10. Freya
I’m a little bit stunned. I’ve never felt so laid bare as I did when I shared the story of my family. There are only a small number of people who know who my father is, and now Rory is one of them. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I sneak a look out of the corner of my eye at him. His head is turned as he stares out the window. He was doing this earlier, but then he seemed happy to talk. Not now. He sits in stony silence, and I know it’s all my fault. Nothing has gone right this morning. Except for the bit where I woke up next to the handsome Scotsman who is a master of pleasure. But from the moment we left his place, the day has been a disaster.
My father was meant to be flying on a friend’s private jet back to London. A visit to my mother wasn’t meant to be an inquisition. And my day going to the Blue Lagoon with Rory was meant to be fun. Instead, I’m stuck in my head with a bundle of mixed-up thoughts and emotions.
I’m trying to deal with the exposure of a secret that has lasted my lifetime and trying to make sense of what is happening between my parents. Because, without a doubt, something is going on there. Then, of course, there is Rory. I don’t know where I stand with him. And maybe it doesn’t matter because he leaves tomorrow. Except now he knows who my father is. My brain shuffles back to the biggest problem.
I’ve lived with the fear that one day, an overzealous reporter would discover that I’m Jon Eriksson’s secret daughter and break the news worldwide. I’m not ashamed of the fact. I’m proud of what my father has achieved. The bit I always struggle with is that all my friends would learn how I’ve lied to them over the years. I worry that the neighbors would no longer want to talk to my mother and me; we’d be excommunicated. My career would be ruined before I’d even started to have one. And my mother would never get another jewelry order.
This has been my biggest fear for as long as I can remember, and as irrational as it sounds, it feels like it’s about to become reality. At least this is the closest we’ve come to it coming true. Rory is the only person in twenty-six years who has accidentally discovered our family secret.
I drive to the Blue Lagoon on autopilot, a whirlpool of confusion clouding my mind, spiraling me into a miserable mood. And all the while, Rory continues to stare silently out the window, leaving me alone with my crazy, bordering-on-unhinged, panicked thoughts.
Pulling into the first space I see, I shove the brake on and switch off the engine.
“Let’s get this done,” I mutter to myself, trying to muster some of the enthusiasm I felt earlier this morning when I first thought to come to the lagoon.
Rory’s face spins toward me, a scowl creasing his brow.
Damn, I didn’t mean to say that out loud, and I try to mask my discomfort with an overly bright smile. It’s so forced my jaw aches. Escaping his searching gaze, I jump out of the car. He knows something’s off. It’s written in every frown line marring his handsome face.
Rory seems to see so much deeper than my skin, all the way down to my most vulnerable softer parts. And right now, he’s reading me like a book.
We float in the warm unnaturally colored turquoise water of the lagoon for an hour. Merely going through the motions rather than enjoying the silica mud mask and the cool beer at the swim-up bar. There’s been no deliberate or accidental brushing against each other, no hand-holding, and no laughter. So unlike yesterday when everything felt easy and comfortable. It’s like we’re two completely different people. And when Rory suggests that we go, I almost sigh out loud with relief.
We drive toward Reykjavik, and although we both try to start a conversation, each attempt trails off into another awkward silence.
I’ve ruined this afternoon with my inability to rationalize an old fear away. I think he hates me, and I don’t know how to fix it.
By the time I pull up outside his accommodation, I’m no further forward. We both get out of the car, and my legs are like lead weights as I walk to the rear end. Opening the trunk, I reach in to get his backpack, even though he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself. A shiver skitters up my spine, knowing he’s watching my every move, and instead of it feeling like a warm caress as it did yesterday, it’s like icy fingers trailing across my skin.
I turn to face him, the backpack clutched tightly in my hand, an insurmountable barrier between us. I’ve no words. My mind is a blank canvas I want to paint a beautiful picture on, but I don’t know where to start.
He reaches to cup my cheek, his touch warm against my cold skin. His dark, fathomless eyes search for something in mine, but I’m not sure what. With a heavy sigh, he drops his hand back to hang by his side. I guess he didn’t find what he was looking for. My vision mists, and I swallow the lump lodged in my throat as I focus my attention on the center of his chest.
