“That’s all I have,” he said. “Can you spell your name?”
“K-E-M-I.”
“So, how do you pronounce it?” he asked.
“Keh-me,” she offered. A smile slowly crept onto his face.
“Ah, I see… Keh-me… Your name is spelled like chemistry in Swedish. K-E-M-I… We pronounce it ‘Shermmy’!”
Once Kemi filed that trivia away for future reference, their teacher, José Lundqvist, started his lecture completely in Swedish. The students occasionally glanced at one another, trying to follow along, until someone raised a hand.
“Excuse me. I can’t follow what you’re saying. It’s all in Swedish,” a voice with an American accent spoke up.
“This is a Swedish class,” José continued in Swedish. The group could make out the words svenska and klass, thus deducing his sarcasm.
“But it’s our first class,” the American argued. José was defiant. He walked up to the board and started scribbling in Swedish.
“If this were a free SFI class,” the American continued, “I wouldn’t care. But I’m actually paying for this course and would like to get my money’s worth!”
The group fell silent, shocked by the man’s outburst.
His words were strong enough to pivot José back to facing the class. He took a deep breath and stared at the guy, looked down into his notebook, and then back at him.
“Malcolm…” he stressed. Malcolm regarded him with questioning eyes.
“How will you learn if I keep speaking English?” José quizzed in English.
“I will learn. But you also have to understand our position,” Malcolm answered. Low murmuring within the group surfaced in support. Malcolm did have a point, the murmurs whispered.
Outnumbered, José looked around the class and then settled on Malcolm, whose linebacker physique was squeezed into a tiny chair.
“Very well. If you don’t follow along, just raise your hand, and I will try…in little English,” he offered before going back to the board.
The class droned on for two more hours, ending at eight p.m. Kemi’s brain had stopped functioning an hour earlier. She needed to rush home, get some dinner, and prep for work in the morning.
As she was stuffing a notebook and dictionary into her oversize bag, a voice floated over her shoulder. “So, what’s your story?” She spun around to face the six-footer who had snuck up behind her as she packed. He had a large Afro of wispy curls, dull-gray eyes, and caramel-colored skin.
“Malcolm, right?” She extended her hand. “Kemi.” His grip was strong. “I just got a job here. And you?”
“Musician,” he said. “Saxophone.”
“Cool!” She was overly excited and calmed herself down before continuing. “How long have you been here?” He shook his head and tsked. There was a longer story in there than she had time for tonight.
“Well, my mom’s Swedish, and my dad’s African American,” he started. “They divorced when I was ten. She ran back to Sweden and left me with him.” Kemi shifted her feet, unsure if she was ready to receive his life story as thoughts of ramen noodles swam around in her head.
“I’m sorry,” she started to say, hoping to cut him off. But he continued.
“Yeah, my dad died last year, and my mom fell really ill, so I decided to move to Sweden to spend some time with her, you know.”
“Oh, Malcolm, I’m so sorry,” she said. He shrugged.
“That’s life, you know. Now I’m here, trying to navigate all this shit and whatnot,” he said, slinging his messenger bag across his broad chest. “Look, I know you gotta run. Great meeting you, Kemi. Let’s chat on Wednesday.” Before she could respond, he barreled out of the room like a charismatic tornado. In those two minutes, Kemi realized she’d learned more about Malcolm than she had about Ingrid or Espen so far.
Her high-heeled feet were killing her by the time she got home. She waited for the creepy elevator as it deposited its occupants—a wizened but startled couple, spooked by Kemi’s presence in their building. She squeezed past them into the elevator with a smile and an oil-stained paper bag of ramen noodles in hand.
She was slowly beginning to settle into some form of routine, including finding favorite take-out joints and neighborhood grocery stores.
