I grunted and took another bite. “Good.”
He smiled, undeterred. “I’m glad you like it. I’m Dexter, by the way. I’ve seen you around town, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
I frowned, my neck prickling with uneasy awareness. I wasn’t a fool and I didn’t believe in coincidence, but this was awkward. I was trapped with the hot donut man, and I didn’t know the first thing about being…friendly. Or more accurately,fakefriendly.
“I’m—”
“This is Big V. Sometimes we call him Thor,” Ted intercepted, looping his arm on my shoulder.
Our height difference gave the gesture comedic flair. Ted was six inches shorter than me and skinny as a post due to a recent battle with a bad virus. The older man was good-natured albeit a crusty sort who swore like a sailor and had a habit of mooningover his glory days when he’d been called the Paul Bunyan of Wood Hollow. Or so he claimed.
Dexter’s smile wavered slightly as though he were irritated by Ted’s interruption.
So Iwasright. He wanted to talk to me. Problem: I had no idea how to assure Dexter that I was the last person he’d have to worry about blabbing his secret while surrounded by my coworkers.
I stared at Dexter instead, willing him to read my mind. He stared right back, and fuck…that was weird, too. Washetrying to tellmesomething?
Eventually, I grunted, took a huge bite of fritter, and walked away.
I thought about that staring contest most of the afternoon. The poor guy seemed desperate somehow, and that didn’t sit well with me. As much as I hated the idea of discussing something innately personal, it was wrong to let him worry about it. I was going to have to deal with the donut man.
Later that evening, I practiced my speech while I stirred vegetables on the stove. I’d decided it was best to be quick and to the point.I saw the kiss. I won’t say a word. Please stop following me.
That should work.
Buzz buzz
I furrowed my brow, absurdly concerned Dexter had tracked down my cell number. But no.
“Freya?”
She chuckled, and something in my chest lightened and constricted at the same time. “Yes, it’s me.Hej gamla vän.How are you?”
I put the veggies on a low simmer and leaned against the counter, wondering how much this call might cost me. I loved Freya, but she wasn’t always easy. Her tone was pleasant, though…and happy. That was good.
“Fine,” I replied warily in Swedish. “You?”
“I’m doing well. Very well.”
Good. I relaxed a bit as she talked about family in Sweden. She wanted to go to Stockholm at Christmastime. Was I interested in going with her to see my folks? It was filler conversation that required a hum or an occasional one-word response. But the topic was odd because unless something drastic had changed, Freya wasn’t particularly close to anyone in her family. It was something we had in common.
Not that I was on bad terms with my parents or my brother, but I didn’t mind being a twelve-hour plane ride away from them. Vermont was home now. I had a good job, a nice house, and Freya.
At this point, she was probably my oldest friend.
The Lindstroms had first moved to Sweden twenty-two years ago and had lived in our village on the outskirts of Stockholm. Freya had been my sister’s classmate and eventually Annika’s best friend. My parents had affectionately referred to Freya as a little hellion…and a bad influence. Perhaps an apt description. Though truthfully, we’d all known Anni was the wild one.
I was nine years older than my sister, but we were close—even after I’d moved to the States. She’d brought Freya with her to visit me once, and eventually, Freya and I became friends. Not close friends, but…I was the first person she called when everything went to hell—even though I’d lived the farthest from the epicenter of unspeakable tragedy.
We stayed in touch through her move from Stockholm to LA, New York City, and eventually Burlington. I was glad to have her nearby. We had a shared history, language…and grief. We knew things about each other that no one else did.
For instance, I knew Freya liked parties, designer clothing, and the company of men who offered free concert tickets and airfares to exotic destinations. She preferred surface interactions and expendable relationships, feigning shock if her paramours turned out to be married with children, or simply bad people. It wasn’tuncommon for her to return from an amazing adventure heartbroken, penniless, and emotionally fragile.
And I knew that the chaos she created was her way of dealing with pain.
It was easier for her to live in a delusional whirlwind assuming the world was a forgiving place and that things always worked out if you smiled nicely at the right people than to deal with heartache. I understood that. Just as I knew that no matter what happened or where Freya ended up, I’d always feel protective of her.
Which perhaps made me a sucker. She knew that about me for sure.
