of duty, was an "unsettling problem" that neither they nor Chris needed. She woke once and heard Chris's father talking about compassion and shock and how Kyra was right to come to Chris. But his mother refused to back down. The next morning she drove Kyra home and said she should be supporting her mother rather than clinging to Chris.
Story #10: Unsettling News
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She hated thinking about that night when her dad's partner showed up with another officer she'd never met before and asked to speak to her mother. Kyra had been at home alone. Her mother was working the night shift at the hospital so the officers told her the news in slow, careful tones. She remembered how their words disappeared. She could see their mouths moving but she heard nothing; her dad's partner, Joe Schmidt, was sobbing--heart-wrenching sobs that unnerved her.
"Your dad was the best partner I ever had," Joe Schmidt said again and again. "The absolute best--damn it, he should be here. He should be coming home to you and your ma."
The other officer was calmer. He kept calling Kyra "ma'am" which she couldn't understand at first. Her mother was "ma'am"...she was Kyra, sixteen years old, Kyra Amelia Halliwell. She was the girl who was in love and was accepted to five different colleges and was going to the prom soon. Her hands shook and then her entire body seemed to vibrate and clatter. And then she was on the floor and she was screaming but she didn't know if the noise was really her or if she was imagining it. But a black hole was opening beneath her and the darkness was pulling her in, and swirling and mawing. She didn't remember anything until something cold and wet stunned her back to reality. The other officer had placed a compress on her forehead and was asking her if they could take her somewhere so she wouldn't be alone. She told them to take her to Chris's house.
"Don't you want to go to your aunt's house on Brown Street?"
She shook her head fiercely. "I want to be with Chris."
So they drove her there. It was nearly midnight when they arrived and Chris's mother didn't want to let her in until Officer Schmidt explained what had happened. Even then, his mother hesitated. It was Chris's father who'd ushered her in and called for Chris. She was still shivering, tears were still streaming down her face and she felt her legs giving way beneath her.
When Chris appeared at the top of the stairs, she just sobbed his name and he practically flew to her. He took her upstairs and ignored his mother's protests that Kyra should go to the guest room. He took her into his room and laid her on the bed and covered her with his quilt. Then he lay down beside her and melded his body to hers, holding her and whispering in her ear that everything would be okay and urging her to close her eyes and just hear his voice. And she drifted to sleep and heard only him and the sound of his breathing and his heart beating and blood rushing through her ears.
They lay like that all night.
Downstairs his parents argued. His mother didn't want some stranger showing up on their doorstep with her problems.
That was how Mrs. Morrison saw it--a police officer, a father gunned down in the line of duty, was an "unsettling problem" that neither they nor Chris needed. She woke once and heard Chris's father talking about compassion and shock and how Kyra was right to come to Chris. But his mother refused to back down. The next morning she drove Kyra home and said she should be supporting her mother rather than clinging to Chris.
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #12
Ready for another instalment of 30 Days, 30 Stories? More fiction. Another excerpt from an unfinished WIP, Another Cup of Love.
Day Twelve: Honesty?
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“Milo!” Erin glanced over her shoulder. Her parents were still upstairs. Their voices filtered down to them as they gushed over the original crown moulding and baseboards. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said and kissed her. “And I found a little something for you on the way.” He was carrying a pale wicker basket filled with two bottles of wine and a bouquet of gerbera daisies. There were probably gourmet goodies hidden beneath the flowers.
Erin reached behind her and closed the vestibule door. “I’ve kind of got company…”
“Send them away,” he said, grinning. “I want to have you all to myself.” He set the basket on her console table and then pinned Erin against the wall. He kissed a trail along the curve of her neck and she moaned softy.
“We can’t…” She eased away from him reluctantly. “My parents…”
Then her father bellowed from upstairs, “Erin, baby, who’s at the door?”
Milo slowly pushed open the vestibule door. He stepped into her living room, the basket now in his arms again. Erin followed him inside and closed the vestibule door behind her. Her father was coming down the stairs now, eyeing MIlo curiously. When her father reached the bottom stair, Milo extended his free hand and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Milo Hedlund. I’m a friend of Erin’s.“
“Charles Foster,” her father said. “And my better half, Estelle.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He grinned at Erin. “You didn’t tell me your parents were coming for a visit.”
