Let Go

by Alexandra Winter

  THANK YOU

  To all Alpha and Beta readers who have contributed to this story, thank you for your time, effort and honest feedback. I hope your dreams come true because you help writers like me fulfill theirs.

  Love Alexandra

  For my mother and my brother, for your support and belief in me.

  For Knut, for your love and patience.

  For Sheila who’s helped make this book what it is today. I couldn’t have done this without your help.

  COPYRIGHT

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 Alexandra Winter

  Alexandra Winter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including its condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. I apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgments in any future editions.

  Published: Alexandra Winter 2018

  Editing: Sheila Korol

  Proofreading: Sheila Korol

  Cover design: Germancreative

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-82-691506-0-5

  ISBN-13: 978-82-691506-1-2

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  CONTENTS

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  LANGUAGE EXPLANATION

  THANK YOU

  GRAPHIC DESIGN

  MOM

  THE POSTER

  MAY 17th

  WILLIAM

  THE SKAR FAMILY

  WHISKEY

  DAD

  TRAVEL

  CHOOSE

  HUMILITY

  QUESTIONS

  DEATH

  THE LETTER

  THE ATTACK

  BLAME

  FORGET

  A LETTER TO MR. JENSEN

  PORSCHE

  REMOVED

  BROWN SPOTS

  SEX?

  HOPE

  SEPARATE

  NOTE THE DATE

  SUGAR

  CONNECTING THE DOTS

  BREAT CANCER

  NEWS

  FALL

  CONTRACTS

  HOME

  RING

  A CHRISTMAS WISH

  DINNER FOR ONE

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  A CHRISTMAS GIFT

  ERICA

  ABORTION

  SHOWING OFF

  BAD REVIEW

  ESPRESSO

  STRANGLED

  SURPRISE

  PLANNING

  TRAPPED

  FULFILLING DREAMS

  CHEERS

  FOR UPDATES

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Let Go is the first book about Amalie’s journey. It’s a standalone novel which you are welcome to read on its own or as the first in a series.

  Follow on:

  Instagram: @alexandra_winter_official

  or sign up for updates at www.alexandrawinter.com

  Happy reading!

  Alexandra Winter

  LANGUAGE EXPLANATION

  Dear reader.

  Norwegian locations in this book use the letters Æ, Ø and Å.

  Since the English language does not have these vowels, here’s how to pronounce them:

  Æ (æ) :pronounced as the a in the English word bad.

  Ø (ø) :pronounced as the i in the English word bird.

  Å (å) :pronounced as the combination of the two letters aw in the word yawn.

  In one of the first chapters, I’ll introduce you to the bunad. This is a historical outfit Norwegians use for weddings, our Constitution Day, and other special occasions where both men and women dress up in them.

  GRAPHIC DESIGN

  “Mom, no. Please don’t ask him,” I say, sandwiching the phone between my right ear and shoulder. Ticking from the clock above the whiteboard echoes through the empty classroom as the long hand falls straight down to nine thirty.

  Shit.

  The last bus left an hour ago. “I’ll walk home, or grab a taxi or something. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Walking? It’s much too far to walk. I’ll worry that you’re not safe out by the road alone, and you know we can’t afford taxis, honey. I already spoke to your father. He is more than happy to come and get you.”

  That’ll be a first, and utterly untrue.

  I search for another solution. If Dad’s happy about this, it means he needs a favor from me, and I don’t want to owe him. It’s dark outside, no moon, and by the look of the clouds, it’ll rain. I can’t insist on walking. Mom will postpone her meeting and come to get me.

  “Did Mr. Jensen say why you had to stay behind?”

  “No, which isn’t like him at all, so I’m a little worried. I’m sorry. I called as soon as I could,” Mom says.

  “You’re the heart of The Bluebird, everyone knows that. I’m sure it’s wonderful news. I don’t see him springing bad news on anyone, especially not you.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. And don’t worry about your father. He’ll finally get to see where you spend your time working on your designs, it’ll be great,” Mom says, in her ever-optimistic voice.

  He won’t be happy, he’ll hate it, and the worst part is he’ll know where I am.

  This time at school is the only place I can be myself and work on my designs without his demands and judgment for how I spend my time. After Nana signed me up for the evening graphics design course, this classroom has been my escape from anything related to him. Knowing he’s coming here infests my mind with fear. I can’t let him in the door. Thank God Miss Ask isn’t here tonight. I’d hate it if she met him, that would ruin everything. This is my world, my escape, and he’s not welcome in it.

  “I’m sure it’ll be great. Good luck tonight.” I hang up the phone, and the pulse in my neck quickens. Only Dad has this effect on me. At least I have a few hours to perfect my poster design until he’s here.

  An hour later, the door to the classroom opens as I pack my sketchbook and pencils into my bag. I stand, subconsciously preparing excuses if it’s Dad. I’m relieved to see it’s not.

