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He stared into her, their breaths ghosting against one another’s. “You hate that you and I are the same. You hate that you’re as much of a criminal as I am.”

Ronja wrenched out from the blanket. “I’m nothing like you.”

He dropped his voice to match hers. “Listen to me.”

She continued backing up, her heel dipped on the edge of the dock. Panic flashed in Peter’s eyes. Did he think she was going to fall? Crash through the ice or hit her head? He snapped his hand around her back and, with the other, cupped her neck, yanking her tight into his body.

His chest heaved, and his breath coated her cheek. “I swear to God,” he choked out, “I swear to God, I’ll kill myself if you ever leave me again.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

February – April 1987

Ronja

Peter had taught Ronja the patience of a long con, that people believe what they want to, and there’s very little you have to convince them of. So Ronja did nothing. Peter stayed. He said he’d look for work closer to Mora, maybe Cambridge or St. Cloud. She carried on with her life, indifferent. Ulla could not carry on indifferently. Ulla, sweet Ulla, had her pappa again, and so Peter did not have to convince Ulla that he wasn’t a trickster, a horrible man, or hiding anything. Ulla was happy to believe this because she wanted to.

“Look Mamma!” she’d said, astounded, when finally opening her birthday present from him. It was a new Snap-on-Tool set, much nicer than the one she’d had to leave behind at age seven when they fled.

Day in and day out, Ronja had to watch this. Watch as Peter happily slept on the couch, because, in exchange, he would get up and drive Ulla to school, sometimes surprise her, and they’d stop at DQ or McDonalds, and Ronja had to summon all the strength of her acting, to not be horrified when Ulla told of Peter taking her to Minneapolis, to go shopping for car accessories for Lexie. When he wasn’t working, he lightened the load, a regular house-husband when Ronja was called away at any hour to tow a wrecked car.

She would lay awake at night, unable to sleep knowing he was steps outside their door. Hating that her body craved him. The problem with Peter was that he wasn’t always lying. She believed him when he said he didn’t want any harm to come to either her or Ulla. But people want impossible things all the time, don’t they? she wanted to say to him.

A month went by of this, then two, and Ronja, one night, finally got up and went to him. She wrestled with how to crack into his mind. His back was faced away, the couch had molded into the shape of his body and smelled like him. She wasn’t startled, nor surprised, when she heard his voice. “Are you going to do it?” He turned over, with that devilish look, the one that she hated adoring. His eyes were sleepy, but piercing nonetheless, and they grazed over her body in a nightgown and housecoat, hair loose.

“Do what?” she said.

“Bludgeon me to death.”

She couldn’t help herself, snorting a laugh, and rolled her eyes. Peter sat up and wiped a palm down his face. He was bare-chested, and Ronja rolled her lips inward. The one thing she could never hide was her attraction to him. “If you knew I was going to leave you in Stockholm all those years ago, why didn’t you stop me?”

“I wanted you to be happy.”

Such a Peter answer, so smooth, almost sincere.

“You don’t believe me?”

Ronja hugged herself, unable to look at him as Peter continued talking, “I pivoted, made a backup plan just in case.”

His words from that first night on Ulla’s eighteenth birthday, and every night since, still clanged inside her skull, probably the true reason she could not sleep since his return: You hate that you’re as much of a criminal as I am. Ronja now looked him in the eye. “I did what you are incapable of. I created an honest life.”

Peter’s soft laugh would’ve been condescending had he not looked saddened for her. “Ronja.” His voice was quiet but no less resolute. “You lie to your daughter every day.”

The tears were bitter and swift. “Fuck you,” she whispered and gasped, shoving a hand over her mouth and nose. This did nothing to deter him from rising to his feet and slowly coming toward her. She backed into the wall, smothering her face, fearful her restrained sobs would awaken Ulla. But more so to shield herself from his expression that was neither gloating nor prideful. It was a mirror of her own self-loathing and sadness. Peter took her into his arms. How was it that she could hate someone so much and yet want their affection and their comfort so badly? Maybe because he was right. She didn’t truly hate him. He was the only one who ever knew her, knew every last one of her secrets. And Ronja felt a bizarre release from all of it when he held her hands, uncovered her face, and softly kissed her.

Dawn’s blue light spilled into Ronja’s bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed, naked, her mind replaying their fervent lovemaking. Had Ulla heard them? In about an hour, she’d be listening to her daughter’s rituals outside the door: teeth brushing, face washing, slamming drawers, the pop of the toaster, and scraping sounds of the butter knife.

Peter shifted, moved her hair aside, and trailed kisses up her spine. Ronja shivered. He caressed the ring still on her hand after seventeen years, the one he’d gifted her on Ulla’s first birthday. “You still wear it.”

“Keeps away strange men,” she said dismissively, knowing he’d spotted it on her that very first day of his return but said nothing, and it seemed too obvious then to remove it. The truth was, after all this time she still loved the ring, still loved the fantasy he’d spun that night.

Peter continued touching it. “You’ve not been with anyone?”

“What does it matter to you?” She looked over her shoulder at him.

He lifted his eyes to hers, impishly, contagiously, and she weakly pushed his shoulder. Peter drew her face to his and kissed her mouth. Ronja succumbed but then pulled away, left the bed, and went to her closet. Peter rested on an elbow. “We can make this work.”

“Where have I heard that before?” She opened a dresser drawer and snatched a t-shirt. “Just leave, already, please.” She slammed the drawer shut. “Don’t you dare tell anyone about us.”