Page 126 of Left-Hand Larceny
She doesn’t look at me, and I know it’s not because she doesn’t want to. It’s because she’s scared, nervous. Trying to own this one thing she wants without letting my reaction color her need.
“They might not want to meet me,” she says quietly. “Or they might say awful things. They might be dead. Or—” her voice hitches, “but I want to try. To know.”
I reach over and wrap my hand around hers. It’s cold, a little shaky. I warm it with mine.
“Sadie,” I say, low, “w-whatever they s-s-say o-or do has n-nothing to do w-w-with who you are. It is n-not and w-w-will never be o-on you.”
She blinks hard, but doesn’t look away this time.
“You a-are not their m-mistakes. Or their shame. O-or their absence. You’re y-y-you, Sadie Jones, a-and you’re extraordinary.”
She gives me a watery smile, like she wants to believe me but hasn’t figured out how yet.
“I just don’t want to break,” she whispers.
“You w-won’t.” My voice comes out firmer than I expect. “Even if it h-h-hurts. You’ve already s-survived worse. You’ve b-built a whole l-life out of pieces n-no one g-g-gave you instructions for. If you go l-looking, it’s not weakness. It’s s-strength. It’s a choice.”
And I will not let her break. Not ever. Not without picking up all the pieces so she can put them back in place. I let a breath out through my nose.
“And i-if you want t-t-to stop, y-you can. If it’s too m-much, I’ll be r-right here. If it’s b-beautiful, I’ll be right h-here. If it’s both… I’ll still be r-r-right here.”
Tears slip down her cheeks, but she’s not hiding them. Not ducking her face, or blotting them with her sleeve. She’s letting them fall. Letting me see.
She turns to me, voice wobbly but steady. “You make me feel braver.”
I smile, throat tight. “You a-are brave all on y-your own. I just g-get to witness it.”
We sit like that for a while, hands entwined between us, the fog curling thicker on the windows. The driveway feels like its own little world.
Howl’s face appears in the window again, and even from this distance and the car between us, we can hear his annoyed yip.
She wipes her cheek with her sleeve. “I love—” losing the last word on a hiccup.
“I know,” I say, teasing gently. “He’s h-hard to resist.”
Her eyes flick toward me, warm with something bigger than a joke.
“I meant you,” she says, softly. And just like that, I’m breathless.
“I k-know,” I whisper back, voice cracking a little. “Ég elska þig líka”
I love you too.
The hot spring is tucked behind a bluff of dark stone, steam curling into the sky like the earth itself is exhaling. The water’s pale blue and almost too warm, and the air smells like minerals and clean cold.
Kat strips down to her bathing suit and cannonballs in like it’s a hotel pool.
We’ve been in Iceland for a week now. Much as I predicted, we couldn’t visit during the All-Star break, not with Ragnar in goal, but he surprised me with tickets in December. When I asked if he was worried, planning so far ahead, we’d been together for a month—maybe—at that point, he looked at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.
The season was a triumph. The boys brought home Lord Stanley’s Cup in June. Every news outlet wanted a peace of Ragnar Ólaffson. The comeback kid. The man who left the ice on a stretcher one season, and took his team to the end of the playoffs the next. I thought he’d want to stick around, celebrate, but he didn’t.
“I would rather celebrate with my family. With you.” Excuse me while I melt just remembering it.
Ragnar groans. “She’s never quiet.”
I grin. “She’s perfect.”
He wraps an arm around me as we slip into the water; the heat rising like tendrils of magic. “She’s obsessed with you.”
