Bright Midnight, Halle, Karina [romantic story to read .TXT] 📗

me as a Facebook friend years ago. I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from that year in America, so it was a surprise. I couldn’t say it was a nice surprise, but I liked Everly. Even at a young age, she had this tough-girl, gum-chewing attitude that somehow put you at ease. That’s all I ever want in people—no bullshit.

I couldn’t pretend though, that Everly wasn’t my next step to Shay. So maybe I was full of bullshit. I never got the nerve to add Shay, to message her, to tell her I was sorry, that I still am sorry for everything I did to her.

So I stayed friends with Everly and, though we rarely talked, other than a random like or comment on a status, I went through her photos every once in a while, scoping out Shay.

Liking what I saw.

No, loving what I saw.

Just total heartbreak over what I saw.

The girl with the unruly hair and acne scars and sweetest lips to have ever graced my body turned into a woman to whom words could do no justice. Believe me, I have tried.

It became an addiction of sorts. Soon I was always lurking, feeling guilty over doing that, like I was some sort of creep. Hell, I am some sort of creep, there’s no use skirting the language here. Then I was feeling guilty over the way things ended between us, the shit I left in the dust.

Then Shay was in Europe. In Italy.

With her boyfriend, but still.

Close. Yet so far.

And then last year, just like that, like she knew, all her photos became private. I couldn’t see her anymore. Then, last month, I saw Everly post a photo from Instagram to Facebook. She mentioned Shay in the caption, tagged her.

I downloaded Instagram.

I found Shay. Her profile, public.

And my world began to spin once again.

I spent the whole hour going through every photo of hers, from Italy to Ireland. Then I got on the boat, left her images and reception behind.

Until this morning.

She was in Oslo.

Now she’s in Trondheim.

She’s here.

I sigh and shrug my shoulders, trying to get the knots out of them. One of the deckhands hurt his arm a few days ago, so I was putting in work when I could to help bring the nets in. I watch as the clouds continue to roll toward me, reaching for the water, reaching for me, then turn before it can catch me.

I head back home.

* * *

“So, Anders, who’s the girl?” Astrid asks.

I freeze, my forkful of potato paused halfway to my mouth. I eye my sister as she heads to the fridge to grab a beer, mindful enough to get me one too.

“What girl?” I ask, before shoving the food in my mouth.

“Yeah, what girl?” Lise says with a tilt of her head, smiling at me wickedly. “Anders has so many, it’s hard to keep track.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Astrid says, plunking herself back down at the table and sliding one of the beers over to me. She smiles at me, her front teeth have this slight gap that makes her look eternally like a little girl, despite what she does for a living. “Last I heard, Britt Solberg had caught your fancy. She’s got a loud mouth, that one. Not sure why you couldn’t fool around with one of the quieter girls in town.”

“In this town, there are no quiet girls,” Lise adds with a laugh, brushing her dark hair off her face. “Everyone always knows everything. Why do you think I moved to Oslo?”

Meanwhile, Uncle Per is staying silent through all of this, though he does shoot me a sympathetic glance before going back to his meal. That’s Per. Always silent, always listening. Always eating.

I aim to take in some of his resolve. I say nothing. Especially about Britt Solberg. Or Anita Dahl. Or Heidi Olsen. The stereotype of the sailor is no different from that of the fisherman. After weeks at sea, a woman is exactly what you need to get your head—and body—back in reality. The only problem is, I always come back here to see the same old girls. They all know my reputation by now, but that doesn’t stop them from having some fun every now and then. Thank god for that.

Besides, I’ve never been one to kiss and tell. The girls will—usually followed by the words, “that fuckface” or something similar, but I just smile and move on.

Still. I can’t help it. I haven’t seen Astrid in weeks and it wouldn’t be very sibling-like if I didn’t knock her down a peg.

“You’re one to talk,” I tell her. “How many French men do you have lined up after hours?”

“Anders,” Per chides me.

“What?” I exclaim, palms raised. “That’s not fair that she can make a jab at me but I can’t make one at her. Where’s the equality in that?”

Meanwhile, Lise is laughing softly to herself and Astrid is giving me the stink-eye. She’s frighteningly good at it and I know growing up that she was using it on all the men in town. That’s why my comment is more funny than anything.

“I’m a burlesque dancer, not a whore,” Astrid says, raising her chin in a haughty manner. “And even if I was, so what?”

“I’m not a whore either,” I remind her.

She keeps on glaring until I finally look away. She wins again.

Astrid was always a handful growing up. After my mother left our family for America and got married to a damn New Yorker, she left me, the oldest, in charge of my sisters. With Uncle Per busy with the farm and my father always away fishing, all the responsibility fell on me.

And at the time, responsibility was poison to my soul.

Astrid was the one getting into the most trouble, not exactly with the boys, but with her group of girlfriends who seemed to run amok in this town. Because we are only two years apart, she didn’t take any orders from me, or anyone else.