Chapter 22
I’m ripping open a new bag of flour when my phone rings.
I glance at the screen and see Lou’s name and picture.
I try to reach for my phone with one hand and continue opening the bag with my other, but in my distraction, the seam rips horizontally, and the bag explodes, engulfing me in a cloud of white.
“Crap!”
Flour coats everything—it looks like it snowed inside the Konditori kitchen. I grab an AirPod and stick it in my ear so I can call Lou back while I clean up the mess, but before I can pull up her contact, my phone rings again. I don’t even check my screen before I tap my AirPod to connect.
“Hey, sorry I ripped open a bag of flour wrong, and it exploded everywhere!”
“Do you always answer the phone this way?” a deep male voice says.
“Uhhh . . .” I scramble to grab my phone in the sea of flour, but my hands are caked in it, and the device slips through my fingers and drops to the ground.
“I’m sorry, hold on—I dropped my phone, and there’s flour everywhere, and—”
The man’s throaty laugh is vaguely familiar, but I still can’t figure out who I’m talking to. Finally, I manage to grab my phone, wipe the screen, and barely suppress a groan before he hears me.
“Sorry, Austin, we had a flour-tastrophe at the bakery, and I’m trying to clean it up.”
“It sounds like I called at a bad time.” He’s still laughing. “I’m just making sure we’re on for tomorrow night.”
My stomach nosedives. I never told him yes or no for the dinner reservation he made in hopes of another date.
I’ve gone back and forth so many times—mostly because I’m scared of what will happen with Talia’s job if I say no.
But when I think of Hunter telling me he doesn’t want me to go out with Austin again .
. . I can’t bring myself to say yes, especially now that I’m going out with Hunter on Saturday—the night after dinner with Austin, if I were to say yes.
I pick up the broom and start sweeping, even though I might have to do it again once I clean the counters off.
“I have to be honest with you, Austin. I don’t want to waste your time or your money.
I’m really not sure if it’s a good idea for us to go out again or not.
Part of me is curious and wants to . . .
but the bigger part of me knows that I’m not the right kind of girl for you. And I think you know it.”
“That’s not really fair for you to decide, is it?”
I lean on the broom and take a deep breath. “It might not be fair, but I think it’s at least honest. I’m not what you’re looking for. Trust me.”
“Are you sure the real reason isn’t because what you’re looking for is Hunter?”
Luckily, he can’t see me blush. “You didn’t see his best side the night you met him.
He was really hurting and . . . I’ve gotten to know him better since then.
I’m not saying I want him either,” I rush to add, not even sure why I’m defending Hunter to Austin, “but I think it’s better that you and I don’t take this any further.
You’re nice and funny and ridiculously good looking—”
“So, where’s the problem?” he jokes.
I take a deep breath and repeat, “I don’t think you’re the kind of guy who wants to be in it for the long haul with someone like me.”
He falls quiet for a moment and then says, “Well, I guess we’ll never know.”
“I’m really sorry. I wish I were the kind of girl who could say, ‘Hey, let’s just have fun with no expectations,’ but that’s not me. I have too many uncertainties in my life.”
“And you think Hunter can give you certainty? You think that man isn’t going to hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“Well, when he does, maybe I’ll still be around. And if I am, maybe you’ll give me a second chance to prove that I’m not only an uncommitted playboy.”
“I really am sorry, Austin,” I add again, meaning it more than he probably realizes. “And . . . if it’s not too much to ask, please don’t fire Talia over this. She’s really good at her job, and it’s not her fault that I’m a mess.”
He chuckles, the sound low and thrumming through my AirPod. “I’m not going to fire her. But I do wish you would give me a chance. Maybe someday—if I’m not taken.” His tone is more teasing now, and I’m grateful to him for that.
It’s my turn to laugh, though softly and with a twinge of remorse. “Maybe someday,” I agree.
“Bye, Olivia.”
“Bye, Austin.”
We hang up, and I stand there covered in flour, staring at my dark phone for several minutes, hoping I haven’t made a mistake allowing myself to get my hopes up for my messy mate.
It takes thirty minutes to clean up the flour-tastrophe, and by the end of it, my hairline is damp. I’m so tired after an already long day of baking with Mom that I trudge over to the chair in Farmor’s office and drop down onto it.
Mom left an hour ago for the hospital, so I’m alone in the bakery again.
I’m still waiting to hear from her, but most likely, she hasn’t texted or called because nothing has changed yet.
When we asked how long Farmor might remain in a coma, the doctor told us that after such a massive stroke and brain swelling like Farmor had, it could be several more days or even weeks before she wakes up.
He didn’t say if she wakes up, which was considerate but misleading. I’m not sure what is worse: lack of hope or misplaced hope.
On the desk is the familiar picture of Farmor, my dad, and my grandpa.
