I need to talk to someone.
Someone who understands.
I pull out my phone, scroll through contacts, and call my sister.
Astrid answers on the second ring.
"Hey, kiddo. What's up?"
"Are you home? Can I come over?"
A pause. "Of course. Are you okay?"
"Not really. I just—I need to talk."
"Come now. I'll make tea. Or pour wine. Both?"
Even with what just happened, I smile. "Both sounds perfect."
"See you soon."
Astrid and Geirolf live in a house not far from the club’s property—three bedrooms, nice yard, the kind of place that feels like an actual home instead of just somewhere to sleep.
I've always loved it here.
The warmth, the stability, the evidence everywhere that two people have built a life together.
Photos on the walls, Geirolf's bike parts on the workbench in the garage, Astrid's books scattered across the coffee table.
It's everything I want and have been too scared to reach for.
Astrid opens the door before I can knock, takes one look at my face, and pulls me into a hug.
"Come here."
I collapse against her, breathing in her familiar scent—lavender and vanilla and home. "It's okay," she murmurs. "Whatever it is, it's okay."
She guides me inside, settles me on the couch, and disappears into the kitchen.
Returns with two glasses of wine and a box of tissues.
"Talk," she says, sitting beside me. "What happened?"
So I tell her.
Everything.
The bar Friday night, Gunnar coming to get me, what happened in his room.
Waking up alone Saturday morning and running.
The spa, Mom's conversation, dinner with Magnolia.
The parking lot confession, him saying he loves me.
Last night—the cozy domesticity, Dad walking in, Gunnar leaving for the run.
And finally, this morning.
