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She and I have most of the West Coast between us these days, but we talk all the time, and she knows I’ve taken a leave of absence from Stanford Law. She just doesn’t know the medical reason. Because Willa doesn’t know I have ulcerative colitis. She knows I have a sensitive stomach and make more bathroom trips than most, but not why, not the worst of it.
His voice wraps around me, deep and soft as a midnight caress.
It was like I was possessed, driving her to the house, telling her to stay, writing that note, when all I want is for Rooney to be as far away from me as possible. Because for two years I’ve hidden my attraction to her, and that’s been possible through one thing: distance.
And that’s what turned me inside out, what made me throw her suitcase in my trunk and drive her to the house. I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Because after I nudged her out of the A-frame, it felt like my heart was splintering in my chest.
She was hurting. And I didn’t want her to hurt anymore. I don’t want her to hurt ever.
My heart spins as it clicks into place—why he’s doing this, who he’s doing it for. His family. He’s taking on this heavy financial and mental burden of saving the place behind their backs…because this is how he loves to love his family, because somewhere under all that surliness is someone with a big soft spot for his people.
She’s so beautiful, it hurts.
Rooney laughs, warm and bright, all teeth and dimples and crinkled eyes, a face of pure happiness, right as the sun bursts out from behind the clouds. Soft, glittering, she looks like fresh snowfall kissed by sunlight.
“Are you gonna kiss Uncle Ax?” I squeak and almost drop the rag. “Uh. Well. I’m not exactly—” “He could use a kiss is all I’m saying.” She holds out her hand for the rag. Hesitantly, I return it to her. “Why do you say that?” “’Cause he’s grumpy. And kisses make the grumps go away.”
Smiling, Lloyd extends his hand to shake mine, but before he reaches me, Axel’s hand shoots out and grabs mine.
In juxtaposition to the sharpness of his words, his hand gently slides down mine and intertwines our fingers. I stare down at our hands, braided together. It feels so unexpectedly good. Like sinking into a just-hot-enough bath, relaxation unspooling my limbs.
Our mouths don’t open. No tongues or teeth or groaned pleasure. And yet it’s a kiss more powerful than any from my past. It’s a kiss that echoes through my bones and grounds me to the earth. It’s a kiss that calms and soothes and caresses with tenderness. It’s exactly what I needed. When Axel pulls away, I feel as dazed as Lloyd sounds when he says, “I was gonna say you can kiss your bride, man, but you beat me to the punch.”
As Bennett calls for one more, the dog rushes toward us, colliding with Axel’s shins, then sitting right on my toes as he glances up. Tongue wagging, eyes wide with excitement, he falls backward from craning his neck so far and knocks into me which sends me stumbling backward. I shriek in surprised laughter as I start to fall, but Axel lunges just in time and yanks me back, tumbling into his chest. I hear the camera click. And I know of all the photos Bennett took, that’s the one I’ll want.
“That was nice of you.” “Making sure you could eat brunch?” I ask, eyes on my task. “I would think that’s decency.”
I want to tell her that you can have all the traditions and family recipes you like and still not feel like you belong. But I would never tell her that. I’ve never told anyone that.
“So much for you being a gentleman.” “I never said I was a gentleman.”
I’m still wearing my ring. My gaze snaps to his hand, and my stomach does a weird flip-flop. He’s still wearing his ring. And the hand that wears it is splayed wide, like a fist he just unclenched and flexed. He glances down and fists his hand tight, eyes on his ring. “I, uh—” He clears his throat. “I just realized now that I’m still wearing mine, too. It’s oddly…comfortable.”
“What’s with the gear?” I ask, stretching my stride to catch up to him. “It’s a surprise,” he says. I adjust the much smaller bag on my back and peer up at him, curious. “A surprise?” He nods. Axel has a surprise for me. He planned a hike for us.
“Axel Bergman. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get under my skin.” Another mouth twitch. I will get a smile out of him! “I was answering your question,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And maybe teasing you a little.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he admits. “Sometimes there’s nothing to be said. It’s okay.” He peers my way, our eyes meeting too briefly, before he glances ahead. “You can talk more about it,” he says. “If you want. I’ll listen.”
Pointing ahead, he says, “Almost there.” I follow his direction, where the trees thin and evening sun drips golden tangerine across the ground. The view stops me in my tracks. “This is…wow.” Axel stands beside me, drinking it in, eyes on the horizon. “It’s my favorite place.”
After a long beat of silence, he says, “Promise you won’t laugh?” I turn slightly, facing him. “Of course.” “I’ve never painted a sunrise or a sunset because…I’m not sure I can do them justice. Both times of day, the light changes so quickly, it’s absurdly difficult. I have this fear that I won’t be able to get it right, and it’ll ruin it for me, this thing I love, that’s so beautiful it makes something in me—” He sets a hand over his heart and rubs. “Ache.”
