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

Lise and Tove weren’t even teenagers at the time and were so distraught by our mother’s departure—as we all were—they were a lot easier to manage.

I guess it came as no surprise that when Astrid turned eighteen, she moved to Oslo. Then to Copenhagen. Then Amsterdam. And now Paris, where she’s been living for a few years and working as a burlesque dancer. Naturally, being her brother, I’ve never seen any of her shows and have absolutely no desire to, though Lise and Tove tell me she’s good at what she does.

I don’t have a problem with it—whatever makes her happy. But I have to admit, sometimes I envy her greatly. It’s a strange feeling to be jealous of your sibling, like it goes against the grain, but the feeling is there. Astrid is doing what she wants to be doing with her life. She’s doing what she wants—period. I don’t have that luxury and, to be honest, I wouldn’t even deserve it if I did.

With the spat between me and Astrid over, she and Lise start arguing over some book they both read. Sitting in the kitchen that I grew up in, I can still smell the waffles that my mother used to make every morning, the loads of freshly made jam and cream from the cows. My mother was never very nurturing, but she did know her way around the kitchen. As usual, my gut bubbles up with toxic nostalgia.

I take a long gulp of my beer then ask Uncle Per how the lambs have been doing. He offers up a few words, letting me know what I’ll be helping out with over the next month—spring is busy—before I’m off to sea again, though he can’t hide his grimace when he adjusts in his chair. Uncle Per’s health has never been the best. “Too much butter, too much Scotch,” my father used to say, and they’ve been slowly catching up with him throughout the years, now delivering their blow. He’s been going to the doctor and so far everything seems fine, but he’s an old and unhappy man, and I fear the latter may be the true death of him someday.

My uncle never married. Astrid once told me that he had fallen in love with a woman when he was very young and they were engaged to be married, but she died in a car accident. I guess he swore off love—and at least women—after that. I’ve never really known anything different. I grew up in this farmhouse with my parent’s room at one end of the long upstairs hall and my uncle down at the other. I know both of them inherited the farm from my grandparents and they made a go of it, working together. We were one big, somewhat happy, family.

Then, when times got tough and the farm took a hit, my father became a fisherman to supplement the income.

To say I’ve become my father’s son terrifies me in its accuracy.

“What do you think?” Astrid says, and I realize she’s speaking to me.

I raise my brows. “Don’t tell me this is about a girl again.”

She looks at our uncle. “Do you need Anders to start helping out tomorrow, or can it wait a day?”

“Why?” I ask, suspicious.

“I thought you, me and Lise could go to Trondheim for the day. Roar is coming, I’m meeting picking him up at the train station.” She eyes our uncle. “Uncle Per, you can come too. May be good to get away from this place.”

But I’m barely listening as they talk back and forth about it.

Trondheim.

It would be funny if only I hadn’t actually entertained the idea of going there anyway.

Going there on a whim.

For all the wrong reasons.

Very wrong reasons.

Trondheim isn’t a big city, but it’s busy. The chances of me seeing Shay there are slim to none, even if I stalk her on Instagram, trying to plot her every move through her stories. And even if I did happen upon her, what would I say? I’m sorry? She’d hit me so fast I wouldn’t even be able to get the words out, and I still remember what her fist feels like. I still remember what all of her feels like, and fucking Britt Solberg a million times will never, ever erase it.

First loves are supposed to be bullshit, and I still stand by that.

But hell, if that shit doesn’t stink forever.

“I’m in,” I say quickly, glancing apologetically at Uncle Per. “If that’s okay.”

He nods, his jowls wobbling and adjusts his glasses. “Yah. It’s fine, Anders. But I will stay here. The city isn’t what it used to be.”

What I think he means is he doesn’t want to be stuck in a car for two hours with his nephew and nieces. I’m not even sure I want that either.

But the pull is there.

The clouds are rolling in over the mountains.

And she’ll be on the other side.

4

Shay

The scenery flying past my window is almost too beautiful to be considered real. I take photo after photo, cursing at myself when I’m too slow to get that beautiful red house standing amongst a field of gold wheat, or when I get the glare of the sun instead, ruining a shot of cotton candy clouds above a treeless alpine vista. I can’t believe I almost wrote off this country because of a few bummer days in Oslo, because this train ride alone is one of the most breathtaking I’ve ever been on.

I have a comfortable window seat with no one next to me, across from a woman who is traveling with a miniature greyhound bundled up in layers of blankets and looking every bit at home. The train has a bar cart and though it’s just before noon, I’ve already started on a can of crisp pear cider and a flattened waffle you’re supposed to eat with sweet brown cheese.

If I was worried about finding my place, my direction, that’s all being left behind on the train tracks. Now I really feel