With You Forever (Bergman Brothers, #4)

by Chloe Liese

“Oliver?” My youngest brother hikes a duffel bag higher on his shoulder and walks my way as his Uber makes a three-point turn, then starts down the drive. Oliver’s light-blond hair is half out of a small ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his blue-gray eyes, just like Mom’s, are red-rimmed. He looks like hell, which is…unusual for him. He’s the golden boy, the last son, brilliant at soccer, brilliant in school. Life goes Oliver’s way, and he looks it. He also looks like he’s grown three inches since I last saw him. What do they feed these kids at UCLA? Human growth hormones? “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. Oliver tries to smile up at me, but it’s more of a grimace. He blinks away the wetness shining in his eyes and sniffles. “I…needed somewhere to go.” “Somewhere to go.” “I needed to not be at school for a couple days.” “What happened?” I ask. “Uh.” He swallows thickly. “I really don’t want to talk about it. I just want to be miserable.”

You’re the one person in the family I feel like I can be miserable around.” “Thanks?” Sighing, he tugs his hair loose, then pulls it back again. “I just meant that you let people be how they need to be. Everyone else in the family would try to fix it, and it’s not something you can fix.”

So much for peace and quiet. And yet it seems I’m grateful for these happy sounds echoing through the trees as we walk. With Rooney gone, everything already feels emptier, subdued…too quiet.

“I might also be avoiding Mom.” “Why?” He grimaces and shuts his eyes, hiding the pale blue-gray irises Mom gave him. “I dropped the ball on a massive baking order for one of her countless charitable fundraising doohickies. She was…not pleased.” This is not unusual. Viggo’s the definition of scattered. Dozens of interests, a hundred talents, none of which he can seem to settle on. Whereas I have one—painting. His charisma saves his ass on the regular, but Mom’s one of the few people who won’t be charmed by it.

It’s dangerously quiet as I pour water over the grounds and into Viggo’s mug. I learned pretty much as soon as he could crawl that when Viggo was quiet, something terrible was happening or was about to happen, so I brace myself for whatever’s next. “I see.” He sits up and eases to his side, reaching for his back pocket. I swear, if he foists one more romance novel on me, I’ll— A pair of peach-pink panties unfurls from his hand. “By the way, I found these on the floor in the bathroom.” Slowly, I set down the kettle. Leave the kitchen. Take them from his grip. And pocket the panties. Then I walk back into the kitchen and resume making coffee, willing my face not to heat. I have Rooney’s panties burning a hole in my sweatpants, my fingertips scorched by the soft fabric. Outside, I am cool and calm. Inside, I’m a boiling hot mess.

“Why would a boxer-brief-wearing person like yourself have a pair of fancy underpants in your humble abode, Mr. Declared Bachelor?” “Bachelor. Not monk.” The best lies contain the most truth possible. His grin widens. “Well, tell me about them.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because it’s nothing.” His smile tightens. “Is it actually nothing? Or are you trying to convince yourself it’s nothing? Not being sarcastic. I’m honestly asking.” I don’t answer him, because if I did, I’d have to admit something I don’t want to: that with Rooney it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like something—something I can’t make sense of.

“My aim was to expose you to romance, not to bash you over the head with it. And I’m sorry if I’ve been heavy-handed. Like I said, I know not everybody wants romance, and that’s valid, I just don’t want you denying yourself if that desire is there.”

But I can’t even find contentment in that daydream. Because that sharp, bitter ache throbs beneath my sternum again. Fuck. I think I…miss Rooney? How? How is that possible when I’ve barely seen her the past few weeks? How can I miss someone I’ve bent over backwards to keep my distance from? Who I’ve avoided doing anything with that would make me feel closer to her, hungrier for her.

I snuck them into your suitcase, but I haven’t made you read them. You could have used them for kindling, but you’ve read at least some of them, judging by those cracked spines. Why?” Staring down at my coffee, I tip my cup side to side, watching the dark liquid slide and kiss the ceramic surface. “Because I’m curious, I guess. I’m not…against romance. I just don’t know that I’m cut out for it, either.” Viggo’s uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. He eases onto a seat closer to me and softly fans through the book’s pages, over and over. “And after having read a few of these?” he asks. “What do you think?” “I’m not sure. I don’t talk and act like the people in your books.” Viggo sets down the book. “No one does. That’s the point. Certain parts of historical romance are highly unrelatable—the marriage mart, the clothing, the elaborate etiquette, the formal language—and yet that’s what makes the stories poignant. Reading about people who look and live and speak so differently from us, yet struggle like we do with their inner demons and outside forces, fight for love in their friendships and families and the people they’ve fallen for, reminds us that not only romantic love, but familial and platonic and sacrificial love is universal, and romance is timeless, that there’s a love story for anyone out there who wants one.”

