Chapter 32
Kjell
I enter Sky's father's elegantly furnished kitchen, dressed only in boxers and a T-shirt, and place the note that Sky left for me on the nightstand onto the marble countertop.
I'll be back for lunch. Looking forward to it! The spare key is in, in case you need to go out. Feel free to keep it , reads the note, which had already been causing me stomachaches shortly after waking up this morning, even though I've realized that I'm doing the right thing—as crazy as it sounds to me.
I switch on the espresso machine and make a cheese Sm?rg?s. By the time I'm done, the delightful aroma of coffee fills the room. With a cup in one hand and the sandwich in the other, I walk into the living room where my laptop awaits me.
Although I'm not in the mood to play the gossip columnist, I have to do it today. Jakob needs an article that will boost sales.
We both need it. And the prospect of a few hours where I won't feel guilty about my lie is somewhat enticing. So I sit down and get to work.
I start by scouring online news portals but find nothing interesting. Fortunately, no reports about Sky either. Her hiding seems to be working, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time before she's discovered.
She needs to get ahead of them; I hope she realizes that soon.
Swallowing hard, I check the social media channels of Sweden's pseudo-celebrities and TV network announcements. Reluctance builds up inside me. I lean back in my chair and interlace my fingers behind my neck.
"Come on, Kjell," I admonish myself. "Write the garbage. You're doing it to protect Sky."
I immerse myself once more.
The royal family seems quiet for now. A sensational article about one of them could sell well. Reluctantly, I visit Crown Princess Vitoria's Instagram page and browse through the pictures. I find something on one of them.
There's a part of her dress where you could suspect a bump.
Pregnant again at 45? I type as a first draft for a headline, feeling like a complete jerk.
I'm spreading lies about the royal family because I lied to Jakob to keep the truth from Sky.
What a damn mess!
With a cry, I slam my fist on the table, knocking over my coffee cup in the process. The dark brown liquid quickly spreads across the natural wood table. It won't be long before it soaks into the untreated wood, leaving stains that can't be removed.
Quickly, I jump up and rush to the sideboard. Sky had taken tissues out of there yesterday, hadn't she?
I frantically open one drawer after another, finding candles, coasters, glossy magazines, and various technical odds and ends, but nothing to soak up the spilled coffee.
"Dammit," I exclaim in frustration and yank on the next drawer.
It won't open. I pull harder. It suddenly gives, and I end up on my rear end with the drawer, its contents scattering around me.
A thin folder lands beside me on the parquet floor, wobbling and partially opening, causing a few sheets to fall out.
They're fashion designs. I don't have time to look at them, but something about them makes me pause.
It can't be...?
I pick up one of the sheets to examine it more closely.
Indeed, I wasn't mistaken. The model in the suit looks just like me.
The messy hair, the high forehead, the square jaw. And there's the mole on the neck—that's mine.
Wait a minute. This guy doesn't just look like me—this is me!
Strange.
At the bottom corner of the sheet, I find handwritten notes. They are small, yet I think I recognize the handwriting.
With the design in my hand, I quickly get up and head to the kitchen, where I left Sky's note on the countertop. I pick it up and compare the two texts.
Canvas binding, thread count 150. Midnight blue.
I'll be back for lunch. Looking forward to it!
The lowercase G, the lowercase E, the lowercase U.
The resemblance is unmistakable. Sky designed this suit that unmistakably features me. She showed me her passion for fashion, but not once did she mention that she's a designer herself. Wow. She's an artist!
Feverishly, I grab a cloth, return to the living room, and clean the table. Then I examine the remaining designs.
There's an elegant dress worn by a woman with long red curls and azure-blue eyes. Additionally, I find five winter outfit designs and three more evening gown designs, all worn by models with the same universal face.
It's obvious, yet I don't understand it. On ?land, Sky told me that she lacks the talent for designing. But these designs look more than professional.
They are amazing!
Why didn't she tell me about this? Is she ashamed of it? Yes, that must be it. And that can only mean one thing: Her father ingrained this in her too.
My heart aches. If only she could see herself the way I do.
I place the designs on the table and walk to my laptop at the opposite end of the table. There's something I must do for Sky, something that will help her take the next step.
***
Four hours later, I rub my tired eyes. I feel like I've run an ultramarathon, but it was worth it. I've found the woman who could change Sky's perspective on the truth: her mother. She has settled in the far north of Sweden, in Abisko, completely secluded on the edge of a nature reserve. Now I just need to convince Sky to talk to her. I get up and march to the terrace door to open it. The cold winter air flows in, but the clarity of my thoughts that I had hoped for doesn't come.
