Let Go

by Alexandra Winter

  In the kitchen, Ms. Berg beams when she sees me walk in. “Wow, you look so nice. Happy New Year. Any resolutions?”

  “Only one. Make Mom remember again.” I wrap an apron around my waist and march out to tend to the guests. Approaching the two men’s table, I can’t help but hear the word Porto.

  It’s as if the town is haunting me.

  Wearing pristine gray suits and matching ties, the customers lean over the table, deep into their discussion.

  “It’s a great investment, but who can we send to follow up?”

  I pause about two meters from their table to eavesdrop, but they notice and look up at me with disapproving eyes. “Welcome, gentlemen. May I take your order?”

  They open their menus, scan through them. “I’ll have the healthy breakfast, with an extra egg, please.”

  The other man, a bit older with silver hair, continues to stare at the menu. “What happened to the banana pancakes with berries?”

  “They’re replaced. We have a sweeter wheat-based version with maple syrup if you’d like?” He doesn’t have to respond. Since Mom added sugar back on the menu, customers complain daily, and sales are going down.

  At least that hasn’t changed in the New Year.

  “That’s too bad. I came here to keep my New Year’s resolution, not break it. I’ll have the omelet.”

  I walk as slowly as I can towards the kitchen, hoping they’ll resume their conversation, which they do.

  “We have to get in early. In a month or two the investment companies will be recommending it to their clients.”

  They already are.

  I don’t need to hear any more. “One healthy breakfast, one extra egg, and one omelet.”

  Ms. Berg cracks eggs in a bowl, while I get my phone out and call Erica. “Hi, it’s Amalie. How exactly would I buy an apartment in Porto?”

  “What? Hasn’t Sonia called you yet?” Through the line, it sounds like she’s growling out of frustration. When she returns, her voice is silky smooth. “I have the perfect building for you. It’s being renovated, but the top floor is still available. I would buy it myself if I hadn’t already bought two others a few blocks down. I’ll email you the pictures. Trust me, at only two hundred and thirty thousand corners, it’s a bargain.”

  “I only have two hundred,” I say.

  “That’s what I’m here for. I’ll talk to the contractor for you. I’m sure we can work something out.”

  A lightness comes over me. “Thanks. I’ll look at it after work.” My head falls back, and I inhale deeply.

  I am insane for even thinking about this, but it feels so right, like fate.

  Ms. Berg asks curiously, “William?”

  “No, his ex. I’m buying my first apartment.” I completely forget how crazy what I say must sound to her. “It’s been an interesting Christmas.”

  She gasps. “Are you leaving William?”

  “No, no. Investing. In Porto,” I say.

  Her head tilts to the side as her eyes glaze over in thought. “That is...umm, I don’t know if that’s good, but I hope so. Food’s ready.”

  I laugh. “I hope so too.”

  Bringing the food to the table, there’s a spring in my step, and for the first time, I’m gliding in my heels like Erica did in hers.

  BAD REVIEW

  The front door slams shut, and Mom passes through the restaurant and into the kitchen like a hurricane. The sound of a newspaper slaps onto the counter. “How could you let this happen?” Mom’s voice is aggravated.

  I fling off my apron and walk as elegantly as I can while rushing to see what’s going on.

  Ms. Berg is studying the newspaper when I enter. “Happy New Year, Ms. Vogt,” I say.

  Please love my new style.

  Mom’s brows furrow. “No, it is not a Happy New Year.” She points at the headline: “Has The Bluebird lost its passion?”

  Holding it up, Ms. Berg doesn’t seem surprised. “It’s the new recipes, I’m afraid. We were known as the restaurant to eat good healthy food. Now we’re unoriginal, like everyone else. Better, of course, but I agree with this.”

  Mr. Christensen walks in, puts on his apron and, without saying a word, takes an order and begins cooking.

  “What are you doing?” Ms. Berg is head chef in the kitchen; he’s supposed to take his instructions from her.

