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“Following you wasn’t enough to prove I’m serious?”
Her head began to spin again. Ronja pushed stifling breaths through her nose and used the desk to support herself, climbing to her feet.
“Ronja?”
Her legs betrayed her; she tripped, and he steadied her, but she swiped him away. She went to the bed and scraped her clothes into a heap, balling the tote into the pile. “I need to take a bath.”
“You need to see a doctor. You look like a ghost.”
“Maybe I am,” she quipped.
He dragged a hand through his short, blonde waves, leaving it disheveled, allowing Ronja to fully digest his appearance. His clear lack of sleep. He placed his hands on his hips, clenched his eyes, and tipped his head to the ceiling. “You have no idea what you put me through.” His countenance broke.
She hated the way it broke her, too. And she wouldn’t dare let him see it.
Peter exhaled laboriously and placed his intensity back on her. “What happened to us?”
Unable to tolerate his gaze, Ronja fought the familiar ache to fall into his arms and wobbled toward the bathroom.
He snagged her arm. “Would you be logical about this?”
“I was being logical until you fucked everything up,” she said coldly, and wrenched her arm free, striding to the bathroom. This time she made sure to lock the door.
Ronja ran the tub. The fall of the water muted Peter’s voice on the other side of the door, but he wasn’t talking to her, probably on the phone. She filled a tumbler with tap water and chugged, studying herself in the gilded mirror. Peter was right. She appeared ghastly, making the bruise on her cheek and her stained hair even more disturbing. She cautiously touched the stitches at the base of her skull. Fury arose once more from the bottom of her gut, and she turned her attention to the tote. She pulled out the horse, pressing it to her lips, and the fury coalesced into grief, flooding her with images of her final days in Sweden.
Chapter Six
Ronja
Ronja emerged from the bathroom, her hair in damp waves, and she noticed food on a tray: a club sandwich with potato chips and fruit. So, he’d ordered room service.
The late afternoon sunlight poking through the opening of the striped curtains rested on Peter’s face. He was asleep on the bed, dressed in his undershirt, sans socks and shoes, and not pretending either; he breathed heavily through his nose when he was truly zonked. Ronja wrestled with the juxtaposition of wanting to injure him and wanting to make love to him. This is why she had run, of course.
She glanced at her tote. The Dalahäst was wrapped in her underwear and stuffed inside the coin purse. How would she ever keep it hidden from Peter? But it couldn’t leave her sight. She went for the door. Run! But I’m so tired. Defeat expanded inside her. Whatever Peter was up to, she’d play along. For now.
Ronja brought the tray of food to the bed and sat cross-legged, nibbling at it, testing the strength of her stomach. Peter groaned awake and rubbed his face, blinking at her. He gave her a half-smile. “You’re still here.”
“You probably have minions to catch me if I run.”
Peter stayed quiet. He rose impassively from the bed, went to his dress shirt draped across the desk chair, and put it on.
She watched him button it, tuck it into his pants, and sit down to work on socks and shoes. “There’s a clinic not far from the neighborhood where we’ve been offered an apartment. I’ll help with the rent. It’s cheaper than a hotel, until we find our own place.”
“Peter—”
“We’ll stop by and meet the renters after the doctor’s visit—”
“I don’t—”
“Trust me.” He stood and extended his hand.
Fine. Ronja set her half-eaten sandwich aside. Let him do his thing. But she didn’t take his hand. She brushed the chip crumbs off her pants and went to find her shoes.
Upon making it out of the hotel and inside the taxicab, Peter chatted with the driver, who gave them an unofficial tour of “Nordeast” on their way to Northeast Family Clinic after deducing they were foreigners, though Peter’s accent was more difficult to detect than Ronja’s. Like her, Peter was fluent in Swedish and German. Unlike her, his English was far superior. He’d never given her a straight answer as to how he knew the language so well. Even after practicing it with him for several years, she remained proficient, but not fluent.
They drove past concrete giants labeled Grainbelt Brewery and Gluek Brewery, with their smokestacks abutting the Mississippi River. Upon arriving at the clinic, she handed her forged passport to the secretary to start a file, filled out paperwork, and sat with Peter in the waiting area. Ronja picked up a Good Housekeeping magazine with a headline, “Why Doesn’t God Just Strike Me Dead?: THE DIARY OF AN UNWED MOTHER.” She slapped it face down.
A nurse approached them. “Mrs. Thomason? Come with me,” and, gesturing toward Peter, she said, “Your husband can join, too.”