"Once more," I say to myself, placing my index fingers on my temples. "She clearly told you she doesn't want to see her mother. But she looked sad while saying it. She longs for her family. What if she has simply lacked the courage until now?" Yes, that's it. "You could ask her," I mumble.
"Ask who what?" Suddenly, I hear Sky's voice close behind me. I can't help but startle. She nestles against my back, wrapping her arms around my upper body. "Are you okay?"
I slowly turn to face her and kiss her. Her lips are so soft. They taste like oranges.
"Now everything is fine," I say as we break our kiss and smile at her.
Sky blinks, her expression slightly questioning, possibly even skeptical. "Did you go through the drawers?" She gestures to the half-open drawers of the dresser and the scattered designs on the table.
"I was looking for tissues." My emphatic shaking of my head doesn't seem to calm her. "Because of the spilled coffee," I quickly add, pointing at the coffee-soaked cloth on the table.
Her gaze hesitates between me and the dresser. Then she kisses me on the cheek, releases herself from my embrace, and walks to the table. She carefully collects the designs. She smooths each sheet gently before returning it to the folder.
"These are yours, right?" I ask, captivated by the love with which she handles the designs.
She pauses to study one of the sheets, then nods with a wistful smile. "I drew this on ?land."
I step beside her, examining the drawing of myself together with her. "It looks a lot like me."
Her lips twitch. "It's quite possible," she murmurs, gently placing the drawing in the folder.
"Is this one from ?land too?" I ask, tapping on the design where Sky is depicted in the deep blue evening gown.
She takes it and gently runs her fingertips over it. "Mm-hmm," she says.
"It's amazing." I put my arm around her. "Even though I don't know much about fashion, this has something special."
She shrugs and puts the design back into the folder. "It's just amateurish play, nothing more." There's sadness in her voice. She closes the folder and rests her head on my shoulder.
So it's exactly as I suspected. She's ashamed of the designs. I tenderly brush a strand of hair from her forehead and kiss her right there. "Well, it looks pretty professional to me."
"In an hour, I have to be back at Touch av lyx ." She taps her wristwatch. "Come on, let's eat together."
I understand. She doesn't want to talk about it, and I respect that. Maybe I'll have more luck with my other topic. "Listen..."
She turns away and places the design folder in the drawer. "Yes?"
How do I tell her? It's best to be straightforward so as not to lie to her more than I already do. "I know where your mother is," I say and close the gap between us.
Sky, who was in the process of closing the drawer, stops mid-motion.
Carefully, I place my fingers on hers and push the drawer closed. "She's in..."
"Stop." A jolt runs through her body. "I don't want to know."
The drawer closes, and the design folder disappears from my view. "Why not?" I ask cautiously.
Her hands slip away from mine. "That's just the way it is." She turns around and strides into the kitchen.
I follow her, noting the tension in her shoulders. What is she so afraid of? "I think you should talk to her," I say, convinced of that. "About what happened after New York. And about the divorce."
Sky merely suspects that her parents divorced because of her mistake. This thought burdens her, yet perhaps unjustly so. "What if it wasn't your fault at all? Why cling to something you've pieced together yourself when there's another possibility?"
Sky yanks open the refrigerator and grabs the butter, then lifts the lid of the bread box so abruptly that the hinges groan.
"What's the problem, Sky?" I won't let it go, not now. I can sense that she doesn’t want this conversation.
With a shaky hand, she retrieves a knife from the utensil drawer. "She won't want to see me."
I would love to stop her and force her to finally look at me. But she seems so trapped in her fear that I don't dare. "Why not?"
"She never wanted to." She quickly scrapes butter from the dish and spreads it on the bread so forcefully that it breaks. "I've been invisible to her my whole life."
"There must be a reason for that. Have you ever asked her?" I counter, and she shakes her head with tightly pressed lips. "I understand that it's not easy, but..."
Suddenly, all her tension leaves her body. "Only the truth matters?" she whispers tonelessly, and a wave of nausea washes over me.
Only the truth matters . Those are my damn words that I no longer adhere to myself. I will never stop hating myself for it. Right now, I'd like to flog myself to rid myself of this guilt.
I can't reply; I can't do it. So I just nod.
"It worked with Lil," she says. She sinks against the kitchen counter and looks at the torn sandwich. For seconds, she says nothing. Her eyes fill with tears, which she blinks away with great effort.
"It did," I say to encourage her, as I can see how much she's struggling with herself.
"What if I can't handle my mother's truth?" she asks in a shaky voice.
I take a step toward her, take the knife out of her hand, and hug her as tightly as I can.
"No matter what happens, I'm here for you," I utter helplessly under the weight of the prison I've built for myself.
From her sad eyes, she looks at me as if searching for something in my expression. Then very slowly, she begins to nod.