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“Mamma, I screwed up.” My voice is slightly muffled by the sheets that I’ve buried my face in. I’m sitting in a hard plastic chair that I’ve pulled up to the side of her bed, my arms slumped on the sheets and acting as a pillow for my head. My mother gently strokes my hair like she’s always done when I’m hurting.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Her voice is the soothing balm I need to hold back my tears.
“I know he has to go tomorrow, but I didn’t want us to end like this.” I swallow down the painful lump in my throat.
She sighs. “I think you might have to go back a few steps because I don’t know what you’re talking about. Although I can guess that the he you’re referring to is Rory.”
I lift my head slightly to look at her. “Of course! And I let my stupid, irrational fears about Dad’s identity being discovered ruin the fun I was having with him.”
She rolls her eyes. “Freya, I’ve told you so many times that it’s okay if people find out. They’ll understand why we hid it. And anyway, what makes you think Rory is going to go tell the press or post his discovery on social media? He doesn’t seem to be the type.”
“He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t.”
“Exactly. Now how are you going to fix this?”
I make a half-hearted attempt at a shrug, and it earns me another eye roll.
“Freya, this isn’t like you to just give up on something you want. Call him.” She places her hand under my chin and tips my face up higher. “Call him. You’ll regret it if you don’t. I’ve never seen you so interested in a man. You’re usually telling me all of a guy’s faults, but you’ve not said one bad thing about Rory.”
The door opens behind me, and in saunters my father. He has the swagger and commanding presence of fame, even when he’s walking into a hospital room and there’s no one about but us. The clock on the adjacent wall shows that visiting hours just started and Pabbi seems to not want to waste one minute of it.
“What did I miss?” he drawls, a hint of an American twang in his words. He lived in the States for so long that his original Icelandic accent has virtually disappeared. He gives me a half hug and a kiss on the top of my head, before leaning across to kiss Mum on the lips. A long, lingering kiss.
I crawl out from between them. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
They are both grinning, and a blush turns my mother’s cheeks pink.
Pabbi pushes away the chair I just vacated and sits on the edge of the bed, taking my mother’s hand in his. “I think it’s time we told her, Andrea.”
“Told me what?” I stand at the end of the bed, staring at the two of them. They look very cozy together.
“I’m going to stay with your mother for a while.”
“What, like here? Now?” I ask, still not completely putting together his words and the scene in front of me.
“No, like in the house when she’s released from hospital,” my father explains.
“That’s great. How long are you staying?”
He shrugs, then looks down at my mother as he says, “As long as she wants me.”
Oh my God, are my parents getting together after twenty-six years? This has to be the longest friends-to-lovers story I’ve ever heard. They continue to beam at each other, and it’s kind of cute. How did I not see this coming?
My cheeks ache from the stretch of my smile. It’s time I left them alone before they start making out in front of me. Nobody wants to see their parents doing that. After all, I have my own love life to sort out. The way I left things with Rory is going to gnaw away at my heart if I don’t at least try to fix it.
“I’ll see you both tomorrow. And, Mum, thanks for the chat.” We share a final three-way hug before I leave.
The hallway is empty with only faint murmurings filtering through the closed doors and the sound of my boots squeaking against the hard floor to fill the silence. I take out my phone to quickly type a text.
Chapter eleven
Rory
My head drops lower over my second Scotch whisky. My favorite brand wasn’t easy to find in a city that favors microbreweries. It took four bars before I found it, and now I plan on sitting here for the rest of the evening, getting steaming drunk. The only way to ignore thoughts of Freya that have embedded themselves further under my skin than the ink of the Celtic dagger tattoo on my tricep.
It’ll be easier when I’m back home in Edinburgh tomorrow. But knowing she’s in the same city and not here with me hurts.
I really thought we could have been something. But I guess I was wrong.