During her first few days at von Lundin, she sat at her desk twiddling her thumbs over her laptop. It wasn’t unusual. First days were usually blurs of doing nothing useful. She simply milled around the office, meeting more colleagues, filling herself up with lattes, trying to beat the boredom. Her first lunch with Ingrid had been quick. A dash downstairs and one street over to Espresso House for salads. After tasting the coffee there, she decided she would add a pre-work stop at Espresso House to her daily morning routine.
Ingrid and Kemi returned to find their team gathered in the conference room for a “Welcome Kemi Fika!” party. In the middle of the table sat a neon-green Prinsesstårta—princess cake—topped with a pink marzipan rose. Once cut, it oozed so much whipped cream, Kemi was sure she gained five pounds just by looking at the darn thing.
Jonny, as expected, wasn’t in the office, and she was told not to count on him.
After work, she’d be going to Swedish class twice a week, Mondays and Wednesdays from five to eight p.m. With the brutal first class behind her, she had to wonder if she would ever learn to hear the difference between sjö, sju, and kö.
Now back in her apartment, she pulled out her laptop and dug into her ramen noodles, slurping hungrily as she started pulling up browsers, prepping for her favorite pastime: scouring dating sites.
Her first week as a Swedish resident, she figured the quickest way to explore the city and find her way into its culture would be through its men. She had hope. But when she’d googled “Black in Sweden,” she discovered it wasn’t going to be easy. Swedes are insular, one site warned. You’re going to have to make the first move, a travel article about dating around the globe suggested. Curious guys use every reflective surface to check your body out instead of looking directly.
She kept scrolling past profiles and faces while gobbling up her noodles. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she knew what her body responded to: brawn. Her electrician Andre flashed through her mind. She kept scrolling past pretty boy after pretty boy. Metrosexuals in all shades. Weathered men too. And the occasional guy who looked like he’d wandered onto the wrong website and mistakenly created a profile with a serious corporate headshot, thinking it was LinkedIn.
She paused on one bearded, brawny guy and used Google Translate to read his Swedish profile. She flipped through extra photos of Bearded Brawn, ogling various stages of undress. Wow, Bearded Brawn looked good in a suit, a dress shirt stretching suggestively over his broad chest. Bearded Brawn loved to work out too. Muay Thai boxing.
She pored through this particular profile until a pop-up notification from Bearded Brawn startled her, making her splash drops of noodle broth.
Jag ser att du kollar på min profil :) “I see you checking out my profile.”
She quickly copied the text, translated it, and blushed. What the heck? This site was tracking everything. She couldn’t ogle in peace without the oglee finding out? She pushed her noodles aside and typed back.
“Busted :) Sorry, my Swedish is nonexistent.”
She sent it off and bit a nail. Her body was definitely reacting to this particular pick. A few seconds later, he responded.
“You’re funny…and cute.”
Lazy but okay, she’d play along.
“Thanks. So Muay Thai? That’s pretty intense.”
“Yeah I lived in Thailand for a while when I was backpacking last year, and totally got into it.”
Backpacking? Last year? She quickly flipped over from the chat window to his profile to double-check his age. His photos had distracted her.
She found it. Sebastian was twenty-one. Shit. How did he get so bearded and brawny so quickly? She had to end it now. What would she do with a twenty-one-year-old who had just returned from backpacking around the world?
“Backpacking? Wow, you seem so…young.”
There was a long stretch of inactivity, and then Sebastian came back.
“I like older women.”
Okurrr, Bearded Brawn.
She ended up chatting with Sebastian for over an hour, and the kid seemed like an old soul. Adventurous too, with dozens of countries under his belt. He was fluent in Spanish and totally down with the sisters.
When they met that Friday, it was to an Arctic chill that Kemi hadn’t anticipated. She’d arrived early to the dinner spot he’d chosen on the island of Södermalm. She’d put on one of her flattering dresses, had done her favorite smoky eye makeup, and waited with a glass of Prosecco in hand at one of the candlelit tables for two. When Sebastian walked in, she recognized him right away. Tall, broad-shouldered, and with his beard, he had a Viking vibe about him. He looked delicious. She smiled, getting to her feet.