How do I explain how unsure I feel that romantic love like that is something within my grasp, when I feel like even with my family, that bridge to closeness is so difficult to cross? That all my life, people have been difficult to understand, to be intimate with, to be around for long before I need room to breathe and quiet to think and space to move so I can function? How do I explain that even with the people I do love, when my tongue gets tied and I don’t want the noise of a rowdy group or anyone’s body near mine, that it’s so damn complicated to find ways to show them I love them that they’ll recognize? That closeness is so much fucking work when I seem to have a lot more boundaries and sensitivities than most, when it feels like what I need makes others feel held at arm’s length?

I don’t doubt that I’m capable of love—I’ve just learned that I don’t communicate it in a language that most recognize. And if I can’t find that common language, that understanding with the people who have no choice but to love me, who’ve known me longest and know me best, what kind of chance do I have of building romantic love with anyone else? I know I’m not broken or defunct. But I know I’m different. And finding how to make my difference fit in this world has been hard, sometimes painful. I’ve found a place and a way of being that makes my difference safe, that lets me paint and find peace in nature, that gives me the quiet I need and the beauty that fuels my creativity. It’s just a deeply solitary existence. And yes, sometimes I’ve felt a tug of loneliness, a sense that my life is rich but it could be richer if someone else was there, sharing it with me, but this world I’ve made, one where I don’t constantly feel the edges of my limits, isn’t for most, is it? And I can’t change it very much. Whoever wants me will have to want this. Because this is the life that’s healthy for me, that subdues my anxiety ...

“Remember, when Freya and Aiden were in trouble this summer, I gave Aiden a romance novel?” I nod. “I didn’t do that because I thought he needed a book to teach him how to better love his wife. I gave him a romance novel because they’re a safe place to step deeper into our emotions, the happy ones and the hard ones. To recognize and process complex, sometimes difficult feelings within ourselves that the world tells men, in all its gendered, toxic bullshit, we have no obligation to face and feel, when we really do. As humans, we owe it to ourselves to know our hearts.”

“Just because you experience your emotions differently from other people, Axel, doesn’t mean that experience isn’t valid, or that someone can’t love you for it. With the right person, love is possible for any of us who want it.”

He taps the book. “That’s the one to read.” “Why?” “Because I think this one has a character you’ll identify with.” “Unlikely.” I rarely identify with anyone. “He has highly specialized interests, is blunt to a fault, and may actually be more emotionally constipated than you.” “Give me that.” I look at the back of the book, scanning it. “Give it a chance,” Viggo says. “Reading a book is just like opening your heart to someone. You won’t know if you’ll connect until you try.”

“He hugged me last night,” Oliver gloats. Viggo gasps and throws me a wounded glance. “It was extenuating circumstances,” I state for the record, scooping out flour. “What do I have to do to earn a hug?” Viggo demands. “If you ever fly a thousand miles and arrive on my doorstep in tears, I’ll hug you, Viggo.” “Psh. Easy. I already flew a thousand miles up here. Now I just need some tears, which is—” He blinks, sniffles a little, and don’t you know, his eyes are glistening. “Look. I’m in tears. Practically a puddle.” I throw a stick of butter at his head. “Get off your ass and help me with these pancakes.”

I smile at my screen as a new message from him comes in: By the way, Harry says hi. There’s a photo of the dog, brown eyes wide, snout angling toward the camera lens. But what makes my heart twirl in my chest is that it’s a selfie, Axel’s lean, muscly forearm wrapped around him. It’s only from his mouth down that I can see, but I drink in every detail. The shadow of the beard he keeps neglecting to shave because he literally seems to work sunrise to sunset, until he collapses in that tent. The long stretch of his throat and the shadowy hollow at the bottom that I definitely have not fantasized tracing with my tongue. I hover over the photo and hit save.

Tell Harry hi, I type, and that I miss him. Three dots dance right away, and my heart spins like a top. Harry said he misses you, too.

“And I…wanted to protect you. I didn’t want to worry you when your mom was so sick, when you were carrying so much already. You didn’t need someone else you loved weighing on your mind, not when this wasn’t going anywhere for me. Because what I’m dealing with is here to stay. It’s chronic.” “Rooney.” She grips my hand and squeezes gently. “What is it?” I explain the disease, how I got diagnosed at the beginning of high school, and by the time we were in college, I was in clinical remission. I tell her how the meds were doing their thing, and my worst symptoms weren’t present, so I took a chance. “I reasoned it would either stay that way,” I explain, “and I would stick to what I told you, which was that I had a sensitive stomach, or I’d get sicker, and I’d tell you because I’d have to at that point. I had a few minor episodes, but I passed those off as going home and spending a few days with my parents. I’m really sorry I kept it from you, but I hope you understand that I was only trying not to add another burden to your life unless absolutely necessary.”

