My stomach plummets as if I’ve been dropped out of a plane, the ground pulled out from under me so that I’m hurtling through the emptiness where my former reality used to hold firm beneath my feet.
Fairy-tale love reallyisa myth—even for my grandparents. Because Farmor lied to me about her marriage.
18.
Hours later, I stand in the kitchen at the condo, stirring a pot of my homemade marinara blended with sautéed ground turkey and chopped zucchini. But all I can see is the translation of Farmor’s journal page as if it’s burned through my retinas into my brain.
We had to meet with Anders’s uncle to go over the bakery numbers today. They were not as good as his uncle hoped, and he blames Anders. I could see Anders’s anger when Boris accused him of not working hard enough, but he managed to hold back ... at least until we got home. I’ve seen him angry before, and I have been frightened before—but this was the worst he’s ever been. I can’t thank God enough that Lars was at the neighbors’ house, because I don’t know what would have happened if our son had seen his father yelling and throwing things, including my vase. It hit the wall, shattering it. Lars hates it when I cry. It makes himso sad, and I couldn’t stop crying. That vase was my only connection to my family. I can’t even imagine the cost of shipping it to us in America. And now it’s gone.
The joy of realizing I am finally pregnant again is gone. I am afraid. Anders has frightened me before, but not like this. And he’s never left like this, for this long, either. I don’t know when he’ll come back. Or what he’ll do when he does. I am sitting in Lars’s room, watching him sleep and trying to keep from shaking at the thought of my husband coming home.
This isn’t the life I thought we’d have. Nothing is what I thought it would be. I don’t know how much more I can take ... or how much longer I can stay. But now, with a new baby on the way, I don’t know what else to do.
After reading the entry, I sat paralyzed in Farmor’s office, numb with shock. But that quickly gave way to myriad emotions. I wanted to translate more of the journal, but Rebecca asked for help up front. I had no choice but to put the journal away and finish at the bakery. By the time I balanced the register and prepared the deposit for the day, guilt wormed its way through my curiosity. As much as I wanted to keep reading, what would Farmor do if she did survive and woke up only to find out I’d read her journal without her permission?
As soon as we closed, I drove straight to the hospital. Somehow, I managed to hide how upset I was from Mom and convinced her to go home to shower and change. Once I was alone with Farmor, I couldn’t even take her hand in mine. Istared at her, this woman who suddenly seemed a stranger to me—anger, hurt, and sorrow beating in tandem in my aching chest. I couldn’t even ask her why. Why did shelie?
That one page shattered everything I thought I knew about her marriage to my grandpa. All my life, I’d been told about their grand love story, and I’dseenwith my own eyes how much they adored each other ... But he died when I was fourteen, so maybe I was too young to notice the cracks in their facade?
I’m blindsided by the knowledge that Farmor considered leaving my grandpa. She betrayed me. And ithurts. How many times has Farmor begged me to give love a chance, not to miss my chance for happiness like hers? How could she lie to me like that year after year?
I stood there in the ICU, barely resisting the urge to spew all my anger out at a woman in a coma until my mom returned. And for the first time since Farmor was taken to the hospital, I willingly left. I needed time—and answers. Since she couldn’t give me any, I couldn’t bear to be in the room with her.
I rushed home and began pulling out ingredients, distracting myself with dinner. I invited Talia over to eat with me so I could tell her what I discovered. Her parents got divorced when we were in college, and I was the one to hold her while she cried. She and I both put Farmor’s and my mom’s relationships on a pedestal—swearing we wouldn’t marry unless it was for a love like theirs. She, of anyone, would know how huge of a blow this was to me.
The front door opens and closes, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“Talia?”
There’s no response until I sense a much larger presence behind me than Talia.
“Not Talia.” Hunter’s voice is low and hesitant.
My stomach swoops, the same feeling as that moment when an elevator lurches upward. I knew I would have to face him sometime tonight, but I hoped to have more time to mentally prepare after what happened between us at the bakery—and then the shocking revelation about my grandparents. I’m still reeling from the emotional whiplash of the day.
“She’s coming over,” I say with my back still to him. I move the large pot of boiling spaghetti to the sink and overturn it into the waiting colander so it can drain. Steam billows up, briefly scalding my face.
“Oh.”
His response hangs between us, the tension from earlier springing back up as if the hours between never happened.
Except they did, and in that time, I found out real-life fairy tales don’t exist for anyone, not even my grandparents, so instead of inviting him to stay, I bite my tongue and remain silent.
“Well, have fun,” he finally says, uncertain. “I’ll be next door, out of your way.”
There’s a weighted pause, the silence rife with a thousand things I could say. But then I hear him turn and go.
What is wrong with you? I berate myself as I woodenly go through the motions of finishing the meal.He admits he wants to ask you out—after also admitting he’s scared of how he feels about you, and you freeze him out? Plus, what is he going to eat over there—DoorDash?Regret rises, pushing through the morass of all the other emotions that have assaulted me today.
Which is why, a few minutes later, I find myself following his path and knocking on his front door.
When he opens it, he has the first two buttons of his shirt undone, exposing his throat and the top of his collarbone. He looks unbelievably good—even with the evening sun streaming in through the window, highlighting the difference between his skin grafts and his natural skin. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are steady on mine.
“I made enough spaghetti to feed an army,” I blurt out. “You should eat with us so it doesn’t go to waste.”
Hunter lifts one brow. “An army, huh? Exactly how much food do you think I’m capable of eating?”
I flush. “I ... I don’t know. That was dumb. Pretend I didn’t say that. But if you want to eat with us, you can. If you want. Which I’m not saying you do. It’s not like I canassumethat, just because you said what you said earlier, which was that you want to—well, you said it, so you know what you said, and ...” I somehow manage to make my mouth snap shut, halting the word vomit.
