9. Rory
Ican’t believe I’m on my way to meet Freya’s mother. I’m not entirely sure she can either, because she hasn’t said a word since we left her car in the parking garage. It’s the longest stretch of time that we’ve been together and not spoken. It’s making me nervous, and based on the way Freya can’t keep her hands still, clasping and unclasping them by her sides, I’m guessing she’s feeling the same.
She runs her hand through the full length of her hair while staring at the rising floor levels as the elevator ascends. Unable to hold back from touching her a moment longer, I reach my arm around her and pull her to my side. “I can wait outside in the hall if you’d prefer?”
“No, no. It’s fine, you can come in. My mother hates being stuck in the hospital and will enjoy meeting someone new.”
I’m not convinced, especially when her fuzzy reflection in the metal doors shows me she’s chewing on her bottom lip again. It shouldn’t be turning me on.
“How much longer?” I ask the half-formed question in a desperate attempt to keep her talking. She can’t bite on her lip in that sexy way if she’s answering questions.
She turns to look at me, her brow wrinkled. “Sorry?”
“How much longer is she expected to be in here?” I finally get the full question out.
“Oh. Only another two days, I think.” The elevator bounces to a stop, and we exit.
Side by side, we stroll along the long white hallway, the aroma of disinfectant so strong I can no longer smell Freya’s fresh, sweet perfume. I lean toward her and breathe in deeply, trying to capture a faint hint of her.
She tilts her head back. “Did you just sniff me?”
Maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I thought I was. I shrug. “Aye. I like the way you smell, and I don’t like disinfectant.”
She laughs, and it seems to have the power to suck the tension out of her. Suddenly, she’s back to carefree, happy Freya again, and I reach for her hand to give it a squeeze.
“Is that a bit creepy?” I ask.
“Not at all. It’s kind of nice.” Her grip tightens on mine when we reach the door of her mother’s room. “Ready?”
“Aye. And you?”
“Of course,” she says as she pushes through the door.
There is one bed in the center of the room, which is decorated more like I’d find in a four-star hotel rather than a hospital. Propped high in the bed on a stack of pillows is a woman who looks like an older version of Freya, and she’s smiling at a man who is sitting on the edge of the bed. He has his back to us and appears to be holding her hand. Freya didn’t mention her mother had a partner.
Beside me, Freya gasps, tugging me to a stop. “Pabbi?” she exclaims, her voice unnaturally high.
Over the last couple of days, I’ve heard Freya refer to her father using the Icelandic word, but given her expression, she wasn’t expecting to see him again today. I’m not sure about her family dynamic—she hasn’t shared the long story with me yet—but it’s clear there is a lot of affection between the three of them.
The man turns, grinning. And now it’s me doing a double take.
What the fuck is Jon, the lead guitarist of Midnight Sons, doing here? Or, more precisely, why did Freya just call Jon, the lead guitarist of Midnight Sons, Dad?
My mouth remains wide open as I look between Freya and her father. I can see it now. She has his eyes.
I wonder when the hell she was going to tell me that her father was a famous rock star. I know it doesn’t really matter, but I think somewhere in our conversations yesterday when she said she was meeting him for lunch that it would have been the time to mention who he was. At least then I wouldn’t be standing here gawping like a goldfish.
She drops my hand and moves toward him. Jon stands, welcoming her hug before stepping aside so she can hug her mother.
The smile she turns to her father is brilliant. “I thought you were leaving on the first flight this morning?”
“I was, but I decided it was much more important that I spend more time with my two favorite girls.”
Her mother’s gaze lingers on them before falling on me. I’m still hovering awkwardly near the doorway, forgotten by the others in the room until now.
“Hallo. You must be Freya’s man, Rory,” she asks, her accent a little thicker than Freya’s when she rolls the r’s in my name.
“Mum, he’s not my man. He’s … a friend.” She smiles back at me, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and for the first time today, I see it as nothing more than friendly. All signs of her nerves have gone, replaced by a nonchalance that I don’t really like. I thought what we did last night was a long way beyond friends. I guess I was wrong.
I remember reading somewhere on the internet that Icelandic women are culturally liberal and assertive when it comes to sex. Freya certainly had no problems telling me what she liked or when to go faster or harder. It seems that what I imagined as her being into me was really just her enjoying an evening as a strong, independent Icelandic woman. No game playing, just wanting to have sex because she liked the look of me or thought I could deliver a good time. These thoughts all run into each other in my head in the space of seconds. Every one of them totally inappropriate when I’m meeting her parents for the first time.
“Rory, this is my mother, Andrea, and my father, Jon.”