“It was kind of a surprise,” she said.
“So how long have you two known each other?” Her father asked. He glanced at the basket, then at Milo. Erin cringed inside. She knew her father was taking in Milo’s messy mop of hair, the slouchy chinos and tennis shoes and measuring him up by a standard that seemed unfair.
“We’ve been see-" Milo started, but Erin cut him off, quickly placing a warning hand on his arm.
“Milo’s been giving me advice on how to renovate this place,” Erin said quickly. Milo flinched at her easy betrayal. He shook her hand off his arm.
There was a weird pause then her mother said,”What a lovely gesture.”
Milo handed the basket to Erin,”I just wanted to congratulate Erin on all the progress she’s made.”
“I agree,” her mother smiled now. “It’s a lovely house, even with the work that still remains.”
“There isn’t that much left to do,” Erin said. She glanced at Milo. The smile he’d fixed on his lips was wavering.
“We’re about to have dinner,” Estelle said. “Would you like to join us?”
“I wish I could but I have to run” Milo said quickly. He smiled but there was uncertainty and hurt mingling in his eyes. “I promised my daughters we’d have dinner together.”
“Yeah, well, I’d better go,” Milo said. “Like I said, I just wanted to drop off the basket.”
He said a quick goodbye to Erin’s parents, then leveled Erin with a cold look. “I’ll see you around.”
Then he opened the vestibule door and headed into the small anteroom. Erin’s father took the basket from Erin and said, “I’ll put this in the kitchen for you, honey.”
Once her parents were headed for the kitchen, she followed MIlo.
“Milo—wait, don’t just walk away from me.” Erin hurried after him. He was already at the front door, his left hand gripping the shiny brass knob.
“I think you already showed me the door.” He said, evenly. “I thought we were going to be honest with one another. I thought that’s what we both wanted.”
“I do want that but you don’t understand.” Erin glanced over her shoulder at her closed vestibule door. The thick colored panes of stained glass formed a insulating barrier, keeping her mother and father from seeing the anger etched on Milo’s face. What would her parents say if she told them that Milo was the new man in her life. She could imagine her mother’s thin, disapproving smile. “My parents—they’re old school, they think it’s nice to have white friends but dating someone white—"
“I don’t believe it, you’re pulling the “It’s a black thing, you wouldn’t understand” routine on me,” Milo shook his head and laughed bitterly.
His words hit her like a slap. Erin pulled back. She couldn’t deny what he’d said. The very words had formed in her mind, just waiting to be used as a catch-all excuse. She shook her her head though, ready to deny that she would ever be so silly and insecure as to resort to the race card.
“I can’t believe you’re such a jerk,” she said instead, the words stating false and metallic as they slid over her tongue. Her stomach twisted and knotted at her dishonesty.
“At least I’m an honest jerk, then,” he retorted, keeping his voice low. “I haven’t lied to anyone about you—not my kids, not my parents, no one.”
He threw open the door and stepped out onto the front porch. The evening sun was just setting and the sky was turning a burnt orange that should have felt warm. Milo shook his head. Erin followed him out on to the porch. None of her neighbors were out, it was too chilly now for them to be out. She knew that some of them wondered about Milo. A few had been bold enough to ask and she’d simply said, “He’s my friend.” They never pressed, but she was certain that they had already figured out he was more than a friend. She said Milo’s name and he turned, the anger slipping away for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just need to figure out…”
“Are you going to tell them tonight?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I need to prepare them, MIlo. It’s not that simple.”
“It is if you want it to be.”
