23. Chapter 23
Mal
I spent ten minutes on pins and needles before I concluded what, instinctually, I knew immediately: that Henrik’s family is nothing like my own.
My initial worry vanished quickly, yet I can’t deny I’m still feeling tense. I don’t know how to act around these people. I’m worried I’ll let something slip.
“Here,” Henrik says, handing me a cup of tea. A quick whiff confirms it’s lemon.
“Thank you,” I say, warmed by the gesture.
Henrik smiles lightly before heading back into the kitchen. I watch him for a moment, noting the ease with which he navigates the space around his parents. I didn’t even know he had family, and now I’m getting a crash course.
“You like this one?” Alma asks from beside me.
I follow her gaze to the colorful canvas on the wall, just a few inches to the right of where Henrik was standing in my line of sight. I don’t bother correcting Alma that I was staring at her brother, not the art on the wall.
“Yeah, I do. But I like the one above the fireplace best,” I tell her, turning to the canvas in question.
She hums and follows suit, taking a dainty sip of her wine.
Henrik’s sister screams sophistication in her wrinkle-free white sheath dress, with her brown hair pulled back in some sort of complicated twist. Yet there’s a playfulness about her demeanor and an openness to her expression that warmed me to her on sight.
It doesn’t hurt knowing this is the mysterious dove . Any hint of jealousy I’d been harboring prior dispersed like a puff of fresh air.
I had no right to be jealous about Henrik in the first place. He’s not mine . And yet…
I rub my finger along the mug between my palms, the ceramic warm like the man who gave it to me. The thought brings a smile to my face.
“Because it’s brighter?” Alma asks, tilting her head as she appraises the canvas.
I refocus on the art in front of us. It’s the piece that looks like a chaotic mess, slashes of every color imaginable strewn across the canvas. Some swirling, some blotches. It’s riotous, but it’s beautiful.
“Because it’s realistic,” I say.
“How so?” she asks, turning her attention toward me.
“All the colors,” I reply, waving my hand slightly.
“They run together. There are strands of bright, pops of hope, but there’s also darkness.
And one isn’t more than the other. They just are, existing in the same space.
And I think…I think that’s how life really is.
Chaotic, messy, good, and bad. We can try to apply some rhyme and reason to it all, but in the end, life is unordered.
And that’s as lovely as it is terrifying. ”
Alma hums, and when I look over at her, I’m struck for a moment by her resemblance to her brother. Same dark hair, same green eyes—their father’s eyes—and the same little smirk in the corner of her mouth.
“Are you droning on about your art, dear sister?” Henrik asks from a few feet behind us.
I whirl from him to Alma in confusion. “ Your art?”
Henrik rolls his eyes, taking a step closer. I hold out my hand, and he sidles up beside me, his arm winding around my waist. “You didn’t tell him you painted these?”
“I’m afraid not,” Alma says, hiding her amused smirk behind her glass of wine. “I was having a bit of fun.”
Henrik tsks at her, shaking his head, before leaning close and planting a soft kiss beside my ear. My eyes flit to Alma on instinct, wondering what she’ll think of the display, but I find her turned passively back to the wall, a small smile on her lips.
“My sister is a wonderful artist and a terrible human being. You’ll have to excuse her,” Henrik says.
Alma shakes her head, rolling her eyes in much the same way as her brother did moments before. “You’re one to talk, Henrik. You’ve been keeping secrets.”
She gives her brother a stare he can’t see, but when her eyes swing my way, she winks, and I can tell she’s not truly upset.
“Yes, well, we better get to the table. Dinner is ready,” Henrik replies, giving me a little tug toward the dining room.
Alma follows us. “Avoiding the topic as usual, I see.”
“I’m not avoiding,” Henrik counters, holding out a chair for me. The casual chivalry makes my skin tingle. “I’m simply moving us along. I’m sure you’re all starved after your long, unexpected journey.”
“Subtle as a train,” Alma says, sitting across from me. Sigrid is to my right with Diederik across from her. Henrik takes his customary seat at the head of the table.
“Runs in the family,” Henrik mutters.
“Well, cheers, everyone,” Sigrid says, holding up her glass of wine, prompting the rest of the family to hold theirs up in return. She gives me a warm smile before picking up her fork.
“So, son. How’s business?” Diederik asks, cutting into his steak.
I eye my own plate, my mouth watering. I haven’t had prime rib in a very long time, and certainly nothing of this standard. I barely manage to hold back a moan as I slip a piece into my mouth. It melts like butter.
