19
The next evening, Maria licked her two-scoop cone of mocha macchiato and had to wait for her brain freeze to thaw before continuing
to eat. Ambling toward the lakeshore, his arm around her shoulders as they walked side by side, Peter appeared to be having
no such trouble. His own overstuffed cone of mint chocolate cookie, also purchased at the university’s Memorial Union, had
mostly disappeared, and he was eyeing her remaining ice cream a bit too closely.
If he tried, she’d rip off his arm and beat him with it until he promised not to steal her food again.
Huh. Brain freeze: conquered. Apparently thoughts of justifiable violence warmed her.
After angling her cone farther away from Peter and taking another lick, she thought back on their day. “I have a question,
but you’ll probably mock me for it.”
He frowned down at her, the very picture of wounded affront. “I would never.”
“You have. You do. You will.”
“Probably,” he conceded, then dropped the innocent act and grinned at her. “So tell me already, and I can get to the mockery
portion of our evening. It’s my favorite part.”
He paused meaningfully, bumping his hip against hers. “No, wait. My second -favorite part.”
They’d made good use of that private hotel room and that wide, gloriously nonsqueaky hotel bed last night, much to her relief.
One more night in her parents’ house, sleeping in separate beds and giving each other quickie orgasms in the guest shower,
and she’d have tackled Peter and ravished him on the narrow guest room mattress like a Viking of old, Filip’s tender sensibilities
be damned.
Given how desperately she wanted him, she also had no desire to pretend in public that they weren’t lovers, and Peter had
agreed: Whenever the media and/or fans discovered the changed nature of their relationship was fine by them.
She was hoping for soon , so everyone would know he was hers.
“What about our frozen custard outing last night?” Dairy products were, she now understood, Wisconsin’s main claim to culinary
fame. She approved wholeheartedly. “Wouldn’t that rank higher than mockery too?”
“Fine, you Norse nitpicker.” He crunched the final bite of his cone. “Third favorite.”
“ Norse primarily refers to Norway and Norwegians, rather than Swedes.”
Brow raised, he gave her a long look. “I rest my case.”
“Whatever.” Over the past several years, she’d learned to love that particular English word. It encompassed dismissal and
casual scorn so neatly . “Anyway, I wanted to ask about our taste test of famous regional foods yesterday.”
The newspaper had arranged the spread and eagerly filmed Maria’s reactions to all the unfamiliar items. Only to be disappointed,
because a woman raised in a country that willingly consumed both surstromming and lutfisk —respectively, salty fermented herring so foul-smelling most people vomited before their first bite, and dried cod reconstituted in lye and cold water until gelatinous—wasn’t going to flinch at various midwestern offerings.
A tuna noodle casserole crusted with potato chips? Delicious.
Some unidentifiable mixture of foodstuffs topped with cheese-blanketed tater tots and called a hot dish ? No problem.
An ostensible salad that contained no actual lettuce, but rather pineapple chunks, tiny orange slices, coconut, marshmallows,
and sour cream? Sure. Why not? Welcome to America!
Chocolate cheese? Well... the less said about that, the better. Still, it was relatively inoffensive, all things considered.
Oddly enough, the food that had baffled her was possibly the most straightforward of the newspaper’s offerings. It tasted
fine, but—
“Were those cheese curds supposed to squeak against my teeth?” She couldn’t hold back a tiny shudder. “Because the sound was incredibly disturbing.”
He stopped in his tracks and scowled at her. “ Yes , they’re supposed to squeak. That’s how you know they’re good!”
“I see,” she said with what she considered exemplary diplomacy. “Then those were excellent cheese curds, clearly. Very...
noisy.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t patronize me, Pippi.”
“No, no.” Her long, unhurried lick of her ice cream was a taunt, and they both knew it. “Who doesn’t want to eat a food product that, when chewed, sounds like distressed mice were set loose in your mouth?”
“Goddammit, woman. Don’t insult the jewel in the crown of Wisconsin cuisine.” His attempted glare kept faltering as his lips
twitched. “Besides, you’ll like them fried. Especially dipped in ranch. No squeaking, just melty goodness.”
“Whatever you say, Peter.” Popping the remainder of her cone in her mouth, she chewed and swallowed. “By the way, you were right. The mockery portion of the evening is fun.”
