by Gina Azzi
And I know. I know it in my bones that Farmor has passed. I feel it like a tidal wave pulling me down to the depths of the sea. My hands clench into fists and a coldness sweeps through my limbs, causing my chest to ache and my eyes to burn.
“Greta has passed,” the lawyer whispers. He looks traumatized at having to be the one to share this news.
My father bows his head for a long moment before raising it. “She was a good woman.”
“She was more than that,” Anders snaps.
Father extends a hand to the lawyers. “Shall we begin?”
Johan scoffs. He mutters something about our whole family being fucked up.
In this moment, stunned but not shocked, I wholeheartedly agree.
How are we supposed to talk about business now? How could Father discuss anything other than how special, how important Farmor was to all of us? To this family? My hands shake as I repeat the lawyer’s words in my mind. She’s gone. I swallow back the bile climbing the walls of my throat and focus on my breathing which feels too shallow. Floaters swim in my peripheral vision and my stomach churns.
The lawyer’s voice begins to read aloud and then Father slams the top of the table, Uncle Erik swears, and the room grows eerily quiet.
“Torsten?” Anders shakes my shoulder.
I glance up, meeting his eyes, so familiar to my own. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He gives me a look of disbelief. “Farmor left the company, all of its shares, to the four of us.” He gestures to me and our cousins.
Johan looks dumbfounded and Daniel’s mouth is wide open.
“What?” I ask, confusion rocking through me.
“Daniel, Johan, and I each inherited twenty-four percent of the company. She’s left the other twenty-eight percent to you. You are the majority shareholder. The majority of the company is now in your name.”
My vision clouds over and I grip the armrests, knowing I’m about to pass out.
Right before I do, Anders wraps his arm around me in a one-armed hug and I cling to reality even as the Earth shifts under my feet.
“Welcome back, brother. I’ve really missed you.”
I nod but it’s not his voice that echoes in my mind.
It’s Father’s. “I’m contesting this. She can’t have meant to leave Torsten in charge, especially not now that he’s married to a woman he barely knows. A woman who will take half when he fails at marriage the same way he’s failed at everything else.”
20
Rielle
The moment I see Torsten’s face, I know something is wrong.
I rush to him, my hands hesitant as they grasp his. He’s cold to the touch, his eyes void, his expression blank.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What’s right?” he responds and I recall that night at Taps, over two months ago now.
I frown and lead Torsten to the sitting area of our bedroom. We both sink to the couch, our knees touching.
“Torsten? Talk to me.”
“Farmor died,” he murmurs.
My hands clench his as a wave of emotion I didn’t expect to feel rolls through me. “I’m so sorry.” I shift closer and wrap my arms around him. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m glad I got to meet her, even for a moment. Thank you for bringing me.”
Confusion ripples over his face as he stares at me. “You really wanted to come?”
“I wanted to be with you. Be here for you,” I stammer.
“Why?” he asks and it’s as if he’s looking at me for the first time. There’s a cold dejectedness in his expression that alarms me.
“Because you’re my husband,” I say slowly.
“Am I? Farmor’s gone now. We don’t need to keep up this charade.” He disentangles our hands and jumps to his feet.
He paces back and forth in front of me, like a caged beast desperate to break free. A memory, a moment when I once paced in front of him, worried and hopeful and overwhelmed, blooms in my mind but I blink it away.
“What are you saying? Torsten?”
The longer he paces without answering me, the more my nerves ricochet through my body, the more my anxiety unfurls in my limbs. It feels like one of Magnus’s dinosaurs took up residence in my chest and I press the heel of my hand into my breastbone to loosen the pressure building there.
He stops suddenly and turns toward me. His blue eyes gleam with a million things I don’t understand except for one. Acceptance. Whatever he’s about to say, he’s already accepted. He’s made his peace with it. And it’s going to decimate me.
I brace for the impact as his lips part. “We jumped into this. We jumped into everything because I wanted to stay in the US and you were struggling under your loan payments. But now…things have changed. We don’t have to stay in a situation we never would have found ourselves in otherwise.” He shakes his head before meeting my gaze again. His eyes are wild. “We should get divorced.”