Mumbling my way through a greeting, I step forward to shake Jon’s hand, then Andrea’s. This all feels way out of my depth, and I’m seriously regretting the decision to come with her to the hospital. Honestly, it’s probably cured me of ever meeting a woman’s parents ever again. I should have just waited at the bed and breakfast for her to return.
Things don’t get a lot better when after covering every conceivable angle on the weather, they start to grill me. Freya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation to the places we visited yesterday. But her mother is not deterred until Freya finally says the words I’ve been longing to hear. “We need to be going.”
But the torturous inquisition isn’t over until they have asked about our plans for today. It’s hard not to notice the way Freya brushes the question away, cleverly diverting the conversation back to when her mother is expecting to leave hospital.
Oddly, what isn’t mentioned during the half hour we spend in that room is that Freya’s father is an internationally recognized star. I was a huge fan of Midnight Sons growing up and still am. I don’t remember there ever being any mention of him having a daughter, but I guess I was only ever interested in their music. I couldn’t care less about their private lives. Well, that was until today. I like Freya a lot, even if the feelings aren’t reciprocated to the same extent, and I want to know more about her and her family.
We return to the small blue Kia SUV Freya borrowed from her mother for the day. I’m feeling a little shell-shocked, while she doesn’t seem to be as affected. She is seemingly without a care in the world as she practically skips along beside me, humming a tune that may be one of Midnight Sons’ bestsellers. All the questions I have seem to have turned into a twisted ball of confusion in the pit of my stomach, and they could take weeks to make sense of. But all I have is one day.
“Are you ready to go have some fun?” she asks, all sunshine and light, which does nothing to help ease the churn within. I’m glad we’re still going to spend the day together because hopefully, that means I’ll have the chance to understand exactly what’s going on between Freya and myself.
“Aye.” But even I can hear the trepidation behind my short response.
“Good. I want to take you somewhere warm, which is why you needed to bring swimming trunks.” Her cheerfulness sounds a bit hollow. Maybe I’m misreading her reaction.
“Would that be the Blue Lagoon?”
Flicking her flowing blond hair over her shoulder, she smiles, and this time, it feels more genuine. It’s impossible not to stretch across the console and capture her joy with my mouth. We’ve been at the hospital less than an hour, and it already feels like it’s been too long since I could touch her.
The kiss turns heated instantly, our tongues dueling while my fingers twist into the golden strands of hair and hers dig into the back of my scalp. I love the demanding way her nails mark my skin; it’s possessive like I belong to her. If only that could be the case for more than one weekend. But we both understand that’s not possible, and it fuels my desire to take what I can while I can. If this is just a fun, sexy weekend for her, I can roll with that and quash the feelings of disappointment.
“We won’t be getting much further than your room at the bed and breakfast if we don’t stop,” she mutters, her voice husky.
“I don’t see anything wrong with that idea. It’s warm there too.”
Her soft laugh touches parts of my heart that I don’t want her to reach. She’s already made herself unforgettable, and I need to ensure the effect she has on me doesn’t become anything more.
“Fine, my adventure first. Afterward, we can return to your room for your version of adventure.” She sits back in the driver’s seat and brushes her hair back from her face. Squirming a little in her seat, she switches on the ignition.
“That’s a plan.” I keep my tone light and casual.
Last night, I gave my feelings free rein, and today, I’ll be a lot more guarded. If only the memories of us lying exhausted on the waterbed, our naked limbs entwined like puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together, weren’t so clear.
As we leave the grounds of the hospital, I force a more relaxed breath from my lungs before settling back into the passenger seat. Freya drives us through the city streets, making left and right turns until I’m completely disorientated, and soon, we’re zooming along one of the major two-lane highways. This must be part of the nine-hundred-mile ring road around the island. As we chew up the miles, the landscape shifts from colorful houses to a treeless, barren expanse with a range of snow-tipped mountains in the distance. The ground on either side of the road is covered in green-gray moss-covered rocks. No one rock standing taller than the rest. The harsh volcanic-formed landscape is not unusual for Iceland but different from anywhere else in the world that I’ve traveled.
“Nature’s beautiful when it’s left untouched,” I observe.
“Mmm,” Freya agrees. “And Iceland shows it at its newest and rawest. Volcanic activity and the harsh winters continue to twist and shape the landscape. I miss all this when I’m in Dublin.”
“Do you plan to move back?”
She shakes her head, and a shower of gold falls around her shoulders. “Not in the near future, but maybe one day.”
“Will you tell me more about your family?” I ask, hoping she won’t shut down my questions this time. Especially now I know who her father is, the reason I suspected for her false cheerfulness earlier.