Erin had one last heartbreaking look at him. His pale blue eyes flashed coldly at her and the intense look her gave her told her that there would be no easy way back from this point. Then he walked down the porch steps and stalked away from her. She watched, not trusting herself to follow him. She wanted to stroke away the tension knotting his shoulders. She’d caused it and yet it was still ingrained in her to want to soothe him. Was this what people talked about when they talked about love? Wanting to make the other person feel better? Wanting to take away their pain and replace it with something real, something tangible? He was at his car now. He didn’t look back. She turned away and returned to the warmth of her vestibule, closing the door behind her. She stood there for a moment, waiting for her eye to stop burning with angry tears and listening to her father discuss the merits of her new house with her mother. She blinked back the tears and breathed in and out deeply. Her parents would want answers too. They’d probably seen through her ruse. Lies were never worth the damage they wrought.
Day Twelve: Honesty?
-------------------------------
“Milo!” Erin glanced over her shoulder. Her parents were still upstairs. Their voices filtered down to them as they gushed over the original crown moulding and baseboards. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said and kissed her. “And I found a little something for you on the way.” He was carrying a pale wicker basket filled with two bottles of wine and a bouquet of gerbera daisies. There were probably gourmet goodies hidden beneath the flowers.
Erin reached behind her and closed the vestibule door. “I’ve kind of got company…”
“Send them away,” he said, grinning. “I want to have you all to myself.” He set the basket on her console table and then pinned Erin against the wall. He kissed a trail along the curve of her neck and she moaned softy.
“We can’t…” She eased away from him reluctantly. “My parents…”
Then her father bellowed from upstairs, “Erin, baby, who’s at the door?”
Milo slowly pushed open the vestibule door. He stepped into her living room, the basket now in his arms again. Erin followed him inside and closed the vestibule door behind her. Her father was coming down the stairs now, eyeing MIlo curiously. When her father reached the bottom stair, Milo extended his free hand and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Milo Hedlund. I’m a friend of Erin’s.“
“Charles Foster,” her father said. “And my better half, Estelle.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He grinned at Erin. “You didn’t tell me your parents were coming for a visit.”
“It was kind of a surprise,” she said.
“So how long have you two known each other?” Her father asked. He glanced at the basket, then at Milo. Erin cringed inside. She knew her father was taking in Milo’s messy mop of hair, the slouchy chinos and tennis shoes and measuring him up by a standard that seemed unfair.
“We’ve been see-" Milo started, but Erin cut him off, quickly placing a warning hand on his arm.
“Milo’s been giving me advice on how to renovate this place,” Erin said quickly. Milo flinched at her easy betrayal. He shook her hand off his arm.
There was a weird pause then her mother said,”What a lovely gesture.”
Milo handed the basket to Erin,”I just wanted to congratulate Erin on all the progress she’s made.”
“I agree,” her mother smiled now. “It’s a lovely house, even with the work that still remains.”
“There isn’t that much left to do,” Erin said. She glanced at Milo. The smile he’d fixed on his lips was wavering.
“We’re about to have dinner,” Estelle said. “Would you like to join us?”
“I wish I could but I have to run” Milo said quickly. He smiled but there was uncertainty and hurt mingling in his eyes. “I promised my daughters we’d have dinner together.”
“Yeah, well, I’d better go,” Milo said. “Like I said, I just wanted to drop off the basket.”
He said a quick goodbye to Erin’s parents, then leveled Erin with a cold look. “I’ll see you around.”
Then he opened the vestibule door and headed into the small anteroom. Erin’s father took the basket from Erin and said, “I’ll put this in the kitchen for you, honey.”
Once her parents were headed for the kitchen, she followed MIlo.
“Milo—wait, don’t just walk away from me.” Erin hurried after him. He was already at the front door, his left hand gripping the shiny brass knob.
“I think you already showed me the door.” He said, evenly. “I thought we were going to be honest with one another. I thought that’s what we both wanted.”
“I do want that but you don’t understand.” Erin glanced over her shoulder at her closed vestibule door. The thick colored panes of stained glass formed a insulating barrier, keeping her mother and father from seeing the anger etched on Milo’s face. What would her parents say if she told them that Milo was the new man in her life. She could imagine her mother’s thin, disapproving smile. “My parents—they’re old school, they think it’s nice to have white friends but dating someone white—"
“I don’t believe it, you’re pulling the “It’s a black thing, you wouldn’t understand” routine on me,” Milo shook his head and laughed bitterly.
