Chapter 11
Sky
I sneak a peek over the edge of my menu at Kjell, who's studying his menu so attentively that he doesn't notice me. His head is tilted to the side, and his hair is sticking out in all directions. His strong jawline is visible beneath his three-day beard. I can't help but let my gaze linger on his lips. They move imperceptibly, as if he's reading the menu to himself.
I shouldn't be observing him. I shouldn't even be here with him. My God, what got into me earlier?
His gaze flicks to me.
Hastily, I take a sip of my Vino Bianco and focus on the activity in the restaurant. I watch the waitstaff darting between tables and the pizza chef in the show kitchen tossing a dough disk into the air, only to catch it moments later.
The soft background music and the animated chatter of mostly Italian-speaking guests, combined with the indirect lighting, create a cozy atmosphere.
Maybe it was a good idea to come here. In my hotel room, my worries about my father would have overwhelmed me. Just like the fear of not being able to meet the demands placed on me as the head of Touch av lyx .
At least I have some distraction here. And that's the only reason I'm in this restaurant with Kjell.
It has absolutely nothing to do with how deeply disappointed he was by my rejection. The fact that it nearly tore my heart apart to hurt him—a stranger I should be wary of—doesn't matter. And the fact that his company feels like a carefree escape from all that burdens me is entirely irrelevant.
"Pizza di Napoli."
I startle. "I'm sorry, what?" Blinking, I emerge from my thoughts.
Kjell closes his menu across from me and hands it to the server, whose presence I've only just become aware of. "A question. How lovely."
I should probably protest, but he's waiting for that. So I order spaghetti carbonara instead and do something unexpected.
Slowly, I pull the container with individually wrapped grissini toward me. Then I take one out and hand it to him. "Here's your question. You can save it for later or ask it now and put the grissini back."
The confusion in his expression is delightful, and once again, his presence pushes the shadows within me into the background. Unfortunately, he recovers too quickly. He turns the package in his hand and fixates on me so intensely that I regret my courage instantly.
That was a damn foolish idea. What if he asks me a question I can't answer?
"All right, Sky," he says in a tone that makes my pulse race. "What's your favorite thing to eat?"
This guy is full of surprises. "Really? That's your question? Why?"
Before I can fully grasp what just happened, he triumphantly reaches for the grissini container. He pulls out two packs and places them alongside the one he already has on his dark blue napkin. "Minus one for my question, plus three for yours."
"Okay." Leaning forward over the table, I push my wineglass aside. He may have tricked me earlier, but that was the first and last time. "My favorite thing to eat is golden worms."
His mouth opens, but before he can say anything, he restrains himself. "Clever." He rubs his chin, then reaches for one of his earned grissinis, holding it up. "What are golden worms?"
First danger averted, good job. I take the pack from him and put it back in the container. "That's what I used to call spiral pasta when I was a child."
Clearly disappointed, he leans back in his chair and takes a sip of his wine. It's as if he needs a moment to figure out the best way to respond. "I always liked the shell-shaped ones better."
"You're full of surprises, Kjell..." I raise an eyebrow invitingly.
"Mattson," he adds his last name automatically and then bites his tongue.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. And at this moment, I realize that he's done it again. The pressure on my chest has lessened, and my lips are curved upward.
"You're..." I mutter distractedly.
He shifts in his chair, back and forth. "Yes?"
Somehow special , I think. "Fell for it," I say with a surprisingly soft voice and snag another one of his grissini.
Accompanied by his muttered curse, I place my prize next to my fork. Each of us now has an open question, and I'll hold mine until he asks me one I can't answer. Because despite the dim atmosphere and the warmth enveloping me with its sense of security, I know I have to be on guard.
He's a stranger who makes his living taking photos. A particular shot can earn him a lot of money. And once he realizes I'm that special shot, he won't hesitate.
That would be the end of my dream.
No scandals at Touch av lyx . That applied then, it applies today, and it will always be the case.
The server serves our food.
"Golden worms, huh," Kjell says, looking at my plate. "Noodles are still your favorite, it seems."
Thoughtfully, I twirl the pasta on my fork and taste it. The carbonara is velvety smooth in my mouth.
How can I keep Kjell from asking questions? Perhaps I should inquire about his profession? That would keep him talking for the rest of the evening, and he wouldn't have time to come up with more questions himself.
"Silence implies consent," he says, pushing a piece of pizza into his mouth. His gaze flickers between me and his grissini.
A question is coming. And something in his expression tells me it will be a tough one.
"Tell me about photography. It's always fascinated me, but I know too little about it," I quickly say, secretly pleased that I've beaten him to it and that I get to keep my valuable question. It's possible that he can read that in my expression.
