Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(46)
“I said that out loud,” I say on a resigned sigh.
She chuckles. “I knew it would unnerve you, but I hoped that explaining our history would help you feel more comfortable with it. That’s mostly why I told you. Because I figured you’d see that I’ve earned this. I did right by a friend and saved his life. Now he’s trying to make mine a little more comfortable.
“I will have privacy. They have a few first-floor bedrooms, one of which has a separate entrance. You won’t be under any obligation to see anyone but me, and I’ll have a nurse tending to my needs. Alex and Elin will live their lives independently from me, though Alex will, of course, still oversee my care.”
A heavy sigh leaves me as I stare down at my hands. “Sorry. I feel selfish, my first thoughts being what they were.”
“Hardly, Willa.” Mama grasps my cheeks gently and turns my face her way. “It’s different. It’s not easy. But I also know you understand, and you’ll support whatever I need to be comfortable and have peace about our finances.”
I nod, my face still resting in her hand. “I do. I want whatever makes you happy and feeling good, Mama.”
Her eyes twinkle as she smiles at me. “I know, honey. You don’t even have to tell me. I knew you’d understand.” Slowly, she pulls me to her, until my head rests against her chest. Her fingers drift through my hair, another vain attempt to tame its wildness.
“I love you, Mama,” I whisper. I count her heartbeats. I feel gratitude for each of them.
She presses her lips to my hair, a soft kiss that’s as comforting as her strong hugs. “I love you, too, my Willa Rose.”
14
Ryder
Playlist: “Snaggletooth,” Vance Joy
Dad’s office is messy. I’m pretty sure it’s because the man doesn’t have so much as a stray necktie or fountain pen in our house. Mom requires a home as neat and minimalist as the one she lived in until she met Dad and then moved to the States.
“Ryder!” Dad stands with arms outstretched. I set our food down and let him hug me, hugging him back. Dad’s American, but he’s absorbed a lot of Swedish parenting philosophies from Mom, who’s a nurturing force of nature. He took long paternity leave when each of us was born, got down on his hands and knees to play with us whenever he could. Our family’s affectionate and masculinity doesn’t require gruff back slaps or avoiding kisses. Point in case, Dad presses a kiss to my hair, then squeezes my shoulder. He’s as tall as me, so we’re eye to eye when he speaks. It makes reading his lips easy, but I also wore the hearing aid, hoping it could handle the noise levels of the hospital.
As he rounds his desk, he gives me a once-over. “You look good, minus the Bigfoot beard.”
I roll my eyes. Dad’s never had a beard. He hates the feel of them and spent long enough in the military to get used to the daily discipline of a full shave.
“You taking care?” he asks. Sitting, he pulls the sandwich bag his way and opens it up.
I take out my phone and type, Pretty much. Classes aren’t too stressful. I’m exercising, sleeping decently. Same old.
He slides his glasses down from his head to read his phone. I watch his eyes dart left–right, then flick up to mine. “Same old, you say?” Raising his eyebrows, he takes a bite of sandwich and chews, then swallows. “Things are so same old, you came to see your dad when you’ll see him next week for Thanksgiving?”
I shrug, tugging my sandwich bag my way and uncurling the folded paper. My hand hovers over my phone, debating. Finally, I go for it.
How did you know you loved Mom?
Dad picks up his phone, reads it, then sets it down. His eyes meet mine. Sharp green eyes he passed on to Axel and me and Ziggy. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug, then type, An assignment for a class in History and Philosophy of Human Civilization.
Dad’s eyes crinkle and his mouth twitches. “That so?” When I don’t respond, Dad sits back and gives me a once-over. “Well funny enough, your mom and I didn’t get along too well at first. We practically hated each other’s guts.”
My stomach drops. The paper bag I’m gripping crumples in my hand.
Dad doesn’t seem to notice. “I was on R and R, went up with some buddies to the northern part of Sweden, which, as I’m sure you remember from when we visited when you were little, is much less populous than the south. There are no major cities. It’s quite rural and spread out. It’s good for skiing and getting snowed in, if you know what I mean.”
I tip my head and give him the don’t-gross-me-out look.
He laughs. “I’ll keep it G-rated, I promise. Anyway, after a long day of skiing, we stopped in at this tiny hole-in-the-wall mountain restaurant to warm up and eat our weight in food. Your mom was there. Her family owned it as you know, and she more or less ran the place at that point.”
He gets a look in his eyes as he swivels in his chair and slides his glasses back up onto his head. “She spoke civilly, but she looked at me like I was a stray dog someone had made her take in and feed. That just needled me. She wasn’t the first haughty European I’d encountered with a sour opinion of American soldiers. So, I ribbed her back. I understood enough about Swedish culture that I knew plenty of ways to offend her. I purposefully committed every faux pas I could think of. Came on too strong, bragged, didn’t say thank you enough, made too much small talk. Said hi every time I saw her. I drove her nuts.”