I squint up at him. “What? Why?” I shake my head. “You’re not making any sense.”
“I’m making plenty of sense.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “My farmor has passed. I’ve inherited the majority of the company.”
I suck in a breath, not expecting that at all.
“My career is finished. My body is fucking breaking. What am I going to do in the US anyway?”
“What?” I jump to my feet now, my hurt bleeding into anger. Anger is good; I know what to do with anger. “Wasn’t that the whole point of this?” I gesture between us. “For you to stay in the States?”
He nods, his eyes bleeding with emotion but then he blinks and it’s as if triage managed to stem the flow. “Yes, it was. Because I didn’t know what was waiting for me here. My brother and I, my cousins, we’ve made amends. I have a nephew, Ri. A kid I could adore. This is my childhood home. My family.” His voice holds a tone of longing and it rips through me.
He wants his home.
Haven’t I felt that way before? When I was missing Mom? When I was desperate for Dad to really see me? But when I left, I swore I’d never return. Until now, my pride has always prevented me from trying to find a way back. Isn’t it fortunate for Torsten that his family is welcoming him with open arms again?
My throat expands and suddenly, breathing is difficult. Panic rises in my chest, my fingers tingle, and dread fills my limbs with dead weight. I suck air into my lungs but it’s too thin and I can’t catch it. Can’t hang onto it long enough.
“Rielle?” Torsten strides forward and lowers me to the couch.
He’s breaking up with me. He promised if I was his, he’d never let me go. But now…
He’s divorcing me.
Oh God. I bend over as Torsten guides my head between my knees.
“Breathe, Ri. I got you. You’re okay.” His words are meant to soothe but they don’t. Because he’s leaving.
Or, wait a minute, I’m the one leaving?
How could I have been so stupid? How could I have trusted him? I know better than to let people in. I knew this would happen eventually and yet…
I can’t bring myself to regret it either because for the first time since my mom died, I felt like I had a real home. And it felt good.
That loss slams into me and I grip the material of my jeans over my knees, searching for the air that won’t come.
“Rielle? Ri, come on, baby. You’re scaring me.” Torsten’s voice holds a thread of panic.
His terror allows me to grasp onto the moment, to cling to it. I catch the air and suck it in, hold it in my chest as my heart feels ready to explode.
“Rielle.” Torsten strokes his fingers through my hair. He murmurs nonsensical things that I can’t focus on because my mind is already going a mile a minute. My thoughts are leapfrogging over each other with the fastest way to extricate myself from this situation. Fight or flight and right now, I’m desperate to flee.
I need to go home.
Oh God. I don’t even have a home.
My hands shake and a buzzing sound w
hirs around my head, like a fly I can’t catch.
“Rielle, talk to me. I didn’t mean to spring this on you. I thought you’d be happy, relieved.”
“Relieved?” I manage to sputter, my voice several octaves too high. I swallow and dip my head, tucking my hair behind my ears. I stand on shaky legs and put some distance between us. My panic attack recedes but still clings to the edges of my mind. “You thought I’d be re-relieved to know that you want to divorce me? That you want to put me on a plane back, back to B-Boston. Without you?” Tears stream down my cheeks.
Torsten stares at me in horror. He stands and I shake my head, stepping away from him.
Anguish twists his expression and his eyes hold mine, pleading. For what? “This isn’t the life you want, Ri. You want a fulfilling career. You want kids. You want a future with a man you’re going to build it with, brick by brick by brick.”
I point at him accusingly. “How the hell do you know what I want? Have you ever asked me? Have you bothered to find out? Or did you just assume that you—the older, wiser, more experienced, and financially sound Torsten Hansen knows best?”
He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. His eyes grow shiny for all the wrong reasons as he reaches for me again.