  “We have to correct our reputation. Come on,” he says.

  Ms. Berg puts her hand on her hip. “This is not the way. It says we lack passion. Let me run my kitchen the way I used to, Ms. Vogt. I won’t let you destroy what we have spent years building. I don’t care if you don’t remember it, you have to trust me on this.”

  Mom sighs. “Fine, go back to the way it was before. Take the sugar off.” She glances at me, then ruffles her hair. Although her haircut is shorter and her hair white, I recognize her movement. Mom ruffles her fingers through her hair, then parts it in the middle like she used to. I hold my breath in anticipation. Does she remember me?

  Come on, Mom. I know you’re in there.

  She glares at me before clearing her throat. In a whispering voice, she says, “Do I approve of waiters without aprons on in this restaurant? No, I don’t.”

  “Um, I…I wanted to show you my new clothes,” I say, like some silly schoolgirl.

  She pulls her fingers through her hair again, and my jaw drops. Am I getting through? This is Mom’s move; she must feel something.

  Come on!

  “Please play dress up somewhere else. This is a workplace after all.” She pauses, and I walk out to get my apron back on.

  Who am I fooling?

  I can tell she’s doing everything she can to fight the feelings in her.

  Her voice, softer than before, more like Mom’s, tells me, “But it is an improvement, Amalie.”

  I almost faint. Mom gave me a compliment. As Ms. Vogt. She’s never given me praise since the attack. This can work. I pop my head back in, my voice singing. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

  Josefine walks in, and her face lights up seeing me. “Wow, you look amazing. Tell me what happened during the holidays. Did he propose?”

  I can’t stop grinning. “No, he bought me these,” I say. I show off the earrings. “How was your Christmas?”

  “You knew Johan was a player, didn’t you?”

  Shit.

  “I hoped he’d change. I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “I moved in with him during the holidays, and women call all the time. He calls them friends, but doesn’t want to introduce us, so it’s all bullshit.”

  Sounds like him from what I’ve seen. “Dump him.”

  “I plan to. It sucks, though, since I just moved in and I don’t want to move back in with Dad.”

  When my shift ends, my feet are bleeding. I ease them into my moon boots, and the cushioned soles relieve every muscle in my body from the tension I’ve built up hiding the pain throughout the day.

  Thank God Erica convinced me not to wear higher heels.

  When I get home, I lay out my new attire for tomorrow. A black leather pencil skirt with a matching turtleneck. “Elegant and timeless,” I tell myself while opening the email from Erica with images of the apartment she recommended.

  The first image pops up on my phone, and at first, I can’t believe it. It’s a massive apartment with windows from floor to ceiling and an open space with kitchen and living room. I get my sketchbook out and compare my drawing to the image. It’s as if I’ve drawn this exact apartment.

  How is this possible?

  I call Erica immediately.

  “Did you talk to the contractor?” My eyes are darting from the image to my drawing and back.

  “They’re willing to sell it for twenty-two thousand euro, which equals about two hundred thousand kroner if you make a quick decision.”

  “What happens if I say yes?”

  “Then you leave it to me to prepare contracts that I’ll send you to sign. I take a small perc
entage of their sales price, so there’s no extra cost for you.”

  “I’m freaking out about this. Are you sure…”

  “Amalie, relax. I promise you, it’s a good investment, and if you change your mind, I’ll flip it for you.”

  Am I doing this? I want to, but this is crazy. William won’t support it.

  I bury my face in my hands, and I mumble my response. “Let’s do it.”

  “Great. I’ll get back to you in a few days then. Congratulations.”

  I go upstairs and fill the bathtub with essential oils to help my feet recover. Although the water is a perfect temperature, my open sores sting when I lower them into it. Like a knife cut, they burn, but I clench the bathtub edge and sink down, letting out a low whimper.

  “Amalie?” William calls out from downstairs.

  Shit, he’ll be furious if I tell him.