But he never approached her. He was still parked close to the front door, and his eyes caught hers from across the room. She frowned quizzically, trying to read his expression.
Was that…disappointment?
Caught halfway up, she quickly collected herself and sat back down, pretending she had mistaken him for someone else. She started fiddling with her cutlery. A few seconds later, she looked up to find that he had vanished, as if he’d been an apparition all along. Kemi bit her lower lip, trying to decipher what had just happened. She didn’t have to think long, because her phone buzzed with a notification from her dating app. It was Sebastian.
“I’m sorry… You don’t match your picture.”
Those words were like salt on an open wound. She knew what she needed to do right away, but she wanted to know why he’d bolted. She knew better than to ask him only to satisfy her self-destructive sense of curiosity.
“What do you mean?”
“Uhmm… I mean… You’re kind of fat.”
Fat?
Kemi wasn’t sure where to begin with his statement. This was the first time in her entire disaster-filled dating life that a guy had said she didn’t match her photos. Photos she’d carefully curated to accentuate her best features. She was a U.S. size twelve and considered herself average. Curvaceous yes, but definitely not fat. Then again…the twelves she wore a few years ago, she couldn’t fit into today. Fashion retailers were cunning creatures.
She chugged her Prosecco.
After downing its last drop, she turned back to her phone and typed:
“Fuck you.”
Nine
BRITTANY-RAE
Brittany’s morning flight to Stockholm from London had been brutal. The greasy waft of scrambled eggs and pork sausages in business class had churned her stomach through the two-and-a-half-hour flight over the North Atlantic. But she kept it together by focusing on meditation exercises.
She wasn’t sure if the nausea was from her growing baby or the fact that she was on her way to meet Jonny’s family. Initially, she’d protested, but after the long heart-to-heart with Tanesha, she decided to give Jonny a chance to prove he was worth upending her life for. If he was worth pulling her off course into a much faster, albeit cushier, lane.
Within minutes of Brittany’s agreeing to come, Eva called from the London office to plan her travel itinerary—and also get details about her monthly rent. Brittany wasn’t sure how to feel about being taken care of by proxy, but she let Eva do what she did best, choosing to gloss over the fact that Eva knew how to take care of Jonny’s women.
Now she was here. Her first time in Scandinavia really, even though she’d crisscrossed Europe over the years as a flight attendant. She planned to stay for five days—long enough to get a sense of what she was sinking into. Truth be told, she was terrified. Scared shitless that they would judge her on sight. Not that their opinion should matter, she consoled herself, but this rash pursuit she’d indulged in with Jonny had left her exposed and vulnerable. A state she didn’t want to be in right now.
When the automatic doors of the Terminal 2 arrivals area smoothly pulled apart, Jonny was there waiting in his typical stance, fists balled at his sides. His face broke out into a grin, reeling her in.
“Jonny…”
His mouth covered hers in a fierce kiss. One that blotted out the entire hall, while strangers looked on, a bit dazed and caught off guard too. He deepened the kiss, his left hand moving to cradle her right cheek. Self-consciousness gripped Brittany, and she wiggled out of his hold. She licked her lips shyly, while he remained inches from her face.
“Jonny…good to see you too.” She smiled, daring not to look around, as she already felt strange eyes scorching her skin. She was still learning how to wear their relationship with pride.
He stepped in closer and covered her lips once more with his. Brittany melted into his arms. His heat didn’t seem to be waning. If anything, Brittany was beginning to wonder if he was indeed obsessed with her. But she let him kiss her the way she liked.
Until someone bumped into them. A conscious act because the following “Förlåt, sorry!” mumbled by the blond woman felt devoid of remorse as she shot Brittany a dirty look. The slam was hard enough to jolt Jonny back into reality, and he reached for Brittany’s carry-on bag. As if on autopilot, he flattened his left palm on her stomach.