He shakes his head imperceptibly. "Clever," he says and mutters something that sounds like clever and beautiful .
I've seen that trick before, so I don't react to it. "Tell me about photography," I repeat with stoic calm.
And indeed, a few moments later, I see something in him give way. As we eat, he talks about lenses and optics, exposure and composition. I only understand half of it, but I still listen to him with enthusiasm. He also shows me pictures on his phone, all powerful nature shots filled with awe and beauty.
Gradually, I lose my fear of difficult questions—not least thanks to the wine, of which both of us drink far too much. Nevertheless, I'm careful not to ask any myself. And as we leave the restaurant hours later, this evening feels effortlessly beautiful.
Each of us still has a grissini. Grinning, I put mine away, perhaps I'll need it later. He does the same with his, and then we step out into the night and start walking toward the hotel.
"That was nice," I say with a sigh.
"Look at that," he replies promptly. "And you didn't want to come at first."
That's true. "Good thing I changed my mind."
"What was going on this afternoon, by the way—"
"Tell me about your childhood. You must have always wanted to be a photographer." I cut him off a bit too hastily. But it's better this way because I can't tell him what was happening with me this afternoon.
He hesitates for a moment. I glance over at him and see his jaw tighten. "There's nothing to say about my childhood. It was a total lie."
Wow. That was so unexpected that I don't know what to think or say. I do nothing more than look at him attentively, and I can see pain in his eyes. Suddenly, my emotions change. The voices of the passersby and the upbeat street music seem distant. It's as if only the two of us are illuminated by a spotlight, while everything else is shrouded in darkness.
"I'm sorry," I say with a voice as fragile as thin glass. Partly because his words remind me of that feeling my mother conveyed to me so often. As if she were hiding something from me. As if she weren't real.
His expression portrays melancholy, even more so than earlier in the hotel hallway. It affects me on a deeper level than before.
I want to do it.
I want to look into his soul. Maybe just to feel less alone with my own shadows. Maybe because I sense how real this moment is.
This man, who walks so closely beside me that we're almost touching and who is clearly wrestling with himself, is more than just his attractive, cheeky grin. I want to understand him, to grasp what moves him.
Out of emotion, I pull a grissini out of my jacket pocket. "Who lied to you?" I ask and place it in his hand, knowing full well that it can't help me there anymore.
But right now, I don't care.
Instead of answering me, he looks at me. Not challengingly, and certainly not with that probing curiosity. He looks at me like a person looks at another when something inside them relents.
"My parents," he forces his lips into a smile. "They pretended to be the perfect family. They made me believe I was their greatest dream."
Every single one of his words feels like a stab in my heart. "I can't imagine they..."
He raises his hands defensively. "My friends constantly complained about the tense atmosphere at their homes. I couldn't relate."
A sigh escapes his lips. "I would say everything is fine with me, and I actually believed it."
I would like to reach out to him, but I don't dare. I want to say something, but I can't. I still don't understand where he's going with this, but I can feel how much his own words torment him. In silence, I walk beside him, deeper into the winding streets of Milan.
"It was all a lie. Every bedtime story, every hug. Every lovingly packed lunch, every laugh," he shakes his head, as if he can't believe it himself. As if he still doesn't understand why he didn't realize it much earlier. "When I was eight, I broke my father's model airplane while playing," he continues absentmindedly. "He loved that thing."
His direct gaze meets mine. I nod.
"Nevertheless, when it lay shattered in front of us, he took me in his arms. 'You're my son, and no matter what happens, I will always love you,' he said."
Kjell fidgets with the grissini packet, as if he needs to release some energy.
My shoulders feel heavy. That's what every child wants to hear from their father. I've done everything to hear those words from mine, and sometimes I even succeeded.
Kjell got it without any effort, even in a moment when his father had every right to be angry. But it was a lie?
Until now, I was sure that unrequited love is the worst thing parents can do to their children. But this...
"Why do you think he didn't tell the truth?" I hear myself ask, and now I'm doing it. I reach out for him, stopping his fingers incessantly stroking the plastic packaging. Our fingertips touch each other. Inconspicuously. Gently.
"He's not my father." His gaze becomes vacant. "And he never loved me for a single moment of my life."
I continue to let my fingertips glide over his. "Are you adopted?"
With pursed lips, he shakes his head. "It's much more complicated than you think."
"I have all evening," I reply, "if you want to talk."
Kjell studies me longer than necessary, then he shakes his head, lost in thought. "It's late."
"Mm-hmm," I reply, because I understand that. Maybe no one understands it better than I do. "A little sleep would actually be good."
As soon as I say those words, our fingertips lose contact, and although the night is mild for late October, I shiver a little.