“Plus, it’s really not a big deal. I mean, lots of people—over 130 million, actually—live with chronic illness in the United States alone. Did you know that? I mean, more than forty percent of Americans are chronically ill. It’s not ideal, but I’m honestly fine. I’m okay—”

“I want to hug you really hard,” she says, blinking away tears. “But I feel like I shouldn’t be squeezing the crap out of you if you’re not feeling so good.” “Probably not. Unless you want to risk squeezing the actual crap out of me.” There’s a long pause. Then the first burst of Willa’s laughter, bright and loud. “Oh my God. I’m the worst.” “Laugh it up, asshole! Actually, my asshole is the asshole.” “Rooney!” she shrieks, laughing harder.

And that’s the best kind of friendship, isn’t it? Friendship that lets laughter and tears hold hands, where grief and gratitude can be friends, not enemies.

“I didn’t want you to worry. Then. Now. Ever. Please don’t, Willa. I’m really okay—” “You don’t have to be,” she says firmly. “You don’t have to be ‘okay’ for us to be okay, Rooney. You are allowed to have a tough time and be in pain, just like you made space for me to do so for fucking years.” I wipe my eyes as tears spill over. “I just never want you to worry.” “I will,” she says gently, holding my gaze. “And that’s okay, too. You’re not responsible for my feelings. I get to worry about you because I love you. And I will say that these past few years of therapy have helped me with more than grief and the shit from childhood. They’ve helped me cope with all kinds of challenges that come when trying to have healthy relationships. Managing my concern for my best friend just got added to that list, and that’s a good thing.” I hang my head and take a deep breath. “You’re making me feel like I need therapy.” “Oh, you do.” Willa says as she sits back. “Everyone does. Therapy should be as commonplace as annual physicals and regular dental cleanings. How have you not been in therapy? You’re the one who convinced me to go.”

“I want to be here for you. The way you were there for me all through college. I mean, God, remember after Mom died? You literally had to walk me to the shower because I got so depressed, I wasn’t even bathing myself.” “But that’s diff—” “It’s not different. It’s being human. This is existence. This is friendship. We love each other. We take turns holding each other up.”

“I’ve figured that out. What I haven’t figured out is why? You thought after I attacked Axel’s mouth, we’d just ride off into the sunset together?” “I’m sorry,” she says a little desperately. “It’s just, you two have been dancing around each other for years. We thought maybe just the littlest nudge was all you needed…” Her voice dies off as she looks at me. “I’m not going to make excuses. I’m just going to say sorry. I’m sorry for trying to push you two together because I selfishly want you to be a part of that family for the rest of our lives. More than anything, of course, what I really want is your happiness, and if that’s not going to come from this sexual-tension thing you and Axel have that I swear turns the room ten degrees hotter every time you’re both in it, then I will respect that.”

I palm her forehead, sending her tumbling back. “You read too many romance novels.” “It’s Viggo’s fault!” she says, scrambling upright. “He’s got me hooked. Hot historical romance, Rooney, I swear to God, you’ll never look back. Ryder’s not complaining, if you know what I’m saying.”

“You didn’t study microbiology. Trust me when I say what’s on your feet is on the ground and what’s on the ground is on the Twizzler, and what’s on the Twizzler is not what you want in your mouth.”

I can’t tell her everything about us, which sucks—because, ya know, newfound promise of transparency—but I can tell her something, I guess. “Axel has been…kind while I’ve been there. Not around a lot, but when he is, he’s kind. We’ve spent some time together and talked a little—” Got married. Made pancakes. Kept a skunk vigil. Made out. Held hands. You know, as one does with the man for whom you hold an insatiable, lusty torch.

“You have?” she asks quietly. And I hear it, in her voice. Hope. Thinly veiled hope. I sigh, and turn my head, meeting her eyes. “We’re just barely friends, Willa. And while he’s been a gracious host, I think he could use some solitude now that I’m gone. Tell the lumberjack to stay, please?”

Oliver wordlessly rakes that lone leaf into his pile. I’m starting to worry a bit. He’s not precisely a smiley sunshine like my brother Ren, but Oliver has this…unbridled confidence in life. Always motivated, always moving toward his next goal, he lives with a confident carefree optimism that life will go his way. This despondent, defeated guy raking leaves, forcing a smile at Viggo’s antics that are absolutely failing to make him laugh, is nothing like the Ollie I know. Viggo frowns at Oliver—I think, sharing my concern.