  Miss Ask, my graphic design teacher, enters while throwing a yellow knitted scarf around her neck. Always dressed in two complementary colors, it fits perfectly with her purple wool knit dress. “Staying late again? You’re really going for it with this bakery poster.”

  “My first real assignment.” Up until now, only Mom and Mr. Jensen have asked me to design for the restaurant, so I’m giving it my all.

  “A paid job? Well done,” she says.

  Instead of creating a standard poster, I’ve painted a modern version of an old-fashioned commercial for coffee. The letters appear wet, like hot coffee, spilled onto the canvas, floating out into the logo of Mr. Dahl’s Bakery.

  “Um, no. That is…I don’t know if it’s paid work.”

  “Amalie.”

  She doesn’t have to say anything. It’s
her mantra. Don’t give away your work for free.

  “I know, I know. I hope so. Josefine, Mr. Dahl’s daughter, begged me to make it for them.” Josefine has been a pain to me since she moved to our town when I was six and she was five, but since her father’s the one who’s asked me to make it, and he’s a friend of Dad, we didn’t talk about the price. “I want to see my work in a window.” And see Dad’s proud face when people congratulate him on his daughter’s achievement. I have to get this right.

  And, she should leave. I don’t want her bumping into Dad on her way out. “I won’t keep you,” I say.

  “You won’t. I forgot a folder earlier,” Miss Ask says, and raises her arm showing me a blue portfolio. Images of Dad rolling his eyes appear along with his voice in my head: “Art people. Forgetful with no structure in their lives. No wonder they’re all broke.” I respect Miss Ask, so I thrust Dad’s voice from my mind.

  “I couldn’t have done this better myself.” Miss Ask points to the canvas. “The bakery will love it.”

  Hope fills me, but I try to contain it. I don’t want to get excited before Mr. Dahl expresses how he feels about it.

  “I hope so. Dad gave me tomorrow off, so I’m meeting them in the morning.”

  I hope they’ll like it. No, love it.

  The car horn honking outside makes me jump in my seat. Oh no, he’s here already. And Miss Ask is still here.

  Shit.

  I scramble my paintbrushes into a plastic bag, careful not to damage the bristles. Usually I clean them, but tonight, they’ll have to wait.

  Another blast of the horn, a second longer this time.

  Yes, Dad. You think graphic design is a waste of time.

  And now I’m wasting his by making him wait. I don’t want to be that selfish, but ripping myself away from my unfinished design aches my core.

  I throw on my coat. “I promised Josefine I’d have it ready by tomorrow, but I’ll finish it up when I get home.”

  Miss Ask walks over to the window where the moon lights up her olive skin and the strands of gray hair framing her face. “Your mother’s in a hurry tonight. And in a new car?”

  “Mom doesn’t honk.” I don’t have to look to know that outside, perfectly aligned with the parking space lines in front of the school, a red Porsche waits. “It’s Dad.” I immediately regret telling her.

  No, you can’t greet him. Trust me, you don’t want to.

  I’m sick of my front row seat to his performances. Ever since Nana pushed for me to attend this class, actually paying for me to be able to when Dad opposed the idea, Miss Ask has supported me. She deserves better than his judgment of her.

  Hopefully, he won’t see how she’s parked. I’ve heard it a thousand times before: “Don’t they realize how idiotic they look? How do these people get a driver’s license when they’re not smart enough to follow a straight line?”

  Please don’t walk out with me. I can’t bear to witness Dad’s theatrics tonight.

  His fake smile, the way his voice shifts into a smooth and flirty tone, charming her like he always does with every new person he meets. Everyone loves him, and he basks in it. It pisses me off. If they only knew how he talks behind their backs. I’m scared to think what he says behind mine.

  I have to get out without Miss Ask following me. I lift the canvas, careful not to smudge the wet paint as I head towards the door.

  Miss Ask follows. “Let me hold that.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, balancing the painting on my knee while pulling the door open. Miss Ask grabs the door. “Don’t be silly. I’ll walk with you.”

  I struggle to find an excuse to make her stay behind. No matter what I say, I’ll sound weird. If I tell her to stay, she’ll wonder why, and I can’t say I don’t want her to meet my father, then I’ll need to explain that too. If she walks out before me, chances are she’ll introduce herself anyways, and I’ll be stuck listening to his judgment of her all the way home. An opinion he has no right to make, but as usual, will ring true in some way and change my perception of her.

  I don’t want him to dislike you.

  She opens the entrance door, letting me out. Dad’s red Porsche glimmers under a lamp post.

  “It must be such a joy having a successful father, huh?”

  His success has nothing to do with joy.

  I don’t respond. I don’t want to ruin his image.