“How are you?” he asked quietly, searching her face for signs of discomfort.
“I didn’t puke on the plane, so…” Her attempt at humor washed over him.
“Did you get sick again from…you know?”
“I’m fine. Nausea comes with it.”
He gave her a weak smile and led her downstairs and out to the outdoor parking area where his silver Tesla was parked. Minutes later, they were cruising down E4 toward downtown Stockholm in a comfortable silence that wrapped around Brittany like the softest Merino wool. Moved by these feelings, she rested her left palm on his thigh as he drove. He tensed beneath her touch, and she sensed it. He seemed surprised by her show of affection. Up until this point, he’d always initiated intimacy.
“Are you okay?”
“No. Yes. I mean, of course.” He seemed frazzled. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.” She studied his profile.
“Are you nervous too?” she asked.
“About what?”
“Revealing us to your family? To the world?”
He gently grabbed her hand from his thigh and lifted it to his lips. “I’m not nervous.” He kissed the back of her palm softly, murmuring into it. “I can’t wait to show you off.”
Jonny started rattling off the schedule for the week, eyes firmly on the road. He had planned it all. Well, Louise—his Stockholm assistant—had planned it all.
Brittany had flown in Wednesday afternoon. Thursday was reserved for a little sightseeing. They were meeting his parents for lunch on Friday before the retirees headed out to Doha, Qatar, for a long weekend. Friday night was dinner and hitting his favorite clubs and lounges. On Saturday, they would head over to Antonia’s for her traditional August kräftskiva in Elfvik on Lidingö, one of the many islands that made up the Stockholm archipelago. Brittany was also going to meet his other sister, Svea, as well as a few close friends there. Then she was taking the early morning flight back to London and on to Dulles by Sunday.
Brittany took a pronounced breath. This was all too much. She was going to meet the von Lundin dynasty. His parents in particular were her greatest concern.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not nervous. I’m terrified.” She laughed. “Your parents…”
“My parents? Oh, they’re scary,” he stressed. Brittany burst out laughing. Her chuckle died down when she realized he wasn’t jokin
g, his face remaining tense as he drove. The rolling countryside soon gave way to monochromatic structures as they neared Stockholm proper. Blue and red buses crisscrossed around them.
“I live in town, close to all the action,” he said as he steered. Brittany gawked at the postcard-perfect setting surrounding her once they hit Strandvägen. Jonny pointed out ferries and boats lining waterfronts. Elegant, cream-colored buildings looked like cake icing piped along the waterfront. Tourists milled around, many with cameras, stopping absentmindedly in the middle of walking to take photos. They pushed on past Djurgården, which had oddly shaped buildings cresting lush, green tree lines. Jonny mentioned he was taking her there tomorrow to visit its museums.
He veered right into a quieter neighborhood, where they drove past different plaques and flags of various embassies, including the American Embassy.
“We’re almost there,” Jonny said before pulling into a small driveway belonging to a modest-looking villa with waterfront access. At its private pier bobbed a small speedboat, which she assumed he used to zip around Stockholm’s waterways to avoid automobile traffic.
Unlike his glass watchtower in London, this villa was small, reminiscent of a hobbit cottage but still modern. Aside from a single concrete wall, the open-plan villa facing the water was floor-to-ceiling glass. It was sparsely decorated with the same gray tones as inside his tower at Canary Wharf. Railless steps, with nothing to block a drunken fall, led up to a small loft area with a vaulted ceiling, the only bedroom in the place.
“This feels more like you,” Brittany said, pirouetting to take in his pad in one three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sweep.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
He grabbed her carry-on and took it up to the loft area. He jogged back down those stairs with no railings, which frightened her. Then he planted himself in his usual spot, inches from her face.
“This isn’t a good place for a baby,” he said. “It’s unsafe. We need more space. This isn’t good enough.” She shushed him with a light kiss, which he took over right before an excited voice chimed in.
In Every Mirror She's Black Page 14
