Chapter 23
Sky
I massage my neck and suppress the tired sigh building up within me. Then I look at Lil, with whom I've been in a video conference for an hour, pleadingly. "Come on, Lil."
Despite the Christmas stars glittering on the magnetic board behind her desk, her green eyes appear sad. "What am I supposed to do if the department heads won't release the budget plan?"
"How do we get them to cooperate?" I reach for a pen and slide my thumb under the clip.
I don't like Lil's headshake, nor her shrug. "Can you blame them?"
The clip snaps. "I had to leave."
"But the employees don't know that. All they see is you showing up in Milan to sabotage the show, and then you disappear without even trying to make things right," she replies, exasperated. "You've been gone for four weeks. Of course, they think you don't care. What's so hard to understand about that?"
Nothing.
I raise my gaze because Lil's irritated face is now causing me stomachaches. The sun shines behind the glass, barely a breeze moves the grass, and thin clouds drift across the sky.
Summoning all my courage, I say, "We're friends." My voice falters, and I think of Aurora, whom I've repeatedly reassured with empty phrases over the past few weeks. The knot in my stomach tightens even more.
"We used to be," Lil responds, her voice strained. "I won't go against my colleagues. It was hard enough for me after you left."
"I understand," I say even though I don't. I haven't been aware of anything that has happened here in the past few years. How could I presume to know what's going on inside her?
Lil's reaction rightfully consists of a frustrated snort. "Is that it for today?"
I force a smile. "Thank you for your time. If you could send me the contact information for the fashion chain that canceled the order for the upcoming collection, that would be great."
Because that's the next thing I need to take care of. My refusal to walk the runway in Milan has cost Touch av lyx more than anticipated. Not only did the press tear apart our label, but longtime customers have also pulled out. Probably not just because of the show but also due to my father's accident and Stig's death, which has now leaked. It's understandable that they fear instability because of these events.
We say our goodbyes—Lil in a cold manner and me putting on a deliberately friendly tone. I keep the headset on to call my father's doctor. Since I've been on ?land, we've been talking every day and have gotten to know each other better. June is the nicest person I've ever met. It's a shame that her time at Karolinska University Hospital is coming to an end, and she'll be returning to her home in Canada soon.
"His condition remains unchanged," June tells me once again with a defeated tone.
"Okay," I reply simply because she has already explained what that means multiple times. It has been over four weeks since he fell into a coma, and with each passing day, his prognosis becomes bleaker.
She clears her throat. "I'm really sorry... I mean..."
"Yes, thank you," I quickly respond because I can sense that she struggles to cope with this situation herself.
"We must remain patient," she reminds me earnestly.
"I understand," I say softly, even though I don't—just like earlier with Lil—and bid her farewell.
I don't understand anything. Not why the accident had to happen in the first place. Not how I could be so foolish as to go ice-skating in Stockholm without caution, which has now tied me to my hideaway when I should be at the company headquarters. And certainly not how Kjell's presence keeps bringing a smile to my face amid all these distressing matters.
Two weeks ago, for example, when we nearly kissed at the lighthouse. Or yesterday when he persuaded me to stop working and instead light the candle on the Advent wreath with him.
How he looks at me every evening when he wishes me good night.
How we laugh at our worst jokes in front of the crackling fireplace. Barefoot, with soft background music playing, while a winter storm rages outside.
Nothing he does brings me down. I haven't made a single wrong decision because of him. On the contrary, he has even saved me from relapsing into drug use.
As incredible as it may sound—he seems to be good for me.
I bite my lower lip. Keeping the most important part of me hidden from him still feels wrong. He doesn't deserve that. But there's no way around it, no matter how much I wish it were different.
He already knows too much. Way too much.
Now he comes into my field of vision. He enters the wooden terrace in front of the glass front. Hands buried in his jacket pockets, collar pulled up to his ears, he gazes out at the sea. And I watch him, trying to understand what's happening between us.
As always, his camera dangles by his side, and once again, I admire his talent for capturing these incredibly atmospheric photos. They are like a magnificent design—you just have to look at them to get lost in them.
I feel a warm smile on my face. A picture takes shape in my mind.
There's fine linen. Navy blue. Stitching in light gray. A pointed lapel. Subtle darts at the waist.
Dreamily, I push the laptop aside and bring the notepad closer. I flip to the next blank page and start putting my thoughts on paper.
I sketch the outline of a man. Then I draw the jacket, the matching trousers with pleats, and complete the design with angular leather shoes. An exciting tingle runs through me. So many years have passed since I last designed something myself. Nevertheless, my fingers still remember how it works.
This is by no means perfect. I definitely need colors to enhance the ballpoint pen drawing.
Motivated, I jump up and walk into the bedroom, which has been mine for as long as I can remember. There, in the low dresser next to the sewing machine and the threads, it should be.
Indeed. Covered in a thick layer of dust, the colored pencil set lies right where I stashed it over ten years ago.
A wild mixture of excitement and joy floods over me. I pick it up and wipe the dirt off the leather case on my way back down. Back at the desk, I ceremoniously open the case.
"Oh Rainbow," I whisper. "I've missed you."
I confidently grab the navy blue pencil and work on the details of my design. I give the jacket fabric a modern texture, add a matching tie, and draw a watch around the model's wrist.
With each additional color, the image comes to life more. Just as I learned at fashion school, I note down information about the fabrics and hints for creating the pattern templates. Finally, I give the model a face.
A rugged one. With a three-day beard and hair that sticks out wildly in all directions. And a mischievous grin on his lips.
"Hello, handsome," I murmur to him and place a mole on his neck. Then I take care of the final touches. "Someone like you should definitely not be alone, I think. Shall I paint you a woman?"
"Oh yes, please," I reply to myself in a deep voice.
"Coming right up." Carefully, I detach the sheet with the design from the pad and place it in front of me so I can see it while envisioning the contours of his lover's dress in my mind.