But if she notices, she doesn’t show it. And she’s not always so good at pretending.
That’s one of the reasons I fell for her in the first place.
I could read everything in her eyes.
I liked what I saw.
Until I saw myself reflected back in them.
I didn’t quite like that.
“So, potato dumplings are all they do,” Shay says, keeping her voice down as if she’s afraid to offend someone. The people here don’t care. They all know me, though they pretend not to, and they’re just happy to be eating.
“When you have something that works, you do it,” I tell her.
The restaurant we’re in is the only one in the village. It’s not open every day, and sometimes only for lunch, sometimes only for dinner, and rarely outside of tourist season. It’s also an old lodge, the only place in town to stay. It’s a grand old thing, done up traditionally with a pine interior, along with the grass on the roof that Shay seems so fascinated by. To be honest, the roof could use a little trim.
“Do you know what the leading cause of death in Norway is?”
She looks at me curiously. “What?”
I point at the ceiling. “Mowing the roof. I can’t tell you how many times those lawnmowers end up crushing someone.”
Her eyes widen, so big, beautiful and brown. “Really?”
I grin at her and nod. I’ll let her believe it for as long as she wants.
“Ah, Anders I haven’t seen you in so long,” Hilde says to me in Norwegian, smiling big and showing off her missing tooth as she delivers us our plates of dumplings. She looks over at Shay. “Oh, sorry,” she says, in stunted English. “So glad to have visitors to our town. Welcome.”
Hilde scuttles her overly plump behind away to run an order to another table.
“Is she the one running the place?” Shay asks as she stares down at the meal. I know she looks a bit unsure, but in my eyes it looks fucking delicious. Fluffy potato dumplings, sausage, and boiled carrots and onions. It’s enough to feed two people.
“She runs the food and her husband cooks,” I tell her, gesturing to the corner of the room where the jug of water, cups, and coffee are. “You need a drink, you get it yourself. It’s how it’s been run for decades.” I cut into the sausage. “Trust me, you haven’t had a restaurant meal like this before. It’s what you’d call ‘the real deal.’”
She looks more than unsure. Deliriously cute. But she braves the dumpling first.
“Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up as she chews. “It’s fucking good.”
“I told you,” I tell her, and my mind flashes with a reel of memories, all sliding past each other. When we used to date, when we were together, I would do everything in my power to get her to try new things, to push herself. Whether it was going out for sushi, or trying surfing in the middle of winter on Long Island, or breaking into the community pool in the middle of the night (I didn’t say all these things were legal), she’d always protest at first and it would always end with I told you so.
But I can’t bring that up because she wants to pretend like we don’t know each other at all.
I know why she’s doing it. I know I hurt her and, even though the time has passed, I know she’s still angry. I know this because I’m still angry with myself, so I can’t imagine how she feels. Eight years is a long time to carry around a coffin of feelings, the rusty pangs of guilt and regret.
So I’m going along with it. It’s just harder than I thought. What we are to each other right now can’t be based on anything on other than what we were to each other. Even though I’d been with her for less than a year, that year left its scar on me and she was part of that. She was both the wound and the balm.
Honestly, I can’t believe my luck. I’m not lying to her when I tell her that it’s fate that brought us together. Maybe fate doesn’t have an Instagram account, but I really didn’t expect to see her on the train station steps. I was watching her stories, I knew that she was arriving in Trondheim at three p.m., but we left the town late, so I really didn’t think I had a chance of finding her. I thought she’d be lost in the city somewhere, never to be found, and she wouldn’t be here, in Todalen of all places, with me, having dinner.
I dig my nails harder into my palm.
They barely hurt, but at least I know I’m not dreaming.
Shay eats ravenously, like I’m not even here, which I like. There’s something downright sexual about watching a woman devour her food, like she might just do the same with you. Food gives you pleasure, and pleasure shouldn’t be denied. Besides, I think it says she’s comfortable being with me.
Unfortunately, she looks up from her feast and catches me staring at her. I want to look away, to at least act ashamed, but I don’t.
“Sorry,” she says through a mouthful, reaching for her serviette.
“Don’t be,” I tell her. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
Christ, she really is beautiful, even when she’s stuffing her face. Sure, she was stunning to look at on her Instagram photos, even though they were mainly selfies, which are usually less than genuine. All posed with false purpose. But in person, seeing her now, as a woman in the flesh, she’s indescribable.
No. Not indescribable. I can do better than that. If I had to choose a word, it would be silk. Everything about her is silken, from her brown smooth skin to her thick hair, to her velvety eyes and lush lips, to the way her curves all run into each other, like a dark river on a warm night. She beckons me,