His words hit her like a slap. Erin pulled back. She couldn’t deny what he’d said. The very words had formed in her mind, just waiting to be used as a catch-all excuse. She shook her her head though, ready to deny that she would ever be so silly and insecure as to resort to the race card.
“I can’t believe you’re such a jerk,” she said instead, the words stating false and metallic as they slid over her tongue. Her stomach twisted and knotted at her dishonesty.
“At least I’m an honest jerk, then,” he retorted, keeping his voice low. “I haven’t lied to anyone about you—not my kids, not my parents, no one.”
He threw open the door and stepped out onto the front porch. The evening sun was just setting and the sky was turning a burnt orange that should have felt warm. Milo shook his head. Erin followed him out on to the porch. None of her neighbors were out, it was too chilly now for them to be out. She knew that some of them wondered about Milo. A few had been bold enough to ask and she’d simply said, “He’s my friend.” They never pressed, but she was certain that they had already figured out he was more than a friend. She said Milo’s name and he turned, the anger slipping away for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just need to figure out…”
“Are you going to tell them tonight?”
She shrugged helplessly. “I need to prepare them, MIlo. It’s not that simple.”
“It is if you want it to be.”
Erin had one last heartbreaking look at him. His pale blue eyes flashed coldly at her and the intense look her gave her told her that there would be no easy way back from this point. Then he walked down the porch steps and stalked away from her. She watched, not trusting herself to follow him. She wanted to stroke away the tension knotting his shoulders. She’d caused it and yet it was still ingrained in her to want to soothe him. Was this what people talked about when they talked about love? Wanting to make the other person feel better? Wanting to take away their pain and replace it with something real, something tangible? He was at his car now. He didn’t look back. She turned away and returned to the warmth of her vestibule, closing the door behind her. She stood there for a moment, waiting for her eye to stop burning with angry tears and listening to her father discuss the merits of her new house with her mother. She blinked back the tears and breathed in and out deeply. Her parents would want answers too. They’d probably seen through her ruse. Lies were never worth the damage they wrought.
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #13
Time for another installment of 30 Days, 30 Stories. More fiction. A short story I never finished. Maybe I will now.
Day Thirteen: Unfaithful
---------------------------------
“Come here,” he mouthed at me, watching me over the rim of his wineglass. He smiled then glanced at the dark alcove under the stairs.
I pretended not to notice. I was talking to Gabi, whom I hadn’t seen in ages because of him. Tonight he wouldn’t distract me, I’d decided.
“What’s going on?” Gabi suddenly demanded. Though she was smiling at me, her brown eyes bore into me with precision of a drill. “Come on, out with it.”
“Nothing’s going on,” I said and turned so that I could no longer see him.
“You may as well tell me,” she continued. “I’ve seen how odd you’ve been lately.”
“Gabi, nothing’s going on. My life couldn’t be more boring.”
“Right. You never return my phone calls, you say you’re at home but you’re never there when I come by, all your excuses sound cagey. What gives?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” I smiled brightly at her. “Honestly. I’ve just been busy with the Zetterberg project. Things’ll calm down in a few weeks.”
“You told me you finished that project ages ago.”
“Steve did a rewrite of the last fifty pages of the script so I’ve been proofing them and helping him with some other things. That’s it-- I swear.”
Gabi gave up then, shrugging her slender shoulders and taking a drag from her cigarette. She smoked elegantly, like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep or Key Largo. She called out a “Hello darling” to someone. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. I’d felt him approaching, felt the weight of his stare on me with each step he took. Now he was standing behind me, and the lemony scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils and made me weak. I glanced over my shoulder at him and said a quick hello. He put his hand on the small of my back and kissed my cheek, then kissed Gabi quickly on the lips and called her beautiful. Stupidly, this infuriated me though we all called her that. She was beautiful, with her sylphlike body, her avant-garde fashion sense and wild hair. Everyone loved her and she loved everyone. I couldn’t stop him from innocently flirting with her when it was what he’d always done.
