Page 25

And Christian. None of them came right out and said it.

Okay, Christian kind of did, but it was easy enough to read in their careful, offhand comments.

We’d see a girl with bubblegum pink hair on the evening news and Dad would comment how it was a shame they couldn’t find someone else.

Mom would lament how bleaching long term—something I’ll unfortunately have to do with my dark hair—causes damage.

Christian was a little less subtle. I didn’t have the pink streak when we were together, but any changes to my appearance were met with the silent treatment.

I don’t mean he didn’t notice my newly bobbed hair, or the conch piercing, or even the gel tip nails.

I mean he literally wouldn’t speak to me.

Look at me. Acknowledge my existence. Not until I groveled. Or changed it back.

The point is, without a clear boundary—“Don’t die your hair unnatural colors”—how am I supposed to know what is expected of me?

If I can tell the people in my immediate circle dislike cotton-candy hair colors, then those colors are easy enough to avoid.

The problem only comes when I realize I want pink hair. Desperately.

And all those little snide comments…never said to me directly, of course. But said near me? Or never said at all? They were loud enough that I got the message.

But I don’t want to think about that now.

I turn my attention back to Kat—I wonder if her nickname also means cat in Icelandic—and grin. “Anyway, I love your headband.”

She beams. “Thank you! I stole it from my...” her face scrunches up as she tries to think of the word. She turns back to Ragnar. “ Fraenka ?”

“Hanna i-is your c-cousin.”

“That,” Katrín says, and right now, here, on this call, it all feels… easy. Normal. Like I belong here, on this screen, in this conversation. As if we talk regularly. As if this is no big deal. Not a shocking show of trust.

Ragnar says something in Icelandic, and Kat rolls her eyes dramatically.

“Sadie…” my name curls sweetly in his mouth and I fight a shiver. I don’t need either ólaffson sibling to notice just how he affects me. “…thinks our s-secret l-language is c-c-cool.”

Kat groans. “You told her about that?”

I nod, trying not to make eye contact with the goalie at my side. I doubt this kid needs to know that I saw her brother’s tattoo while ogling his bare chest. Introducing a pre-teen to my lust and attraction for her sibling? Yeah, hard pass.

“I think it’s awesome,” I wink at Kat. “I wish I had something like that with someone.”

Kat smiles, and it’s a little less self-conscious this time. “You don’t have a…” she pauses, looking up as if searching for the word, “sibling?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Ragnar nod, his grin splitting his face. I wonder if they use these calls for her to practice English. If so, it’s working. She’s damn near fluent.

I wonder what it would have been like to have a sibling.

I may have some. I wouldn’t know. My adoption wasn’t a secret, but it was closed, anonymous.

Not that there was any way to find them, anyway.

It was one of those beautiful stories my parents loved to share.

How they prayed and hoped and fought for years with no luck.

And then, one night while dad was in the middle of a twelve-hour shift, after they’d given up all hope, someone dropped off a newborn in the baby box.

Me.

I grew up knowing my parents loved me. I never doubted that, but I still begged for a brother or a sister.

Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every time we drove past a playground or a school.

My baby dolls were my siblings. When my friends’ parents had babies, I was first in line for cuddles.

Later, when I was old enough to understand the way my mother’s face pinched tight whenever the subject of siblings came up, I stopped asking.

And later, once I really understood what my mother had gone through, I also drowned under the guilt of reopening her old wounds. Even if I hadn’t known.

Better not to make her feel bad.

Better to smile and say I was happy as an only child. Even if sometimes the loneliness howled inside me.

Kat is laughing now, teasing Ragnar in rapid-fire Icelandic, and he’s grinning back, tossing soft insults—I assume—right back at her. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his entire face lit up like Christmas time. I have no idea what they’re saying, and yet their conversation is universal.

When she points a finger at the screen and says his full name, I snort air out of my nose trying not to laugh. I fail when he full-names her right back.

He doesn’t stutter once.

Not in Icelandic.

The realization hits me square in the chest.

He’s fluent. Confident. Comfortable. Not that I didn’t think he would be.

It’s his native tongue and his safe person, but I had assumed the stuttering influenced both languages.

I thought it would be hard for him, switching back and forth with his family.

I thought maybe English was more second nature, after being here since he was younger than Kat.

The language isn’t a barrier for him. It’s a bridge.

Kat says something that makes him chuckle, before turning her attention back to me.

“I wish I had a big sister instead of a big brother,” she says, mock-dramatic.

I laugh, but a little part of me aches.I always imagined a younger one. Maybe a sister just like Kat. I glance at Ragnar, worried her blunt proclamation might have hurt him, but he’s just rolling his eyes and grinning like he’s heard this a million times before. Maybe he has.

“Nah,” I tell her seriously. “Trust me. You’re lucky with the one you got.”

She grins, pleased.

They bicker a little more, slipping so effortlessly between Icelandic and English that my head spins. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the feeling — the warmth, the teasing, the love.

Despite the years between them. Despite the ocean between them. They’re a team.

Eventually, Kat’s battery switches to low power, and we say goodbye. She waves frantically at me before the call cuts off and I wiggle my fingers back, making goofy faces with her until the screen goes dark.

I hand Ragnar his phone back, my fingers brushing his by accident, and a zing of something hot and dangerous slides up my forearm. He pockets the phone, never taking his eyes off of me. I can feel them slipping over the curve of my neck. Lower.

“ Sorri ,” he says. “That c-call was o-odd timing. I w-was worried, so I to t-t-take it.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I say immediately. “I loved seeing you together. It… it meant a lot that you wanted me to meet her.”