“I think I understand,” I say quietly. Axel glances my way, our eyes holding. “You do?” “The deeper you love, the deeper the risk of disappointment, and hurt, and loss. The more you care, the more pain you might face. And yet, I hope you won’t always let that stop you,” I tell him. “Fear of failure, fear of not living up to these standards you hold yourself to, which sound pretty damn high. Because…well, have you ever considered that the depth of feeling for the subject is the reason you’re the very best person to paint it?”
“I think if anyone could do it, Axel, paint something so complexly beautiful, it would be you.” “And if I do it terribly?” he asks. “Art is subjective. You’re the judge of it, right? Of course you have your standards, but maybe you’ll come to realize they need to be adjusted or they were unreasonable to begin with. Maybe you’ll muscle through a few rough attempts before you make something you’re proud of, and it will be everything you wanted.” I reach carefully toward him, extracting the leaf I tossed into his hair. “Maybe even more.”
“Note to self. Axel is a grumpy asshole after a long day.” Disgust paints Axel’s face as he walks the perimeter of his tent. “Note to self,” he says. “Axel is always a grumpy asshole.”
“My first name is something you take to your grave, Axel Bergman. I rue the day I had to share a marriage license with you.”
“Rooney.” His grip on my hand tightens. I stop resisting and peer up at him. “Yes?” Slowly he sets my hand back before reaching for the other and massaging that one. “Please don’t put words in my mouth. I—” Swallowing slowly, he slides his thumb down my palm, making me arch reflexively in pleasure. “Sometimes I just need time to say what I want. It’s harder when people jump in.” “Sorry,” I whisper. “I get nervous when I talk about it.” He nods. “I understand. But you don’t need to, with me.”
“May I kiss you?” I ask. His eyes darken, fixed on my mouth. “I was going to ask the same thing.”
Rooney looks at me curiously. When she takes the pen from my hand, her fingers brush mine. She bites her lip and narrows her eyes at me. “What?” I ask. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, strolling down here with gluten-free dessert and the perfect solution to my problem.”
“You’re the furthest thing from a mistake,” he says. “You know that, right?” I nod as I breathe him in, the clean, comforting scent of cedarwood and sage that warms his skin. “Yes, I know.” “Good.”
“You could read me some. If you feel like it.” “So long as you promise never to tell Viggo that I’m actually enjoying them.” “I promise. But why?” “Because if he finds out, he’ll be insufferably smug.” Clearing his throat, Axel opens the book, not where it’s dog-eared halfway through, but at the beginning, before he pauses and feeds me another pretzel. “Now, prepare yourself. I have a stunning English accent.”
“Yeah. 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.”
He groans. “We have to walk, don’t we?” “No, I thought we’d fly by broomstick.”
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?
“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
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Viggo shifts closer, elbows on the table. “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
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Viggo’s quiet for a moment, then careful as he says, “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.”
“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.”
“Jesus Christmas Christ,” Viggo snaps, hand on his heart. “What is wrong with you? Are you a vampire from another life?”
“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 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!”
Harry the dog whines again. “Really, Harry, they’re fine,” I reassure him. “They’ve been doing this since Oliver could crawl.”
He’s reaching for his suitcase when I yank Viggo into my arms and give him a hard squeeze. After a moment’s delay, he slowly wraps his arms around me, and holds them still. As hugs go, it’s pretty good.
“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.
His grip intensifies, still gentle, yet desperate. He sighs, the sound of weariness meeting comfort, the bittersweet relief of falling into bed after a long day. “Because I…I think I missed you. Because I hate kissing, but I love it when it’s you, and that means something. I don’t know what, and I wish I knew more, but I do know this,” he says roughly, and then he nuzzles me. I don’t know how else to describe it, this tender nudge of his temple against my cheek, the whisper of his mouth over the shell of my ear. “I want to kiss you so badly, it’s obliterated every other thought in my brain.
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“Axel?” I whisper. He nuzzles my neck, plants another faint kiss along my jaw. “Hm?” “I think I missed you, too.”
“If there’s something there between you, don’t waste a fucking minute, you hear me?”
“Science made the world make sense, and that made the world feel so beautiful and vast and full of potential. With science, my curiosity could always be answered, every magnificent thing I saw or learned about could be explained, and that was incredible to me. It still is.”
“Of course I’d like to pay it forward, do a little matchmaking with you two, since I owe you, but I won’t.” “No you won’t. Because being matchmade with my wife is entirely inappropriate.” He hoots. “The irony of this. It’s too rich.”
Pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, then that dimple that shows itself again, I tell her, “It’s a date.”
