Chapter 22
FISHER
When I step back to admire my handiwork, I can easily admit two things.
Number one that Ebba’s apartment is already looking much more like her.
Number two that I did go overboard, but I don’t care.
I couldn’t sleep again so I ended up cracking open the cans of paint and getting to work.
I had already cut the pieces of wood yesterday to make assembling the design I wanted to make on the wall behind her desk easier.
Using Velcro to attach the pieces worked better than I thought it would and adds some interest to the wall.
I’ve been as quiet as possible while working and Ebba’s stayed asleep—or I assume she has since she hasn’t burst out of her room to berate me for waking her up.
It’s nearing four in the morning, so I close the paint cans and cover what’s left in the pan with saran wrap. I opened the door to her balcony to let fresh air in while I was painting, and I decide to leave it open, so I don’t inhale the fumes if I do manage to get a few hours of sleep.
I have a rental truck set to pick up at ten so we can grab the couch from her storage unit and any other knickknacks we can find. Something tells me that thing is going to be filled with a treasure trove of our past.
“Hey.”
The word penetrates the recesses of my dreamlike state, but I can’t muster the energy to open my eyes.
“Hey.” A sound like snapping fingers. “Fisher?”
I make a humming sound in response.
“You need to wake up. It’s nine-thirty.”
My eyes pop open wide. “Oh shit.” I sit up quickly and nearly take Ebba out with my forehead, but luckily she jerks back just in time. “Sorry.” Shoving the blanket off, I stand and head for the bathroom, calling over my shoulder, “Thanks for waking me up.”
“You’re welcome. I made coffee too.”
“Bless you.”
I’ve almost latched the bathroom door when she says, “You did a lot of work while I was sleeping. It looks great, Fisher. Truly.”
I open the door wider. My grin is so big it makes my cheeks hurt. “Really?”
“Really,” she replies.
I know it’s stupid, but her approval makes me feel like I’ve won something.
Since time is of the essence, I skip shaving and stick to the basics. In record time, I step out in a change of clothes, thankful that I had the forethought to put an outfit in here last night.
Ebba looks up from her phone. She has her curls pinned back along the sides and she’s wearing a creamy blouse-like top and silky looking pink skirt with a pattern I can’t quite decipher.
“Ready?” There’s a hesitancy to her voice when she asks the question.
“Yeah, the rental truck place isn’t far from here. We’ll pick it up and head to your unit.”
She grabs her purse and slings it over her shoulder.
“Oh, your coffee,” she says, turning back around before she reaches the door and swiping a to-go cup from the counter.
“And I made you a sandwich too.” She holds out both the cup, and a foil wrapped square to me.
“Don’t read into this,” she adds, and I wonder if I’m making some lovey-dovey face at her—but then again, she probably just knows me that well.
“I’m not.”
She cocks her head to the side, her dark brown eyes probing. “It sure looks like it.”
“I’m not,” I say again, carefully unwrapping the sandwich and taking a bite. “I’m just hungry and in need of caffeine and it’s nice to be taken care of.” I whisper the last bit, a little afraid to admit that truth. I’m used to taking care of everyone else. My parents. Noah.
“Well.” She straightens her shoulders. “Okay.” She gives a tiny, almost satisfied nod. “I’m happy I could take care of you for a change.”
She locks up behind us, and I scarf down my sandwich by the time we make it to the garage beneath the building.
We arrive at the rental place late, but it’s no big deal—I just loathe tardiness.
The truck isn’t too oversized and easy to handle. The only issue is how rough the ride is. Ebba grabs onto the handle when we hit a particularly bad pothole.
“I think a lost a couple organs with that one,” she groans.
“Well, you’re still alive so I think you’re safe.”
I slow for a stoplight, and she lowers her hand from the door. “How are you doing? I should’ve reminded you to take Dramamine.”
“I’m driving so I’m fine,” I admit with a shrug. “If I was in your spot I fear I might have thrown up on your skirt.”
She looks down in horror. “Thank God you’re driving then.”
She guides me to the storage unit location and gives me the code to put in at the gate when we arrive.
“Keep going,” she directs. “Two more rows. Turn here and it’s all the way down on the end.”
I follow her directions and park the truck.
“You know,” she muses softly. “I probably should’ve asked my brother for help. It’s a pretty heavy couch.”
I frown. Asking for help hadn’t crossed my mind.
“Let’s see if we can manage and if we can’t we’ll call in reinforcements.”
“All right,” she agrees.
Hopping out of the truck, I meet her at the other side and find her fumbling with her keychain.
“Aha,” she says when she finds the right one and slides it into the lock.
Reaching down, I lift the door up and stare in surprise.
“Is your whole life in this storage unit?”
She shrugs at the assortment of plastic bins, racks of clothes, furniture, and other things.
“Pretty much.”
“But why?” I plant my hands on my hips, taking it all in. I spot my beloved couch beneath more storage containers.
“I don’t know, Fisher. Use your brain. Why would I possibly pack up all of this shit where I didn’t have to look at it?”
My shoulders fall. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” She kicks lightly at a box. “We’ll have to move a lot of this out to get to the couch.”
“I can see that.” I cock my head, trying to decide the best place to start.
Ebba digs right in, though, picking up a box and setting it outside of the unit. She probably has the right idea—just get it out of the way.
The temperature is quickly rising, and it isn’t long before sweat tickles the back of my neck.
Ebba shows no sign of pain, but I make a mental note to make sure she takes some Advil to get ahead of it.
I’m sure she doesn’t need me micromanaging her, but I can’t help it.
Taking care of Ebba is something I want to do.
Finally, we get the couch and area around it cleared of items and I can pick up one end and pull it out. It is outrageously heavy; she wasn’t lying about that.
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
My chest puffs at the worry in her voice. “Careful,” I tease, starting up the ramp with the couch. Luckily the legs are covered with something soft enough that they slide easily up the ramp. “I might start thinking you care about me.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Do you see anything else you want to take?” I ask with a grunt when the couch gets stuck between the ramp and actually making it onto the truck.
“I didn’t even want to take this.” Her tone is light and teasing and I wish I could see her face, but my vision is obscured by the large couch.
“Just look,” I plead.
“Fine.”
Her footsteps fade away. With one more grunt I manage to get the couch onto the truck.
We’re definitely calling in reinforcements to get this thing into her condo. There’s no way I’m getting it in by myself.
Pushing the couch against the wall of the truck, I give myself a minute to catch my breath before I join Ebba. The second I step off the truck, though, I know something is wrong.
Despite the sound of birds chirping and traffic speeding by on the nearby road it feels entirely silent—the kind of quiet that only comes when your body sinks into fight or flight mode.
I look around, worried a man has approached Ebba and grabbed her, but I find her standing stock-still inside the storage unit staring at … a box?
My steps quickly eat up the distance between us. “Ebba? What’s wrong?”
My answer comes the second I look at the box and the illustration on the cardboard.
A crib.
It’s a fucking crib.
“Ebba, I…”
“I’m getting in the truck,” she says in a whisper. “There’s nothing I want here.”
I regret pushing about the couch now.
“Okay. I’ll put this stuff away and we’ll leave.”
She moves away from me, her eyes downcast.
Blowing out a breath, I drop my head back. I’ve fucked up already with her, without even meaning to.