Luckily, he can’t see me blush. “You didn’t see his best side the night you met him. He was really hurting and ... I’ve gotten to know him better since then. I’m not saying I wanthim either,” I rush to add, not even sure why I’m defending Hunter to Austin, “but I think it’s better that you and I don’t take this any further. You’re nice and funny and ridiculously good looking—”
“So, where’s the problem?” he jokes.
I take a deep breath and repeat, “I don’t think you’re the kind of guy who wants to be in it for the long haul with someone like me.”
He falls quiet for a moment and then says, “Well, I guess we’ll never know.”
“I’m really sorry. I wishIwere the kind of girl who could say, ‘Hey, let’s just have fun with no expectations,’ but that’s not me. I have too many uncertainties in my life.”
“And you think Hunter can give you certainty? You think that man isn’t going to hurt you?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“Well,whenhe does, maybe I’ll still be around. And if I am, maybe you’ll give me a second chance to prove that I’m not only an uncommitted playboy.”
“I really am sorry, Austin,” I add again, meaning it more than he probably realizes. “And ... if it’s not too much to ask, please don’t fire Talia over this. She’s really good at her job, and it’s not her fault that I’m a mess.”
He chuckles, the sound low and thrumming through my AirPod. “I’m not going to fire her. But I do wish you would give me a chance. Maybe someday—if I’m not taken.” His tone is more teasing now, and I’m grateful to him for that.
It’s my turn to laugh, though softly and with a twinge of remorse. “Maybe someday,” I agree.
“Bye, Olivia.”
“Bye, Austin.”
We hang up, and I stand there covered in flour, staring at my dark phone for several minutes, hoping I haven’t made a mistake allowing myself to get my hopes up for my messy mate.
It takes thirty minutes to clean up the flour-tastrophe, and by the end of it, my hairline is damp. I’m so tired after an already long day of baking with Mom that I trudge over to the chair in Farmor’s office and drop down onto it.
Mom left an hour ago for the hospital, so I’m alone in the bakery again. I’m still waiting to hear from her, but most likely, she hasn’t texted or called because nothing has changed yet. When we asked how long Farmor might remain in a coma, the doctor told us that after such a massive stroke and brain swelling like Farmor had, it could be several more days or even weeks before she wakes up.
He didn’t sayif she wakes up, which was considerate but misleading. I’m not sure what is worse: lack of hope or misplaced hope.
On the desk is the familiar picture of Farmor, my dad, and my grandpa. They’re all so young. I’ve seen this picture hundreds of times before. She wears a dress and elbow gloves, her hair pulled up into a fashionable coif. They look elegant and happy—a truly striking couple. I pick it up, inspecting Farmor’s face more closely, searching for clues of her unhappiness. But her smile seems real.
And then one part of the journal entry I’d barely registered until now crashes into me like a wave.
She said she was pregnant. But Iknowmy dad was an only child.
Whathappened?
The drawer holds the answers Farmor can’t give me. And my curiosity finally burns stronger than my fear.
I pull out the journal and take a deep breath. When I open the little blue book, I start at the beginning, and this time, the entry is in English.
It is difficult to put into words the feelings in my heart, especially in English. But I want my son to be able to read my words, and while we speak Swedish with him, he will now be raised in America. I fear he will never truly know the language of our home. I still can’t believe we are here, in Arizona. The sun and heat here are unbearable. I miss the trees and gardens and rivers of Uppsala. I miss the color green. I miss Sweden. I miss my family. When I bound my life to Anders, I never thought it would bring me to such a place. So barren and lonely.
At least I have my baking. It is different, baking for work rather than for pleasure. But my mom’s recipes still work, even in this completely different climate. There are other Swedish families here, as Anders promised there would be. We attend the Lutheran church with most of them, and we’ve been told of some of the Swedish traditions and markets that they hold throughout the year. A small comfort and something to look forward to. But we work from sunup until sundown every day, trying to make our bakery a success, and there is no time for socializing. Sometimes I dream ofthe pub in London—“our pub” we’d called it, because it was where we ate most nights when Anders was courting me. That time, when we were so in love and happy, seems a lifetime ago. Lars, you, my son, are my joy. You are my reason for getting up before the sun every day, for working such long hours. Your smiles and laughter make it all worth it. I would go through every hardship again and again if it meant having you.
I reach the end of the entry and wipe my hands over my face.
My phone rings, and when I see my mom’s face on the screen, I quickly set the journal aside and answer the call.
“Hey, Mom, is everything okay?”
“Better than okay,” she says. “Farmor is starting to have eye movement!”
My heart leaps into my throat. “That’s good ... right?”