“Manda’s got a secret, and she won’t share it with us,” Gabi informed him as she brushed stray crumbs from his shirtfront. “Perhaps you can wheedle it out of her.”
“There’s no secret,” I insisted. I pretended to be interested in the Indian carving hanging on the living room wall. I knew that Martin had purchased it in a marketplace in Goa. He liked to recount the story of how he found it on his last day in India, after several weeks of smoking far too much hashish and eating questionable curries. The carving was beautiful and intricate, and depicted Ganesh, the god of greed, among other things. Fitting, since now I was greedy for Andrew. I knew I shouldn’t have him and yet I craved him all the more, even if it meant resorting to subterfuge.
“Manda’s too open to have secrets,” he said, his hand stroking my back. I bit my lip. “If she says there’s no secret, then it’s probably true.”
Gabi rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. “Fine, fine. I give up. Maybe she’ll tell you.” She kissed us both then strode off calling out a hello to guests who’d just arrived.
“Alone at last,” he said in my ear.
“Hardly,” I retorted and stepped away. There were too many of our friends here. Anything untoward would be questioned and gossiped about. It was too early for that.
“Sooner or later everyone’s going to find out.”
“I prefer later.”
“Come with me.”
“Not here.”
“I’ve got the key to the loft.”
“No, I can’t. Not tonight, anyway. Jens came home this afternoon.”
“When then?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Come to my office tomorrow.”
“Maybe.”
“Just come.” Then he kissed my cheek quickly and I heard him behind me, shouting out a greeting to new arrivals.
Day Thirteen: Unfaithful
---------------------------------
“Come here,” he mouthed at me, watching me over the rim of his wineglass. He smiled then glanced at the dark alcove under the stairs.
I pretended not to notice. I was talking to Gabi, whom I hadn’t seen in ages because of him. Tonight he wouldn’t distract me, I’d decided.
“What’s going on?” Gabi suddenly demanded. Though she was smiling at me, her brown eyes bore into me with precision of a drill. “Come on, out with it.”
“Nothing’s going on,” I said and turned so that I could no longer see him.
“You may as well tell me,” she continued. “I’ve seen how odd you’ve been lately.”
“Gabi, nothing’s going on. My life couldn’t be more boring.”
“Right. You never return my phone calls, you say you’re at home but you’re never there when I come by, all your excuses sound cagey. What gives?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” I smiled brightly at her. “Honestly. I’ve just been busy with the Zetterberg project. Things’ll calm down in a few weeks.”
“You told me you finished that project ages ago.”
“Steve did a rewrite of the last fifty pages of the script so I’ve been proofing them and helping him with some other things. That’s it-- I swear.”
Gabi gave up then, shrugging her slender shoulders and taking a drag from her cigarette. She smoked elegantly, like Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep or Key Largo. She called out a “Hello darling” to someone. I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. I’d felt him approaching, felt the weight of his stare on me with each step he took. Now he was standing behind me, and the lemony scent of his aftershave filled my nostrils and made me weak. I glanced over my shoulder at him and said a quick hello. He put his hand on the small of my back and kissed my cheek, then kissed Gabi quickly on the lips and called her beautiful. Stupidly, this infuriated me though we all called her that. She was beautiful, with her sylphlike body, her avant-garde fashion sense and wild hair. Everyone loved her and she loved everyone. I couldn’t stop him from innocently flirting with her when it was what he’d always done.
“Manda’s got a secret, and she won’t share it with us,” Gabi informed him as she brushed stray crumbs from his shirtfront. “Perhaps you can wheedle it out of her.”
“There’s no secret,” I insisted. I pretended to be interested in the Indian carving hanging on the living room wall. I knew that Martin had purchased it in a marketplace in Goa. He liked to recount the story of how he found it on his last day in India, after several weeks of smoking far too much hashish and eating questionable curries. The carving was beautiful and intricate, and depicted Ganesh, the god of greed, among other things. Fitting, since now I was greedy for Andrew. I knew I shouldn’t have him and yet I craved him all the more, even if it meant resorting to subterfuge.
