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My phone hums on the nightstand. The rays of the sun make it impossible to detect who’s texting me from afar, so I stretch to pick up my phone.
Måns Bengtsson:
I’m on my way
Felicita:
Please, don’t
Måns Bengtsson:
I said I’m on my way
I take one last glance at my husband’s unused pillow. Nobody sleeps in this bedroom but me, yet when I make my bed, I pretend like it’s the old days.
I wash Travis’ favorite linen, and every other month, I clean his pillow. His scent has faded, turned into dust. Before I can reminisce some more, I hurry to the en suite bathroom to wash my face.
Måns has taken it upon himself to check on me, even when I don’t want him to.
I’m trying. Can’t they see that I’m trying to become more independent? It’s too late for such a change, but I must attempt it since everyone around me is evolving.
My effort to make myself presentable results in a messy sink, a toothbrush that’s run out of battery. My hair is all over the place, sticking out and making me anxious.
If Aram Wraith were coming over to check in on me, I’d have failed this test.
Meagerly brushed teeth? Disheveled hair? Sunken eyes? Dry lips?
My lip balm has run out, and Valentina hasn’t yet ordered a new batch from the States. After years of abusing my body, my skin has become sensitive, and I require special products to not scar.
I manage to salvage my hair by the time Måns knocks on my front door. After slipping on my robe, I climb down the stairs, and I let him in.
He wears no suit when he comes to me. It makes it less official, and I appreciate not being made to feel like a charity case. He’s in one of the tracksuits he goes to the gym with, black with a tiny Katantian emblem gracing his heart. His stoic body is toned out of its mind. He’s been bulking up lately, and I attest it to Jordan.
The palace’s men are shaking in my brother’s absence.
“What’s so funny?” Måns asks. His crooked grin makes me forget my thought, and I stand there watching him kick off his shoes.
“Jordan,” I blurt out. “He’s gone, and everyone’s stepping up.”
Måns balls one of his fists. I notice that he carries a leathery sketchbook in his free hand. “He’s your brother, and he’s my boss….”
“But you want him back, don’t you?” I ask. I lead him into my kitchen. Am I bragging? Possibly. It’s a clean kitchen, filled with food that would make a chef jealous. I’ve packaged everything, ready to be reheated once needed. I’m prepared for the most wonderful dinner with my family. “You don’t like to check up on me all the time. I get that.”
Måns lingers by the door as if he requires an invitation to enter my space. I know that he doesn’t need such trivialities. He’s stormed my space before.
When he stands by the door, I can’t catch his cologne. And I like that cologne. It makes me want to stick my nose to his neck and inhale every detail of his body.
It’s a thought that makes me quiver where I stand.
“When I’m in your presence, you worry about me. Forget about Jordan,” Måns says, his deep voice almost growling at me.
“He’s my brother,” I remind him.
“And he’s not here,” Måns insists. I catch his eyes on me, and we stare at each other without exchanging any words.
“What does it mean? That you’re here and he’s not?” I ask, breaking just a little bit as I lose myself in his steel-blue eyes. I pour Måns a glass of water out of politeness. The men of the palace don’t drink anything other than water when they’re on duty. They need to be sharp in case something happens.
Måns is younger than my daughter. He’s twenty-four years old, and he’s got his life ahead of him. He must have girls lining up for days. All the men of the palace do. Jordan and my daughter have given the new security men clothes that make people salivate.