  Dad exits the car. His black suit, once tailored, is now too tight to button the blazer around his recently expanded belly fat. He’s a good-looking man, tall with black hair. He has a certain way of looking at women that makes them blush, touch themselves in response to him, on the neck, the face. It’s embarrassing.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Dad extends a hand to greet Miss Ask. Here it comes, his usual performance of pretending to know her already. I witness it all again, the sparkling eyes, his silky-smooth voice, and the deceptive fake smile.

  “What a pleasure to finally meet you. Thank you for making Amalie feel welcome in your class. I’m Amalie’s father, Hermann Skar.”

  My dad should run for office—he’s that good.

  Come on, Miss Ask. You can see through this bullshit.

  I wait by the side of the car to observe her reaction.

  You’re too smart to fall for his lies.

  But Miss Ask blushes and dabs her face with her hand before shaking his. “The pleasure is all mine. Hanne Ask. What an incredible daughter you have. You must feel lucky to bear witness to such growing talent.”

  Please tell me you’re being polite and not falling for Dad’s theatrics.

  Dad gestures for me to get into the car while laughing along. “I don’t know where she gets it from.”

  He knows very well it’s from Mom and Nana.

  Placing the canvas in the trunk, I kick my feet together before entering the car to make sure I don’t bring any dirt with me. Observing them through the front window is like watching a play. Dad, portraying the loving father, while Miss Ask giggles every time he winks at her or touches her arm. “Don’t fall for his lies,” I whisper. “You’re smarter than this.” But hearing myself say the words doesn’t convince me. She might be good at her job, but Dad has proven she’s a sheep like everyone else.

  He knows how to use his charm to his advantage, and often tells me it’s what makes a good salesman—to be liked. I don’t agree with him. It all seems wrong somehow. Being fake. Perhaps that’s why I enjoy hiding behind my designs. No one can judge me to my face or pretend they know who I am. I don’t have to put on a show. Like Dad is doing to Miss Ask now. He has no idea who she is, and she will never know.

  Dad’s muffled voice wraps up the conversation. “Well, I hope to see you again soon.”

  No, you don’t.

  I buckle my seatbelt.

  Miss Ask jumps at the sudden cut in their chat. “Oh, yes. Of course. It is late, isn’t it?” She waves to me and calls out. “Please let me know if you hear back from DAP.”

  I put on a smile, roll down my window. “I will. See you next week.” A part of me wants to baaa out the window from the disappointment stirring up inside me. Not even she sees past Dad’s charm, a person I’ve heard analyzing artists hiding behind their work, deciphering the meaning behind a stroke of a brush in a painting or the color choices in a poster, or explaining why one font tricks the audience to feel a certain way about the message. Dad’s flashing his font in her face, his colors shining bright and still, but she’s blind to it.

  What an idiot I am for believing she’d be different. Nobody is. They’re all sheep.

  Dad kisses her cheek. Her face turns red, bright like the car, which reflects her desperate gaze. “What a beautiful car,” she says.

  Great.

  Dad clears his throat. I mouth his response along with his answer. “I’ll give you a fantastic deal. I have a vast variety of luxury cars like this one at my dealership.” He fishes a business card from his pocket, which she takes before walking off. She turns her he
ad; Dad waves. He gets in the car with me and roars the engine.

  Sure, let's disturb the whole neighborhood.

  I stare out the window, bracing myself.

  Here we go.

  “What a sheep. If people want to knit their wardrobe, take a class first unless you want to look like a hobo. They serve doughnuts for lunch at this school?”

  No.

  His comment makes me think of her body, which I don’t want to. She’s slimmer than I am.

  I should begin exercising.

  As much as I concentrate on her lessons from the classroom, a doughnut-eating sheep pops up in my mind, its eyes purple and glazed.

  Stop it.

  “She’s knitted all her life.”

  “Well, it looks like something you made at school when you were ten.” Dad rolls his eyes when she is out of sight. “Art people. They all look so scruffy. Whoever said purple and yellow is a good color combination? Buckle up.”

  I peer down at my already buckled seatbelt, but don’t respond. The doughnut-eating sheep appears before me again, spitting the doughnut out, replacing it with grass while staring blankly out into space.

  When we drive past Miss Ask’s car, which she, of course, hasn’t lined up perfectly with the lines on the asphalt, Dad mumbles, “How stupid do you have to be not to park your car straight? It’s lined up for you.” He waves again and flashes a grin at her.

  She returns the gesture.

  There goes that trust the same way as last time.

  It happens like this with every single teacher I’ve had. After Dad meets them, or anyone else I’m safe with in a relationship, the trust is ruined. From now on, all she’ll ask about is him or how happy my family is.

  Dad roars the engine. “For a teacher, she should use her brain cells more. Thinking is allowed, it’s not an activity anyone needs to ask permission to do. Speaking of which, did you clean your brushes?”