“Manda’s too open to have secrets,” he said, his hand stroking my back. I bit my lip. “If she says there’s no secret, then it’s probably true.”
Gabi rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. “Fine, fine. I give up. Maybe she’ll tell you.” She kissed us both then strode off calling out a hello to guests who’d just arrived.
“Alone at last,” he said in my ear.
“Hardly,” I retorted and stepped away. There were too many of our friends here. Anything untoward would be questioned and gossiped about. It was too early for that.
“Sooner or later everyone’s going to find out.”
“I prefer later.”
“Come with me.”
“Not here.”
“I’ve got the key to the loft.”
“No, I can’t. Not tonight, anyway. Jens came home this afternoon.”
“When then?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“Come to my office tomorrow.”
“Maybe.”
“Just come.” Then he kissed my cheek quickly and I heard him behind me, shouting out a greeting to new arrivals.
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #14
Time for more of 30 Days, 30 Stories. More fiction. Another scene from a novel I abandoned. I may have to return to it. I rather like this story of people behaving badly.
Story #14: The One I Cannot Have
-------------------------------------------
“I wish I’d never married her. I wish I’d met you first.”
As soon as he told me how he felt, the words were tatooed in my memory. Sometimes I couldn’t concentrate for hearing his voice say them in my mind. During the day, when I should have been concentrating on my work, I was thinking about Jake and wodnering what he was doing.
At night, we met at my house and pretended to be the married couple that we wished we were. Sometimes we sat on the cool floor of my livingroom and talked about the stories we wanted to write and the books we’d read while over our heads the ceiling fan ticked and whirred. Sometimes we rented foreign films and, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between us, watched them without ever thinking that soon Helena would come home and this would be over. Neither of us wanted to consider the future.
Everynight I slept in their bed with him. Sometimes I’d wake with a start from the scent of her perfume and believe that she’d come home early and was on her way up the stairs. My heart would be racing and I’d have to remind myself how many weeks, then days we had until her return. Once I’d calmed down, I’d move closer to Jake and hold him while he slept on. The soft waves of his even breathing would lull me and I’d drift to sleep without waking again until morning.
“Can you meet me at my place later on?”
I shrugged without looking up. I was afraid of seeming too anxious, even now when we both knew how we felt about one another. “I can probably come by.”
He knelt by my table and stroked my knee. “Just say yes.”
“Allright, yes.”
He grinned at me and cupped my face in his hands then kissed
me quickly. I drew back without thinking. I couldn’t help it, I was so used to hiding how I felt for fear that someone, anyone would see and tell Helena.
But Jake didn’t care about our being found out. He touched my hair and said, “Don’t be afraid. . . this is probably the best thing either of us have ever done.”
And just then I believed him.
I didn’t doubt him when he said that he loved me, or that he wished he’d never married Helena. I was in love, I was loved. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Story #14: The One I Cannot Have
-------------------------------------------
“I wish I’d never married her. I wish I’d met you first.”
As soon as he told me how he felt, the words were tatooed in my memory. Sometimes I couldn’t concentrate for hearing his voice say them in my mind. During the day, when I should have been concentrating on my work, I was thinking about Jake and wodnering what he was doing.
At night, we met at my house and pretended to be the married couple that we wished we were. Sometimes we sat on the cool floor of my livingroom and talked about the stories we wanted to write and the books we’d read while over our heads the ceiling fan ticked and whirred. Sometimes we rented foreign films and, curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn between us, watched them without ever thinking that soon Helena would come home and this would be over. Neither of us wanted to consider the future.
Everynight I slept in their bed with him. Sometimes I’d wake with a start from the scent of her perfume and believe that she’d come home early and was on her way up the stairs. My heart would be racing and I’d have to remind myself how many weeks, then days we had until her return. Once I’d calmed down, I’d move closer to Jake and hold him while he slept on. The soft waves of his even breathing would lull me and I’d drift to sleep without waking again until morning.
“Can you meet me at my place later on?”
I shrugged without looking up. I was afraid of seeming too anxious, even now when we both knew how we felt about one another. “I can probably come by.”
