Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
The neighbors don’t seem to be home. I hope they remembered they said I could stay here. Of course, I’ll see them at the funeral anyway, but I really don’t want to break into the place.
“This is amazing,” James says as he gets out of the car, staring up at the house. “Right out of some bloody cottagecore Instagram account.”
That manages to make me laugh. He’s right. The house is white with black shutters and a black roof peppered with moss, a red door, and big windows looking out across the fjord on the other side of the street. It makes me happy to see the lace curtains in the windows haven’t been replaced by anything modern. My grandmother was adamant about not replacing anything unless it broke, and I hope Peter’s upkeep of the house kept that in mind.
James grabs the bags while we trudge through the cleared path toward the door. There’s a folded piece of paper resting on top of an upright log, the heavy key on top.
I pick up the key and read the note. It’s from Ann and Terre, telling me that the house is all mine, that they’ve got the logs for the fire ready to go inside, and that they’ll be back tomorrow to take me to the funeral.
I swallow and fold the note back up, placing it in my coat pocket as I stick the key in the door.
It’s been so long since I’ve stepped foot inside this house. The cold smell of the dry room, mixed with the pile of wood, brings back so many memories. My father had a workshop down here on the bottom floor that he would always disappear into, and my old playroom is just to the side, though it’s used for storage now.
James joins me inside. The heat isn’t on down here, so we’re quick in taking off our boots and coats and then heading up the narrow flight of stairs to the door at the top where the rest of the house is.
I open the door and step into the kitchen. It’s warm, and I’m hit with the smell of waffles, the same ones she would make every Sunday, that have somehow sunk into the bones of the house.
I close my eyes for a moment, just taking it all in.
James comes up behind me and places his strong hands on my shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze.
“It’s lovely,” he says. “It feels like a home.”
“It really is,” I say. “As it always was.” Everything looks the same. The table in the middle still has the same lacy tablecloth with red trim, the bench painted a sky blue. There’s a fruit bowl in the middle, one that we would always fill with blueberries and cloudberries picked in the late summer on the mountainside right behind the house. Right now it’s empty and it reminds me of how empty I feel.
There’s another note, this one on the old fridge. I walk over and take it off. It says to open the fridge.
I open it, finding it absolutely packed with food. Tupperware containers, casserole dishes covered in tinfoil, all the meat and fruit one could want. And beer. Tons of beer.
“Oh my god,” I exclaim softly. “I feel like the whole town has brought us food.”
“Uh, Laila?” James says.
I turn to see him in the doorway to the living room, staring at it. I rush over to him and gasp. It’s covered floor to ceiling in balloons, and flowers, and gift baskets.
“Oh my god,” I say again, and this time the tears can’t be held back.
I break down crying, so painfully raw at the loss, and yet so overjoyed and warmed by the generosity of the townspeople. The people who loved Helge as much as I did.
James puts his arms around me, holding me close to him, his palm pressed against the back of my head. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to feel everything.”
I bury my head in his sweater, my hands going behind him and holding on to the strong planes of his back, feeling his strength, hoping he can pass some of that strength on to me.
I don’t know how long we stand like that. Time doesn’t seem to matter much. It passes with each beat of his heart that I can hear from his chest, each long and steady breath he takes. His grip on me remains firm, keeping me up, and I think I’m losing myself to the comfort he brings me, his touch and affection.
Why do I keep losing myself to the very man who broke my heart and will no doubt do it again?
Finally, I calm down, even though everything inside me feels more wild and chaotic than ever, feelings I don’t even have names for that want to take me for a ride.