“Thank you for showing me your city,” he says in a low, robotic voice.
Why does he have to be so polite? Why doesn’t he just call bullshit on all this?
He takes his backpack from my stiff fingers and steps back. “Goodbye, Freya Jonsdottir. It’s been a pleasure.” His words seem to reach in and squeeze my heart a little tighter. But then he turns and walks away.
I want to shout at him not to go. I want to stamp my foot and say he can’t leave. But it’s too late. He’s already gone.
My chest hurts; each breath in is a painful gasp. And there’s nothing left to do but to get back in the car and leave too.
I don’t drive home. Instead, I head straight to the hospital. I don’t care that it’s not visiting hours yet, I need my mum, and I dare anyone to try and stop me.
***
“Mamma, I screwed up.” My voice is slightly muffled by the sheets that I’ve buried my face in. I’m sitting in a hard plastic chair that I’ve pulled up to the side of her bed, my arms slumped on the sheets and acting as a pillow for my head. My mother gently strokes my hair like she’s always done when I’m hurting.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Her voice is the soothing balm I need to hold back my tears.
“I know he has to go tomorrow, but I didn’t want us to end like this.” I swallow down the painful lump in my throat.
She sighs. “I think you might have to go back a few steps because I don’t know what you’re talking about. Although I can guess that the he you’re referring to is Rory.”
I lift my head slightly to look at her. “Of course! And I let my stupid, irrational fears about Dad’s identity being discovered ruin the fun I was having with him.”
She rolls her eyes. “Freya, I’ve told you so many times that it’s okay if people find out. They’ll understand why we hid it. And anyway, what makes you think Rory is going to go tell the press or post his discovery on social media? He doesn’t seem to be the type.”
“He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t.”
“Exactly. Now how are you going to fix this?”
I make a half-hearted attempt at a shrug, and it earns me another eye roll.
“Freya, this isn’t like you to just give up on something you want. Call him.” She places her hand under my chin and tips my face up higher. “Call him. You’ll regret it if you don’t. I’ve never seen you so interested in a man. You’re usually telling me all of a guy’s faults, but you’ve not said one bad thing about Rory.”
The door opens behind me, and in saunters my father. He has the swagger and commanding presence of fame, even when he’s walking into a hospital room and there’s no one about but us. The clock on the adjacent wall shows that visiting hours just started and Pabbi seems to not want to waste one minute of it.
“What did I miss?” he drawls, a hint of an American twang in his words. He lived in the States for so long that his original Icelandic accent has virtually disappeared. He gives me a half hug and a kiss on the top of my head, before leaning across to kiss Mum on the lips. A long, lingering kiss.
I crawl out from between them. “Hey, what’s going on here?”
They are both grinning, and a blush turns my mother’s cheeks pink.
Pabbi pushes away the chair I just vacated and sits on the edge of the bed, taking my mother’s hand in his. “I think it’s time we told her, Andrea.”
“Told me what?” I stand at the end of the bed, staring at the two of them. They look very cozy together.
“I’m going to stay with your mother for a while.”
“What, like here? Now?” I ask, still not completely putting together his words and the scene in front of me.
“No, like in the house when she’s released from hospital,” my father explains.
“That’s great. How long are you staying?”
He shrugs, then looks down at my mother as he says, “As long as she wants me.”
Oh my God, are my parents getting together after twenty-six years? This has to be the longest friends-to-lovers story I’ve ever heard. They continue to beam at each other, and it’s kind of cute. How did I not see this coming?
My cheeks ache from the stretch of my smile. It’s time I left them alone before they start making out in front of me. Nobody wants to see their parents doing that. After all, I have my own love life to sort out. The way I left things with Rory is going to gnaw away at my heart if I don’t at least try to fix it.
“I’ll see you both tomorrow. And, Mum, thanks for the chat.” We share a final three-way hug before I leave.
The hallway is empty with only faint murmurings filtering through the closed doors and the sound of my boots squeaking against the hard floor to fill the silence. I take out my phone to quickly type a text.