He knelt by my table and stroked my knee. “Just say yes.”
“Allright, yes.”
He grinned at me and cupped my face in his hands then kissed
me quickly. I drew back without thinking. I couldn’t help it, I was so used to hiding how I felt for fear that someone, anyone would see and tell Helena.
But Jake didn’t care about our being found out. He touched my hair and said, “Don’t be afraid. . . this is probably the best thing either of us have ever done.”
And just then I believed him.
I didn’t doubt him when he said that he loved me, or that he wished he’d never married Helena. I was in love, I was loved. Nothing else seemed to matter.
30 Days, 30 Stories: Story #15
#30Days30Stories
More fiction. A scene I just wrote for my novella about Jesper, Niklas's son in Maybe Baby.
Story 15: The One I Love
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Sometimes it felt like it would never stop snowing. I’d wake up every morning to heavy winter darkness and wish for summer to return. The steam radiator under my window hissed out bursts of heat that always seemed to evade my bed. I stayed in bed as long as possible—until I knew that waiting any longer would make me late.
My dad usually knocked on my bedroom door and reminded me it was time to get ready. But that day the reminder never came. He’d gone to Barcelona for some kind of conference.
Lately he was hardly ever at home. I guess I didn’t blame him. Ever since Laney left, the apartment feels too empty. When he was home, it was like he forgot she didn’t live with us anymore. He’d go into the room that used to be her home office and then stand there looking around like he didn’t get how it happened.
I guess he didn’t. One day she was there, saying she was going to work in Copenhagen for a while. The next day he was packing up all her stuff and saying she was out of our lives.
I forced myself out of bed, skipped breakfast and showered. Siri was in her room. I could hear her laughing. She’d brought one of her bonehead Stureplan idiot guys home with her again. I rushed. I didn’t want to bump into either of them. She was in one of her snarky moods. She’d give me a hard time. She always did.
Outside, the snow was thick and dry. Not that wet, heavy snow we usually got that melted in a couple of hours. Zhara was waiting for me at the bus stop. She didn’t see me at first. I think she was daydreaming. Snowflakes glittered in her dark wavy hair like frozen diamonds. When she finally flicked a glance over her shoulder and saw me approaching, she rewarded me with a sweet smile that pushed aside all the shit in my life and made me want to run away with her. I fucking hated Stockholm, but I loved her like crazy.
More fiction. A scene I just wrote for my novella about Jesper, Niklas's son in Maybe Baby.
Story 15: The One I Love
------------------------------------
Sometimes it felt like it would never stop snowing. I’d wake up every morning to heavy winter darkness and wish for summer to return. The steam radiator under my window hissed out bursts of heat that always seemed to evade my bed. I stayed in bed as long as possible—until I knew that waiting any longer would make me late.
My dad usually knocked on my bedroom door and reminded me it was time to get ready. But that day the reminder never came. He’d gone to Barcelona for some kind of conference.
Lately he was hardly ever at home. I guess I didn’t blame him. Ever since Laney left, the apartment feels too empty. When he was home, it was like he forgot she didn’t live with us anymore. He’d go into the room that used to be her home office and then stand there looking around like he didn’t get how it happened.
I guess he didn’t. One day she was there, saying she was going to work in Copenhagen for a while. The next day he was packing up all her stuff and saying she was out of our lives.
I forced myself out of bed, skipped breakfast and showered. Siri was in her room. I could hear her laughing. She’d brought one of her bonehead Stureplan idiot guys home with her again. I rushed. I didn’t want to bump into either of them. She was in one of her snarky moods. She’d give me a hard time. She always did.
Outside, the snow was thick and dry. Not that wet, heavy snow we usually got that melted in a couple of hours. Zhara was waiting for me at the bus stop. She didn’t see me at first. I think she was daydreaming. Snowflakes glittered in her dark wavy hair like frozen diamonds. When she finally flicked a glance over her shoulder and saw me approaching, she rewarded me with a sweet smile that pushed aside all the shit in my life and made me want to run away with her. I fucking hated Stockholm, but I loved her like crazy.