“Just—” Oliver drops the rake and digs his palms against his eyes. “Just let me be sad, Viggo.” “You’ve been sad. Now it’s time for anger. We’re going to process this shit and move forward.” Viggo dusts off his hands, strolls toward Oliver, and yanks him by the shirt. “I don’t want to move forward,” Oliver groans. “I want to wallow. I want to drown in the misery that there’s no escaping him when he’s in half of my classes and on the fucking team!” Well. Now we’re getting somewhere. Oliver has refused to discuss what’s upsetting him. Until now.

I roll my shoulders, a restless tightness tugging them, constricting my ribs. The dog beside me. My brothers in the yard. I should feel content. And yet…I’m not. And I can’t stop thinking about Rooney. I thought maybe it was just the first day, the fact that change unsettles me and Rooney leaving after two weeks of always being in the periphery of my awareness, if not front and center, was definitely change. But two days have passed, and I’m not better. In fact, I think I’m worse.

Just shows how much they love you and that house. You’re giving them a lot in making the place its best self again. I stare down at her words, a deep, quiet warmth filling my chest. All possible because you went along with this marriage, I type. You made it very easy to propose, she answers. I swallow roughly. That ache in my chest comes thundering back.

Harry says he still misses you. I still miss him, she answers. I’ve seen everyone but you, so far. I’m worried you sustained a construction injury & you’re hiding it from me. I roll my shoulders, self-conscious. I didn’t sustain an injury. I’m a scientist & three-quarters lawyer. I need proof. “Dammit,” I mumble, raking a hand through my hair. But as much as I’m self-conscious, I’m also a tiny bit pleased she’s demanding a selfie. Sighing, I flip the phone’s camera, eyes narrowed a little against the sun.

Those glasses. I frown as I type, What about them? You don’t like them? LIKE THEM, she texts. They are sex in spectacle form. Seeing those words, I nearly drop the phone. I’m sorry, she says before I can respond. I had to be honest. Objectively, purely objectively, those glasses do great things for you, Ax. Once you’re out of your brutally transactional first marriage, we’re sending you into the dating world, glasses on. You’ll have to peel people off of you. I shudder. The idea of that is repulsive, of course, but it’s the fact that she’s so ready to match me up with someone else that rankles.

“I know I’m not always very available, and I moved back here as soon as I could, but I do want to see you, Oliver. I just…don’t always have it in me. I’m glad I did this time.” Oliver pauses, mid-chew, then slowly resumes and swallows. “Axel, you know I understand. Viggo and I give you hell about moving back to Washington, but we’re happy you’re here. Because it’s where you’re happy. We were just telling you in our ass-backwards way that we miss you.” A weird lump settles in my throat as I peer down at my food. “I miss you, too.”

“I’m not judging, asking you this, but do you want to be on your own, forever?” I set down my food and glance out at the water because it’s easier to say shit like this with the wind in my face and a break from eye contact. “I’m not sure. Whether or not it’s what I want, there are parts of relationships I’m not great at, and being with me means signing up for a simple, private existence. I’ll never be someone who has a ton of friends or a large social circle. When I’m selling art, doing shows, I don’t even have energy for my best friends. It’s—” I shrug. “It’s not what most people want.”

Have you truly experienced nature until you’ve shit your brains out in a field? I think not. I’m telling myself there are silver linings to my roadside mishap. It has a) given me outdoorsy cred that I was sorely lacking and b) brought me the tiny kitten that’s currently meowing from the passenger seat floor of Bennett’s car.

I was walking back to the car and nearly tripped over a tiny gray fluffball, meowing all by herself in the tall grass. I scooped her up, and we wandered around for a while, her meowing, me setting her down periodically to let her sniff in the hopes that she’d lead me to her siblings and mother. But there wasn’t a single sign that they were anywhere nearby. I almost left her. I didn’t want to take her from her family, but what was I supposed to do? It was leave her for imminent death by one of the many birds of prey that swooped overhead as we carried out our search, or bring her home—that is, back to the cabin.

and set the cat in a little patch of grass. She instantly squats and poops. “Well,” I tell her. “Like mother, like daughter.”

LMFAOOOO

Small, gray, and absurdly fluffy, she waddles like an oversized ball of dust up the steps and pounces on Axel’s boot. Then she glances up at him and lets out the tiniest meow in the history of meows. She and I both know what she’s capable of, but she’s pulling out all the cute stops. “She likes you,” I tell him as she attacks his shoelaces with gusto, yanking so hard, she falls backward with a little thump.

“I think she feels at home here.” I gesture toward the stunning view in front of us—a smoked-glass, gray sky pierced by countless evergreens. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I singsong to her as she climbs onto my lap and starts purring. “And you’re the same color as those gorgeous clouds. You belong here, don’t you?” After a long stretch of silence, Axel says, “Maybe she does.” When I glance up, he’s not looking at the kitten. He’s looking at me.