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Feeling our feelings is brave and healthy.”
I know I’m a creative thinker, and that’s a strength, but it doesn’t feel like one when I can close my eyes and visualize my wife dying under a bus.
But this isn’t some ancient story, some doomed, grim tale. Tom said it—this doesn’t have to end in tragedy. We get to choose our endings, and I choose mine. I choose Freya.
He nods. “And then we shared. And it felt so . . . intimate. I was out with you, Freya Bergman, this knockout of a woman who was radiant—passion and vitality lighting you up from a place so deep within that I wanted desperately to know. A woman who painted her toes electric pink and sang along to music blasting from the outdoor speakers and stole my vanilla ice cream.” His eyes search mine. “You felt like the missing part of my life.” Tears sting my eyes.
Our kiss feels like magic—like shooting stars and blue moons and meteor showers—and I’m enthralled by its power, its rare, blinding beauty.
“Come on,” Oliver says. “Choreographed orgasms are the stuff of your bullshit romance novels.” “You watch your mouth!” Viggo snaps and sits upright. “Sometimes, yes, romance has reinforced unrealistic expectations of sexual intimacy and pleasure—however,” he says, making big, I’m saying something important eyes at us. “At least it’s put on the page. At least it foregrounds human intimacy and sexual freedom and passion, not just staring into the abyss, waxing philosophical about our inevitable mortality.” “Here we go,” Oliver sighs. Viggo is undeterred. “Romance is about the centrality of
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I dive beneath a wave, feeling the ocean wrap me in that magnificent silence that greets you when you’re underwater. It’s so peaceful, so quiet beneath the waves, and for as long as my lungs can take it, I let myself hang below the water’s surface, feeling the rhythm of a fresh wave crashing down.
I shudder as I shut my eyes. “I really didn’t want to know that much about your anatomy.” “I understand if you’re jealous. Bergmans are notoriously well endowed—” “Viggo,” I groan. “Shut up. And go away.”
Then there’s Viggo and Oliver, shirtless and in their matching bike shorts, doing what appears to be chaturanga competition, going through the motions of the flow Makanui showed us as fast as possible, in some frenetic, yoga-meets-pushup challenge. “Aren’t you concerned about those two?” I ask, hoping it’ll get Makanui off my case. He shakes his head. “Some men are still boys. They cannot be helped.”
The flames pop and snap, drawing us close to the fire pit, huddled against the impending darkness. As a sea breeze whips around us, I glance among the Bergman brothers. Axel, pensively staring into the fire. Ren, smiling as he crunches on a s’more. Ryder, lost in thought, poking the fire. Oliver, searching the sky. And Viggo, whose pale Bergman eyes are locked on me.
Not everyone’s questioned how lovable they are if their own flesh and blood couldn’t be bothered to stick around.
Ziggy sighs and draws up her knees. “At least I brought my Kindle.”
After a beat, she mutters, “The drummer’s kind of hot.” Frankie wiggles her eyebrows. “Into bad boys, are we?” Ziggy blushes spectacularly. “I think I like tattoos.” “You’re a woman,” Willa says sagely. “Of course you like tattoos. It’s in our DNA.”
“So can a plant that hasn’t been pruned. Doesn’t mean the roots are bad. It just needs help staying in check. I’ve always thought that was an important similarity between you and Freya.”
“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “It’s hard to be brave and say you’re not okay when you grow up struggling to explain your feelings, when it feels like mental health issues are a shameful thing to own up to.”
as I watch Aiden settle into his chair, my heart aches. Aches for the people I can’t shield the way I want to, whose pain I can’t erase by loving them as deeply as possible. I want love to heal all wounds. But I’m starting to understand just how much it doesn’t. Sometimes love is a splint, an arm to take, a shoulder to cry on—helpful but not the healer itself.
“I wish you hadn’t grown up like that, Aiden. I hate it.” “I know. But it’s done. And now look what we have. Look at all that’s before us.” I press a kiss to her temple. “I’d go through it a thousand times.” “Why?” she asks. “Because it was part of what led me to you. You’re worth all of that.”
“I almost threw up before I sang for you at karaoke, but afterward, I loved it. I love that you make me want to be brave and try things I otherwise wouldn’t. Oh, and I had my first hard liquor drink—or at least three sips of it—for Dutch courage before I played. Those zombie cocktails are high alcohol proof, in case you didn’t know. Tread carefully.”
I watch Freya still lecturing them, and I feel so lucky. No, not lucky. Chance isn’t at play here. It’s a choice. Freya chose me. And I feel so grateful. So, so grateful.
As Aiden finishes Wentworth’s letter, I stare at him, seeing a glimpse of what we’re becoming—individually, together. Something newer, paradoxically softer, after all that we’ve sustained and weathered. I never knew I could love him differently, that something that felt total and complete the day I married him could evolve into a deeper, more complex expression. But I realize as he shuts my book and presses a kiss to my lips—I do.
She grins. “Good thing you’re playing together. You two against the world. How’s that sound?” Aiden’s thigh nudges mine as he holds my eyes. His smile is dazzling. “I like the sound of that a lot.”
This is . . . Madness. Really fucking magical madness. Holy shit, I’m reading romance forever.
“Thank you,” I whisper against her lips, before I steal another kiss, a gentle bite of her bottom lip. Freya smiles, eyes still shut. “For what?” “For loving me.” I press my lips to hers again and breathe her in, my wife and love, friend and partner. The woman who loves all of me, who I love beyond words and understanding.
“We can’t possibly hope to always live ‘happily.’ But ‘ever after’? That we can hope for and choose. Because ‘ever after’ isn’t an idea. It’s a person—an imperfect person who’s perfect for you.” Her eyes search mine as she gives me one soft, tender kiss. “You’re that person, for me. You’re my ever after.” My heart glows as I stare down at her, the woman I love more than anything in this world. I clasp her face, wiping away her tears, blinking back my own. “You’re my ever after, too, Freya. Always.” She wraps her arms tight around my waist and smiles up at me. “I like that. Ever after always.”
“It’s a choice, a belief. I choose you, my ever after, believing our love will sustain us, always. Ever after always. So, there. Take that logic, Mr. MacCormack.”
“Happy anniversary, Freya.” He holds my eyes. “I love you beyond words and time and space. I wish I could articulate how grateful I feel each morning, to wake up and see you next to me. Even when life’s shit and the world feels heavy, I look at you . . .” He sighs. “Knowing I have you . . . that’s everything I need.”
Aiden + Freya = 3,650 days 520 weeks 120 months 10 years 1 ever after always
All of the brothers, including Axel and Ryder, who flew down, are here because Aiden said he wanted us to start the tradition Mom and Dad have, celebrating our anniversary with family.