Henrik’s lips twitch, and I wonder if I didn’t do as stellar of a job as I thought hiding my appreciation of my food. “Fine, Father. The new incubator is on track to open in a couple weeks.”
“That’s wonderful,” Diederik replies, looking genuinely happy for his son. “That makes this how many?”
“Seven,” Alma answers. “Have you visited Henrik’s place of work, Mal?”
“Oh, no,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Haven’t had the chance.” Not that it’s been offered. Would a real boyfriend have seen his office already?
“How long have you two been dating?” Sigrid asks.
“Just over five weeks?” I ask Henrik.
He nods. “Five of the best weeks of my life.”
Heat flushes up my neck. I know Henrik is laying it on thick for his parents, selling our boyfriends status, but it doesn’t stop my pulse from taking off. It doesn’t stop me from wishing those words were true. Wishing he felt like these past five weeks have meant something, too.
“And you’re living together. Must be serious?” Sigrid says, her voice hopeful.
Henrik raises an eyebrow, and Diederik pats his wife’s arm. “Don’t pry, lovie. You know he doesn’t like that.”
“You know he can hear you,” Henrik says.
“I’m his mother,” Sigrid replies, poking at her potatoes. “I’m allowed to be curious.”
A brief silence falls in which Henrik’s family all turn their heads his way, as if bracing for his reaction, but when the elevator door opens, the tension breaks.
“Oh my! The whole fam is here,” Benji says loudly, coming through the foyer with a box in his arms. There’s a wide smile on his face as his eyes bounce around the room, brows rising in unspoken question when his gaze lands on me. I shrug slightly, as if to say I didn’t know .
“Benjamin,” Sigrid says warmly, standing up and rounding the table. To my surprise, she engulfs Benji, box and all, in her arms.
Benji chuckles. “Let me set down this teapot first, Sigrid, so I can give you a proper hug.”
“Oh, of course,” she says, stepping back. Diederik gets out of his chair, too, giving Benji a handshake and half-hug after his wife has finished her turn.
Alma stays seated, although she turns to look at Benji over the back of her chair. “Good to see you, Benjamin. How’s Gary?”
“Oh, fabulous as ever. At home wondering why I’m delivering a late-night teapot instead of spooning him on the couch,” Benji says, ignoring Henrik’s huff. “But I told him the bonus would buy him a new couch, so he’s content to wait.”
“Thank you, Benjamin,” Henrik mutters.
“Of course, boss. What’s everyone doing in town?”
“Visiting Henrik,” Diederik says.
“Checking on Henrik,” Henrik replies under his breath.
“And seeing the city,” Sigrid adds. “We booked a hotel room for the weekend. Thought we’d do some sightseeing tomorrow and Sunday. Would you care to join us, Henrik? You’re welcome, as well, of course, Benjamin.”
Benji waves his hand. “I appreciate it, Sigrid, but my husband and I have plans for the weekend.”
“Quite all right,” Sigrid says, turning to her son. “Henrik?”
“Perhaps. And only if Mal is welcome,” he says pointedly.
Sigrid looks affronted. “Of course ,” she says vehemently. “I thought that was implied. My apologies. We’d love to have you come, Mal, dear.”
“Oh, sure. Whatever Henrik wants to do,” I mumble, unsure about whether or not he’d appreciate being roped into a weekend with his family.
They seem incredibly nice—genuinely caring—but Henrik never mentioned them before, so I don’t know how close they really are.
And he’s giving off some tense vibes I can’t quite decipher.
Sigrid looks pleased, and Alma gives me a wink, whispering, “It’ll be fun.”
“Would you care to join us for dinner, Benjamin? There’s plenty of food,” Sigrid says.
Benji appraises the spread. “As delicious as this looks, I already ate.”
“You’re welcome to have a seat as we finish,” Henrik offers.
Benji shrugs. “For a few minutes. Gary would likely throttle me if I didn’t pester Diederik about his golf game.”
As Benji and the others take seats at the big pine table, Diederik all-too-gladly launches into an in-depth play-by-play of his season.
By the time I polish off my potatoes and dinner comes to a close, my stomach is comfortably full.
At one point during the meal, Henrik’s foot found my ankle, and it rests there still, his toes glancing over my skin in a way that makes me squirm.
When I discreetly peek his way, there’s a sedate little smile on his lips.
I don’t know if he’s trying to work me up or simply can’t stop himself from being connected to me in some manner.
With dinner concluded, Alma sets the new teapot to boil. I watch, taken aback, as she grabs my mug of cold tea from the table, washes it out, and doctors me a new cup. She sets it in front of me before refilling the rest of the table’s wine glasses.