They’re all so young. I’ve seen this picture hundreds of times before.
She wears a dress and elbow gloves, her hair pulled up into a fashionable coif.
They look elegant and happy—a truly striking couple.
I pick it up, inspecting Farmor’s face more closely, searching for clues of her unhappiness. But her smile seems real.
And then one part of the journal entry I’d barely registered until now crashes into me like a wave.
She said she was pregnant. But I know my dad was an only child.
What happened?
The drawer holds the answers Farmor can’t give me. And my curiosity finally burns stronger than my fear.
I pull out the journal and take a deep breath. When I open the little blue book, I start at the beginning, and this time, the entry is in English.
It is difficult to put into words the feelings in my heart, especially in English.
But I want my son to be able to read my words, and while we speak Swedish with him, he will now be raised in America.
I fear he will never truly know the language of our home.
I still can’t believe we are here, in Arizona.
The sun and heat here are unbearable. I miss the trees and gardens and rivers of Uppsala.
I miss the color green. I miss Sweden. I miss my family.
When I bound my life to Anders, I never thought it would bring me to such a place. So barren and lonely.
At least I have my baking. It is different, baking for work rather than for pleasure.
But my mom’s recipes still work, even in this completely different climate.
There are other Swedish families here, as Anders promised there would be.
We attend the -Lutheran church with most of them, and we’ve been told of some of the Swedish traditions and markets that they hold throughout the year.
A small comfort and something to look forward to.
But we work from sunup until sundown every day, trying to make our bakery a success, and there is no time for socializing.
Sometimes I dream of the pub in -London—“our pub” we’d called it, because it was where we ate most nights when -Anders was courting me.
That time, when we were so in love and happy, seems a lifetime ago.
Lars, you, my son, are my joy. You are my reason for getting up before the sun every day, for working such long hours.
Your smiles and laughter make it all worth it.
I would go through every hardship again and again if it meant having you.
I reach the end of the entry and wipe my hands over my face.
My phone rings, and when I see my mom’s face on the screen, I quickly set the journal aside and answer the call.
“Hey, Mom, is everything okay?”
“Better than okay,” she says. “Farmor is starting to have eye movement!”
My heart leaps into my throat. “That’s good . . . right?”
“It’s really good, Livvy. It’s the first step of coming out of a coma. It means her body is trying to wake up.”
I stare at the journal and the picture beyond it. “She’s going to wake up?” I barely manage to whisper.
“She’s going to wake up,” Mom repeats softly.
A fierce burning hits behind my eyes. I press the heels of my hands against my temples and ask, “How soon? Do I need to come now?”
“No, there’s no rush. It could still be days, the doctor said. But it’s progress in the right direction. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes. Of course I do. Thank you for calling.”
“Oh, the nurse is here to draw some blood. I better go. Talk to you soon, sweetheart.”
We hang up, and I’m left sitting in Farmor’s office, hope and guilt intertwining into a volatile cocktail of emotions.
Finally, and with no small amount of remorse, I close the journal.
I can’t keep reading this—not if she’s going to wake up and realize I did so without her permission.
Once the small blue book is put away and the picture back in the same spot it has sat in for my entire life, I turn off the lights and walk out of the bakery, locking it up behind me before I can change my mind.
The ICU is quiet tonight—so quiet it’s considered bad luck. A disaster looms when so many beds sit empty.
But I’m grateful for the lack of nurses and doctors rushing every which way, for the absence of codes and alarms going off.
I sit by Farmor, clutch her hand in mine, and watch her eyes. Waiting for another flutter. Praying for a sign that she hasn’t gone out of my reach.
I was so mad at her . . . but now, I just ache. To talk to her. To be able to ask what happened—what the truth of her life and her love is. I don’t want to pry into her past through her journal—I want her to tell me herself. I want her to explain why she still believes in love.
I yearn to hug her and have her hug me back. I don’t care what her marriage was or wasn’t. I want my farmor back, whether she lied to me or not.
“I still need you,” I whisper. “Please fight. Come back. I need you.”
My breath catches in my throat when her lids flutter, the movement of her eyes beneath the delicate skin easily visible.
My grip on her hand tightens. “You can do it. You can wake up. I know you can. Please . . . keep fighting. Wake up. Please wake up.”
It’s so faint I almost wonder if I imagine it, but for a split second, it feels as though she squeezes my hand back.
Then the sensation is gone, her hand as limp in mine as ever.
“Was that you? Did you squeeze my hand?”
Her fingers are motionless in mine. Maybe it was my imagination—my desperate need conjuring phantom movements that didn’t really happen.
I bend over her body, wrap my arm around her and rest my head on the pillow next to her head—the closest I can get to hugging her. “I love you,” I whisper.
But nothing else happens. Her entire body is completely still.