  Heavy feet trot up the stairs, stopping outside the bathroom door. Three knocks and he enters, dripping sweat, wearing tights and a soaked fleece sweater. “You forgot to lock the door. What if I were your crazy father, huh? What would you do?”

  “Stay here. My feet are already killing me, so he’ll be second in line.”

  William pulls off his sweater, his bare chest glistening. “It’s not funny.”

  “I know. Did the alarm company call you back?”

  “They’ll install next Wednesday. How did it go today? Did Celina remember?”

  I sink myself under the water. When I resurface, William is naked, climbing in with me.

  “No. But Mom ruffled her hair like she used to. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  Submerging his body, William forces water over the edge. His voice is playful. “I know something else we can try today?”

  I sigh. “I’m not in the mood for sex.”

  I have to tell you I bought an apartment in Porto about half an hour ago.

  “Oh, come on. The only reason you’re not in the mood is that it’s not good enough for you. Let’s fix that.” He bends forward, sinking his head down underwater between my legs.

  A grunt escapes me as he grabs onto my foot. I lift his head up to the surface by his hair. “Fine, but not here. Have you seen the foot you’re holding? Besides, you’ll drown down there before anything happens.”

  Maybe successful sex can make breaking the news easier.

  I get out, take his hand and lead him to the bedroom. He pushes my clothes onto the floor. I push him onto the bed and pick them up again. “I need these to look perfect for tomorrow.” I climb in with him.

  He flings me around, positioning himself on top of me, and I bite my lip as my adrenaline rises along with my expectations. He seems more determined today than ever before, and it’s a turn on. His soft lips on mine send vibrations through my body. I grin watching his face disappear between my legs. I lay my head back in anticipation.

  After twenty minutes, nothing is happening.

  Should I tell William what to do?

  Long gone is my arousal; instead, I lay glaring up at the ceiling. “Ouch, don’t bite.”

  “Then tell me what to do,” William mumbles.

  I don’t want to. I want this to come naturally. Yet, when I think about it, I don’t know what William likes unless he tells me.

  It can’t get any worse.

  I recall our first time in his apartment.

  Yes, it can.

  “I think you need to use both fingers and tongue.”

  Something glides into me, too fast. “Ouch. Not so hard.”

  He pulls away. “I can’t do this. Can’t we just have sex? Like normal people?”

  Pulling the duvet over me, I look at him. “This is a part of normal sex, William. I read about it. Under twenty percent of women orgasm with only penetration.”

  His head bends down in defeat. “It’s never been an issue before. I don’t get it.”

  “Come here.” I pull him back over me. He grows harder laying on top of me, and in a fast movement, the warmth is replaced with a sticky cold plastic before he slides inside me. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, while he locks his eyes onto the headboard. It’s like a grocery list again. Sex ticked off.

  This is so overrated. It can’t be right.

  When he finishes, he rolls over to his side and stares up too. “Your twentieth birthday’s coming up in only two and a half months. What do you want to do?”

  A day most people would want to spend with lots of friends, throwing a big party. “I want to spend the day alone.”

  Telling William about the apartment in Porto now seems all wrong. “I’ll have dinner with Nana after work tomorrow if that’s all right?”

  She’ll be thrilled about my news.

  “Great. I have some extra work I have to get done anyways,” William says.

  ESPRESSO

  The next morning, I dress in my black skirt and turtleneck.

  “Oh, la-la.” William is making breakfast but jumps from around the kitchen island when he sees me. “How lucky am I to call you my girlfriend? Be careful today, you might get hit on at work in that outfit.”

  “Glad you like it. I’m dreading having to put those shoes back on.” He follows my gaze into the hallway. “There’s no way I can hide all these bandages in those.” I hold my feet out, and he flinches at the sight. My heels, toes and both sides of my feet are taped up.

  “What women put themselves through is mindboggling to me.”

  “It’ll be worth it. I can’t help but feel I have the solution, that it’s in my grasp. I just can’t get it. You know?”