“You want a divorce? Fine, I’ll give you a divorce. I’ll be on the next flight to the States too so I won’t be in your hair any longer.” I turn toward the suitcase, almost screaming when I remember that we shared one. “I’m taking the suitcase.” I shout at his still form.
I pack angrily, throwing my things into the suitcase.
Torsten remains quiet, watching me with distrusting eyes. “Rielle,” he murmurs as I zip up the bag.
I stand up and cross my arms around my stomach, as if physically holding myself together like Scotch tape. “What?”
“You don’t have to—I don’t want you to…” He trails off.
“Say what you want. Don’t think about it, just say it,” I tell him.
“I want what’s best for you,” he responds automatically, his voice breaking.
And dammit, I can tell he means it. His sincerity makes everything hurting inside of me ache even more. He’s dismantling me, one word and desperate glance at a time. He broke through all the walls I built and now he’s knocking over the foundation so I’ll have nothing solid to start over on.
I feel myself retreating inside, looking for a shield, a way to fend off the giant, gaping hole Torsten Hansen is leaving me with.
But it’s no use.
Because I’m in love with my husband and—
“And I’m not it,” he whispers, his eyes shuddering closed.
I slip into autopilot, my body locking down. I just have to make it to the plane. Then, in front of several hundred strangers, I can break down and sob my eyes out. But not now, not in front of Torsten.
I can’t handle any more humiliation right now. I turn my back to him and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. The tiniest, so small it barely exists, flicker of relief occurs when I realize there’s a flight in three hours to New York. I just need to get on it and then I can figure it out from there.
I clear my throat. “I’m going to ask Lars if he’ll take me to the airport.”
“Rielle, wait a second.” Torsten reaches for my arm but I shuffle back, avoiding his touch. If he touches me, I’ll crumble. And it isn’t time for that yet.
“Send me the divorce papers and I’ll sign. I’ll text you the address I end up at.”
He frowns, concern flaring in his eyes. He looks miserable and if it was any moment but this one, I’d wrap my arms around him. But I can’t. Right now, I need to look out for myself because obviously, no one else is. “What do you mean? The address you end up at? Go back home.” He winces. “Go to the penthouse.”
I shake my head and twist his grandmother’s ring from my finger. I place it on the nightstand and dig into my purse for his gold credit card. When I pull it from my wallet, he swears. His hand snakes out and curls over mine. “Put that back,” he demands.
“No thank you,” I say cordially, placing it down next to the ring. “You’ve done enough for me and I clearly haven’t held up my end of the agreement since you don’t have a green card. I’m going to assume you’re letting that slide since you’re dissolving our contract.”
His eyes spark and I know he’s angry by the tick in his jaw that pulses. Good. I want him to be angry. I want him to feel a fucking shred of the anguish that’s twisting my intestines and scraping against my heart.
“Thank you for paying off my loan.” I clear my throat. “I guess we’re done here.” I offer him a sad smile, taking one last, long look at his devastatingly handsome face.
My chest heaves with a sob of all the things we’re going to miss out on.
Then, I turn on my heel and leave the bedroom. I leave Torsten Hansen behind.
21
Rielle
My flight to New York is long and tearful. My emotions swing wildly from heartbroken and hurting to angry and defensive.
Why didn’t he fight for me?
Did I really read all the signs wrong? Did I fall for an act instead of the man?
No, my heart screams. Obviously, my head scoffs back.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” the sweet flight attendant who has already brought me tissues and chocolate chip cookies from First Class asks when we’re somewhere over France.
I give in and nod. I definitely need something to take the edge off. Besides, all my crying and trying not to cry has given me a wicked tension headache that can’t be much worse than a hangover.
She squeezes my shoulder empathetically and I hate myself a little for losing it in front of a stranger. On the other hand, it’s also a relief because I would abhor being this vulnerable, this pathetic, in front of anyone I care about.
Once I have a wine glass in hand, I take a deep gulp and let my mind wander over the last few days. It’s as if I’m searching for clues to understand what the hell went wrong. When did Torsten decide he knew what was best for me, for us? Why didn’t he speak to me about it? How did I read the situation wrong? I thought we were growing together, building the foundation of something special. And he thought, what? That we were becoming great friends who sometimes have amazing sex but will ultimately end up divorced?