When he made an actual growling noise, she laughed, then tugged at his arm and set them back into motion. After muttering
for a while about condescending foreigners, he looped his arm around her shoulders again and tugged her close as they walked.
She let the silence play out, content to enjoy the scenery and the man beside her.
After an early, extremely tasty dinner at a Nepalese restaurant located near the university campus, he’d taken her hand and
led her to the Memorial Union building for ice cream, then to the shore of Lake Mendota.
The sun was beginning to set, splashing the horizon with pink and orange. Clusters of people sat on steps leading down to
the water, earbuds in place, backpacks and purses by their sides. Others sprawled on the countless colorful chairs surrounding
tables on a large patio overlooking the lake, chatting and eating and drinking beer.
The faint sound of live music drifted their way whenever someone opened a door to the building, but Peter drew her past the
doors, past the crowds, and toward a spot on the steps where the lake lapped the shore only an arm’s length away.
They sat side by side, so close their hips and thighs pressed warmly together.
“I love this place.” Peter’s words were abrupt, his eyes trained on the water rather than her. “Mom and I would take walks
here. There’s a path around the lake.”
She kept her voice gentle. “Maybe we could do that before we leave.”
“Yeah.” His fingers played with the ends of her hair, but he still didn’t look her way.
“We’d come whenever I was upset. She knew I found the water”—he waved a hand—“soothing, I guess. We’d walk until I was tired, and whether I’d told her what was wrong or not, she’d hug me and take me for ice cream on the way home, even in the middle of winter.
Either way, I’d feel better afterward. More settled. ”
Gods above, she knew so little about his past.
There was the memory he’d just shared, of course. And she knew his mom had died while he was still relatively young. Somehow.
He’d reluctantly told her that years ago, and she hadn’t pushed him to tell her more.
Yesterday, his father had essentially forced him to disclose his broken engagement, and Peter’s revelations had explained
a lot. Before then, she’d never fully understood his obvious hostility toward her after their one-night stand. Yeah, she probably
should have left a note, but why so much anger when he didn’t even know her?
It hadn’t made sense. Now it did.
So she knew a few things. A very few things. Otherwise, his past was a void, dark and featureless, and in deference to his
private nature, she hadn’t tried to illuminate it.
But the moment had arrived. She had to know. She had to ask.
And if he wasn’t willing to offer answers after all these years, that would tell her something important too. Namely, that
he wasn’t ready for a real relationship and might never be. That she should cut her losses and stop committing ever-larger
pieces of her heart to him. That she should probably return to her family.
They’d reached a tipping point. Which way they’d fall—apart or deeper in love—she couldn’t say. But it was time to find out.
She let the silence linger for another minute. Then she broke it.
“What was your mother like?” she asked.
If Maria noticed how Peter immediately stiffened at her question, she didn’t show it.
“Because you and your father are very different from one another,” she added, huddling close to his side.
At sundown, the lakeshore breeze had grown chilly. He should take her back to their hotel, where they could both get warm.
Get naked. Fuck away memories of his parents and everything else he did his best not to think about or discuss.
“You don’t say.” His voice was so dry, Lake Mendota should’ve evaporated on the spot.
When she shivered a little at the next gust of wind, he tightened his arm over her shoulders, hauled her even closer, and
braced himself.
Talking about his mother felt like swallowing glass. But he loved Maria. Loved her, and if he didn’t tell her now, when would he?
“Mom was soft.” The words were gruff, forced out syllable by syllable from the depths of his battered heart. “She gave the
best hugs in the world.”
Maria took his hand in hers, her hold heartbreakingly gentle.
“Her name was Patricia. Patty.” He kept his eyes on the water. “She was kind. Creative. Hardworking. Even quieter than I am,
and stubborn as hell. Dad always said she was smarter than both of us, and he was right.” What else to say? “She hated parties and public speaking. And she loved us, but she always needed a lot of alone time too.”
God, he was fucking this up. But how the hell could he adequately explain his mom to someone who’d never met her and never
would, when his memories would always be those of a child? When he’d only rarely attempted to encompass her in words before,
even in his own mind?
“She was an introvert, then.” Maria’s fingers interlaced with his warmed him in a way he couldn’t entirely grasp. To an extent that shouldn’t have been possible. “Like you.”
He nodded, still unsure what needed to be said, and what could remain his alone for now. What he was even able to say, and
what would stick in his throat.