He looks at me, surprised. “W-why w-w-wouldn’t I? I t-trust you.”

The words are so simple. So honest. They punch the breath right out of me because it’s not that he doesn’t care who his sister talks to, interacts with. It’s that for some reason, I pass muster.

Sweat pools in the small of my back, gathers on my upper lip. Two minutes ago, it was freezing in this hallway. Am I getting sick? I look away.

“You’re close with your family,” I state the obvious. “Even though you’re far apart. It’s…”

I don’t have the words. I’m in awe of how he holds his family together.

I know he sends most of his salary back to his grandmother.

I know how easy it would have been to wipe his hands on his hockey pants and let them fend for themselves.

He was only nineteen. He could have chosen not to step in and many people would have understood.

It’s not like his grandmother was in poor health.

She hiked a volcano just last year on some research trip.

I’m literal proof that sometimes walking away is the best choice. My adoption was a success story. I have parents who love me. I got an excellent education, a roof over my head, food to eat. Two parents who love me and each and yet, he is closer to his family than I’ve ever—

“I think it’s amazing.”

Ragnar shakes his head like he doesn’t believe my words. I step into him, letting my hands curl into the soft cotton of his sweatshirt.

“The relationship you have with your family is incredible,” I say, holding his gaze with mine. “And you did it all despite the distance, the years, everything.”

His hands come up to cover mine. I can feel his body heat seeping into my skin. I’m literally melting in this hundred degree hallway, but I revel in him like a fluffy little cat.

“W-want to know a s-s-secret?”

I nod.

“It w-wasn’t always e-easy,” he admits, voice low. “I a-almost w-walked away once.”

I blink, startled, and then feel guilty. I don’t want him to think I’m judging him for feeling that way. I would never judge valid feelings. I try to pretend like I didn’t react at all. Which I’m fairly certain only makes things worse.

He shrugs, looking at the floor. “I th-thought they’d be b-better o-off without m-me.”

My heart aches along with his.

“What changed?” My words are a whisper.

“I t-told them m-my truth. That I f-f-felt n-not n-needed,” he says simply. “They t-told me theirs. N-now we…we…we talk. Even when it’s h-hard.”

I chew on that for a second. I know he’s right. Nothing changes unless I say something, ask.

I spent my entire childhood, a majority of my adolescence, and a decent chunk of my adulthood with this fear draped over the back of my shoulders. That if I was a disappointment, a problem, a hassle, I’d be given away. Given back. Replaced. That the people I love would leave and I’d be alone.

I can know that it stems from the trauma of my adoption, and still struggle with the worry.

Separating a baby from their mother, whatever the reason, has a profound impact.

I have never felt good enough for anyone to love.

But that isn’t necessarily because of what they do or say.

I’m not sure I ever expressed my fears. I wish I could be brave enough to try.

“I’m jealous,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “My parents love me, they do, but I always feel like,” I pause, swallow. ”I have to be perfect for them. Like there’s no room for messy feelings. Or mistakes.”

Ragnar looks at me so gently my throat constricts and my chest aches.

“F-family is supposed to b-b-be the p-place you can be m-messy. The p-people who w-w-won’t j-judge or c-care.”

I laugh and it comes out watery. “To be fair, I haven’t actually tried being messy.” Because what if I’m right? What if it isn’t okay? What if that teensy-tiny chance they turn their backs turns out to be true?

We stand there, awkward and tender and too close to something dangerous again. It’s becoming something of a habit for us. Like setting boundaries spoke this attraction, this pull, into existence. I can’t be sorry.

Finally, I take a breath. “In the spirit of fairness,” I say. “Can I tell you a secret, too?”

He nods.

“Sometimes,” I whisper, staring at my shoes. “Sometimes I think I’m so concerned with who I’m supposed to be that I have no idea who Sadie Jones actually is.”

I’m in school for something I don’t love because I’ve put too much time in to quit now. I’m working a job my parents chose because even if I don’t love it, I don’t want to disappoint them. I dated a boy I didn’t even like because everyone said we were perfect together.

I say my favorite color is a sedate blue like my mother’s, when it’s the brightest pink imaginable.

Violently pink. Shield your eyes neon. I read fantasy novels because Tristan recommends them, but I prefer a sappy romance.

I say I’m fine not knowing anything about my lineage, my biological family, so I won’t hurt anyone’s feelings.

They gave me everything. The least I can do is to be grateful. Right?

Now I might be attracted to this gorgeous man even as I insist we’re just friends. Yet another thing I am burying deep, lying about. To myself.

Every single one of those things I could change. I could. The real secret is that I’m too afraid of the fallout.

I peek up at him, feeling my heart pound. His reaction could hurt me, but I’m unable to not gauge his response. It feels like being underwater, kicking up to the surface, feeling the burn and ache in my lungs as I stretch for air.

Ragnar doesn’t look shocked or judgmental. He nods, almost like he knows what I mean, what I’m trying to say.

“It—” his throat moves as he swallows. I want to press my nose to his skin. I think it would calm the nerves vibrating through every cell of my body. “It’s o-okay.”

His hands tighten over mine before he drops them, taking a step back.

Cool air rushes into the space between us and I shiver.

Right. I can’t be clutching the team goalie in the middle of the Stand hallway.

Not where just anyone could walk by. Definitely not when I’m the one who said his attraction, giving into it, would be a colossally bad idea.

It really doesn’t matter that I feel like my skin stretched thin and my lungs filled with pond water the minute he let go.

“I-if it h-helps, the r-real Sadie?” Ragnar’s words cut through the rising panic. “I l-like her. A lot.”

And somehow, those words make it a lot easier to breathe.