Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(64)



Terror pools in my stomach. It doesn’t look like good news. As gently as I can, I pat the bed. It earns her attention, making her eyes snap up to mine.

“Sorry…” She glances down at her phone, then stares off into space. “My mom…she just said today’s her moving day.”

I reach out a hand, torn between comforting her and finishing my message, but Willa pockets her phone, dragging her fingers through her hair and sending mad spirals popping in their wake. “Sorry, Ry, I have to go now. Are you okay? Becks has you?”

My hand drops, my shoulders slump, and I try to hide my frustrated disappointment. Of course, she needs to go be with her mom, I don’t begrudge her that, but now what do I do? When do I tell her? I can’t not go home for Christmas, but I don’t want to bump into Willa and blindside her. Something tells me Willa does not do well being blindsided.

Willa takes my hand, squeezing before she lets go. She looks torn, like she wants to say as many things to me as I want to say to her. But when our fingers untangle from each other’s until our hands drop, it feels final. It feels like goodbye.

How do I tell Willa I want this to be just the beginning?





20





Ryder





Playlist: “Hearts Don’t Break Around Here,” Guitar Tribute Players





Willa’s been avoiding me as much as I knew she would. I’ve known her for a few months now. I know how she copes with difficult things. She avoids them. She’s checked in with me via text a few times, but only her usual nonsense teasing and banter. It’s driving me nuts. I want to rip out my hair and scream, beyond frustrated at the yawning gap in our communication.

I can’t tell her via text what’s going on. The subject matter’s too sensitive, the context too bizarre. This is a face-to-face conversation. Problem is, I can’t talk to her on the phone or get her to see me in person.

One week away from Christmas, my mom’s having a coronary I’m not home yet. Willa has yet to be available to see me and has been incapable of saying one serious thing in days. I unlock my phone and send her the message I should have sent her the day after she left my place.

We need to talk.





Three dots appear almost immediately, then,

Brawny, are you breaking up with me?





Goddammit, this woman. I rub my eyes and breathe deeply. My phone buzzes again.

You’re doing that thing where you rub your eyes and take deep centering breaths so you don’t commit homicide to the world’s next soccer star, aren’t you?





A begrudging grin tugs at my mouth.

I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations.





Knew it. I have to come down to my apartment and grab some things for the holidays. I’ll be around until midday tomorrow. Want to do dinner?

You can cook me meatballs.





I roll my eyes, but before I can respond, a new text message pops up. Mom.

Ryder Stellan Bergman, I ask one thing of you. One. To be home for Christmas holiday. Where are you?





A growl leaves me. I don’t hear it well, but damn, do I feel it. The women in my life are going to make me go insane.

Mom, I’m sorry. I’m trying to figure out this situation with Willa. She won’t

see me to talk.





Mom’s dots appear.

Make her.





Jesus. I’m my mother’s son. It’s part Swedish culture, part disposition—she thinks everyone should be as blunt and direct as she and I are. No bullshit, no games.

That’s not how Willa

works, Mom.





I’ve guessed as much.

I just miss you.

Home isn’t the same

without my Ryder.





Lay on the guilt a little thicker. My phone buzzes again.

Can you just come for

dinner tonight?

Just Ren, Viggo,

Oliver, and Sigrid.





So basically everyone.

Except Ax, Freya, and

her despicable other half.





I suppose you could

see it that way.





Okay, but I’m coming home afterward. I’ll be back in time for Christmas, promise.





Your terms are acceptable.

See you in an hour.





An hour? I toss my phone away, then remember I need to text Willa back.

My mom’s going to murder me if I don’t show up for family dinner.

Can’t cook for you after all.

Breakfast tomorrow?





Jerk.

Make me those cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee, and you’ve got a deal.





I want to be pissed at her presumption that I’ll get up and make her smart mouth fresh pastries. But we both know I’m going to do it.

Deal.

Bright and early, Sunshine.





Can’t wait.





A stupid smile pulls at my lips. I don’t type it but it’s on the tip of my tongue. Can’t wait, either.

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