  William serves me my usual two eggs and avocado. “No. Eat your breakfast. By the way, you didn’t mean what you said yesterday, about wanting to be alone for your birthday, right?”

  I sink onto the barstool. “I did. My dream celebration this year is me, alone, with a book and a glass of wine.”

  Not the ideal wish from a girlfriend, but it’s what I want.

  I chew slowly. “Unless Mom is back to her old self, then I would love a party with her as the guest of honor.”

  William strokes his fingers through his hair. “Have you been speaking to Erica, by the way? This came in the mail this morning, from my previous job.”

  I push the empty plate away from me.

  It’s now or never.

  “It’s probably information about an apartment in Porto.”

  He pulls his fingers through his hair again, this time, faster, harder. “Are you serious? What about us? We could use that money for a cabin, a new car. Invest it here instead!”

  My eyebrows rise to my forehead. “I can’t afford anything here by myself. And a car? That’s not an investment, it’s a money drain.”

  “We could buy a bigger house?”

  I jump down from the stool. The floor feels like broken glass beneath my feet as I walk over to the dishwasher. “I like this house. Besides, it would be nice to have a little support from you.”

  If not, I won’t tell you I bought it already.

  “I support anything you want to do.” William’s head drops forward. “Just not this.”

  “I’m showing the apartment to Nana after work.” I tuck the large envelope from Erica into my bag. It’ll be easier to break the news to William if Nana already knows and agrees with me.

  “You’re putting this much money in Nana’s hands? She knows nothing about real estate!”

  I cringe while forcing the moon boots on. “Neither do I! But Erica does, and you do. Can you truly tell me it’s a bad investment?”

  William shakes his head. “No. Just don’t move there.”

  “What are you talking about? Why would I do that? My chance at school there is over.”

  And I hate thinking about that.

  It forces tears to my eyes every time, and now is no exception. I tuck myself into my coat, put the taupe high-heeled shoes in my bag, and wrap a scarf around my neck. “Wish me luck with Mom, and I’ll see you tonight.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  The door
slams after me. I don’t mean it to, but the wind gets hold of it, and I can’t help but smile.

  The snow has turned to ice during the night, and my breath is pure white in the freezing temperature when I rush down the road. The leather skirt stiffens, forcing its way up my waist. I pull it down, then dash on. It rises again, and this time, I let it be. I’ll fix it when I get to The Bluebird. Streetlights cast long shadows of me, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was a penguin trotting down the street.

  I’m the first to arrive. I hang my coat, turn on the lights, correct my outfit, and slip out of my moon boots. Outside, waves crash on the jetty. We don’t open until another hour, so I light the fireplace, make myself an espresso, and rest my bare feet on a chair while admiring the brutal force of the sea out the window.

  By the time Mom arrives, I have set every table, lit every candle, and forced my feet into my heels. “Good morning.” The pitch in my voice is too high to sound natural, but nothing about this situation is normal anyways.

  Mom ruffles her hair again, and a tiny smile forms on her face. “Good morning, Amalie.” She glances around the room and nods approvingly.

  If my feet didn’t hurt so much, I would jump with joy. “Can I offer you an espresso?”

  Please let me get you one.

  Holding my breath, I study Mom’s every movement. How she pauses while hanging her jacket, looks down as she thinks about my question, glances at me while clearly remembering how I spilled one in her lap her first day back.

  “Double,” she says.

  Yes!

  As soon as she turns away from me, I jump. Then shudder as the pain of my bruised feet shoots up my legs as they slam down on the floor, forcing my eyes to water in pain. “Coming right up.”

  She doesn’t comment on my limping that day, which is a huge step forward. I can’t wait to tell Nana.

  When my shift ends at five o’clock, what little sunlight the winter offers is gone. Nana has salad on the table mixed with what looks like only cancer-fighting foods like kale, spinach, broccoli, sweet potato and more, so I put the take-out I’ve brought her from the restaurant in her fridge for later.