I tip my wine glass all the way back, grateful that my row is empty.
As the hours tick by and my erratic emotions calm, new thoughts replace the frantic ones. Like how it was a privilege to meet Farmor. And Magnus sure is one adorable kid. My niece is only a year younger and similarly, I’ve never met her. Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could patch things up with Jesse the way Torsten did with Anders?
Wouldn’t it be something if I could mend my relationship with Dad?
Is it even worth it to try at this point? After all these years and so much hurt? Will reaching out help me find closure, help to heal the wounds that still fester? Or will it cut me deeper, make me bleed when I’m starting to scab over?
The flight attendant returns with another glass of wine and I accept it greedily. At 35,000 feet in the air, the wine hits me harder than usual. I’m grateful when my eyelids grow heavy and sleep beckons. Because sleeping means not thinking. Not thinking means not agonizing over Torsten.
Right now, I need to reimagine what my immediate future looks like. I need to think about the life that I want, the career I want to commit myself to, the place I want to live. Making those kind of life-changing decisions requires sleep. Energy. A clear head.
I pass out somewhere over the Atlantic and don’t wake up until we’re touching down at JFK. While I glance at the New York City skyline as we land, a ripple passes through my chest. It’s definitely not excitement but it’s not devastation either.
Feeling bold and a little bit reckless after having spiraled so spectacularly, I pull my suitcase off the baggage claim belt and line up for a taxi. When it’s my turn, I slip into the back seat of a cab and rattle off my brother’s a
ddress, a penthouse on Fifth Avenue my dad gifted to him as a wedding present. I haven’t been in years but I remember it well.
I remember him and Mira well. Jesse always tried to please Dad. He did everything right, followed the rules, and never rocked the boat. If I’m oil, he’s water. But one of my greatest takeaways from Norway is that there’s always a road home, even if it’s all scorched Earth and an arduous trek. Maybe I need to start remembering instead of trying to forget. Maybe it’s time for me to make amends too.
When we pull up to the building, I pay the taxi fare and collect my suitcase. I stand in front of the building, craning my neck all the way back to see the penthouse. The warm spring breeze whips my hair over my shoulders. People rush around me, maybe not even seeing me. I close my eyes and breathe in the city. The sunshine. The anonymity and the freedom and the moment.
I forgot how much I love Manhattan. I forgot how much I adore traveling and experiencing and being. After a year of just trying to survive, I forgot that at one point, I didn’t have to try at all.
I smile at the doorman and pull my suitcase behind me.
“Can I help you with something, Ms.?” he asks politely.
I study him for a long moment. “Dale?”
He frowns. “Yes.”
I grin. “It’s me, Rielle. Jesse’s sister.”
His eyes widen but he smiles back. “Rielle Carter. Wow. Your brother is going to be delighted to see you.”
I laugh in response because that’s a stretch but sweet of Dale to say. It’s the extra reassurance I need that I’m doing the right thing, that I should step into the elaborately decorated building with its high ceilings and expensive scent. The private elevator, the guest code, the entire ritual brings me back to a million years ago, when Mom and I went to see the New York City Ballet. Her friends had disapproved that it wasn’t the American Ballet Theater and I remember how she laughed and laughed, winking at me across the table. Later, we shopped in Chinatown instead of the fancy shops dotted along Fifth. We ate hot dogs from a cart on the street corner and had giant, Mister Softee ice cream cones with sprinkles as a late-night snack. Mom said she wanted me to see the real New York and I fell in love with the bold way the city imprinted itself on me. The grit and grind, the colors and scents, the way millions of people milled about with little concern for playing a part. That trip taught me the importance of being, of enjoying, of actively engaging in one’s own life and choices. That trip changed the trajectory of my life because after Mom passed, I clung to her laughter and the way her eyes danced, and I channeled it to stand up to Dad.