“You recognized my father, didn’t you?” she asks, flicking her gaze to mine briefly before returning it back to the straight stretch of bitumen.
“Yes, I recognized him immediately. I’ve been a fan of Midnight Sons for fifteen years.”
“Me too.”
“Cute. But why didn’t you mention that? I know you didn’t expect to see him today, but it was kind of a big thing when you were talking about going to lunch with him. You only mentioned your father wasn’t around much.”
She shrugs. “Habit, I guess.” She draws in a deep breath. “No, that’s a lie. Hold on.” She turns her head from left to right, checking her mirrors before indicating to turn. A signpost on the side of the road has me sitting up straighter.
“We’re going to the Viking World Museum?” I ask, turning to look at her. I remember reading about this place, but I didn’t expect I’d get to see it. A frown pulls my brow low. Why are we stopping here?
“This is an unplanned detour so we can talk.”
“Aye, right. I like this kind of detour. The building was designed by Gudmundur Jonsson.”
Her soft laugh tugs on something in my chest. “I hadn’t thought of that. What a happy coincidence?” She chews on her bottom lip. “It’s hard to explain about my odd family dynamic while I’m driving.”
She pulls the car into the parking lot. “Wow, that is something special, isn’t it,” she exclaims, peering through the windscreen at the unusual structure before us. “I’ve never been here before.”
The museum entry is dominated by the replica Viking ship, The Icelander—the purpose and focus of Jonsson’s design. At the far end of the long rectangular hall is a wall of windows overlooking the nearby harbor, and that’s where the café is located.
A waft of tempting food teases my nostrils as we get closer to the café, and my stomach rumbles. Breakfast was only a large takeaway coffee, and I need more than that to fuel my body. Especially after the vigorous activities of last night and this morning.
“Let’s get food,” I suggest, and Freya’s head bobs eagerly in agreement.
We both order the lobster soup, the source of the delicious aroma, and take a seat beside the double-story wall of windows. When the steamy bowls are placed in front of us, along with a basket of warm crusty bread, Freya begins to talk about her family.
“I never tell people who my father is. Not my friends, not anybody. When I said it’s a habit, it’s true. All my life, I’ve hidden the fact. I mean literally nobody knows outside my family and my father’s close circle of friends.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I’d really appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself too.”
I nod, and she continues. “Although, these days, it probably doesn’t matter as much. But when I was younger, my mother and father decided it was best for all of us to keep it a secret. My parents have been best friends since they were children. They grew up next door to each other. But there was never anything romantic between them until the night they were celebrating Midnight Sons signing their first recording contract. Apparently, there was a big party, too many drinks, and one thing led to another. That was the night I was conceived, and one week later, my father and the band left for London to record the first album.”
Freya stirs the spoon around and around in her bowl of soup. I’m not sure if she’s trying to cool it down or if she’s feeling uncomfortable telling her story.
Still looking down, she continues. “My mother told him she was pregnant and that she wanted to raise me on her own. It made sense, especially when the band was celebrating their first number one by the time I was born. My father was there for my birth and has always supported my mother, though she has her own successful career designing Icelandic-inspired jewelry.” She lifts a spoon of soup to her lips, blows on it gently, then replaces it in the bowl untouched. This can’t be easy for her, sharing the closely held family secret.
Sliding the bowl away, she links her hands on the table in front of her. “As the band’s fame grew, they agreed that the best thing to do would be to keep our family connection private.”
“And neither of them married?” In the short time I spent with Freya’s parents, they seemed like a real couple. The way Jon resumed his seat on the edge of the bed close to her mother, then rested his hand over hers a bit later. It seemed more than friendship.
“Icelandic women are strong and capable. We don’t need a man to take care of us.”
I get the message loud and clear, whether she means to direct it to me or not. “I’ve no doubt. I see those same characteristics in you.”
She looks up at me but doesn’t say anything.
It sounds like a strange family situation, but given mine was far from the model family with an alcoholic, abusive father, I’m not the best judge of what’s normal. From what Freya has told me, at least she had a happy, stable childhood.
I dip my spoon in the creamy soup. “Mmm, this is pure dead brilliant.”
Freya raises a quizzical brow and moves her own bowl closer again.
“I mean good. Really good.” I scoop up another bite-sized piece of lobster and pop it in my mouth. After the first taste, it doesn’t take long for me to empty the bowl.
Freya puts down her spoon, having only eaten about half of hers. She seems quieter after sharing about her parents. It must have been difficult keeping her father secret all her life.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Her eyelids flutter shut before reopening slowly, as though she needed a moment to process my question.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. If you’re ready, we can go.”
I nod and follow her back to the car, giving her the space she appears to need.