Page 5 of Left-Hand Larceny

“I always wanted an older brother.” I tell him. This time, he sighs.“I bet you’re her favorite person.”

“Sh-she c-can’t miss me.” He says, the paper crunching as he fists his hands. He relaxes them as soon as the sound cuts through the quiet. “We n-never lived u-under the same r-roof.”

I bite down on my tongue hard enough that I almost draw blood because dammit; I knew that. I did. Ragnar has been living in the US since before she was born. And given the way he talks about her…well, the guilt drips off him like water droplets down the side of a chilled glass. I know a little something about that.

“You don’t need to live with someone to miss them.” I shrug, the balls of my shoulders rolling over the hard floor. I close my eyes, mostly because I’ve always gotten the feeling that Ragnar is someone who values privacy, but also because I’m getting dangerously close to my own insecurities.

Not today, Satan.

This isn’t about me.

His smile is sad. One side of his mouth curved higher than the other, brows pulled together and up toward his hairline.

“Anyway,” I pat the top of one over-sized sneaker. “You aren’t getting out of this crossword. I need help, Ragnar. My reputation is at stake.”

It isn’t. Not really, but dad will ask about it when I go home. He’ll want to compare answers, and I hate the squirmy feeling in my gut when I have to tell him I didn’t finish. Ridiculous, yes, but given everything else they went through for me…with me…the least I can do is share this one hobby with him. Even if filling each tiny square makes me feel like my brain is a sluggish mass of jello.

“I-is this p-puzzle all…” I bite down on my lip and shut my eyes, trying not to laugh at the suspicion in his voice. “About Iceland?”

I hear the paper crinkle again.

“Oh my god Ragnar.” Even through his team-issued blues, he’s warm. I move closer, not quite touching, but letting his body heat seep into my bloodstream. “Not everything is about you.” I look up at him, grin wide.

The smile he sends back floods through me like honey,pooling in my veins.

“But this time it is.” I wink. “So please help. My brain is full of grad school stuff, not gorgeous Scandinavian countries I’ve never visited in my life.”

He shakes his head, but his smile remains as he looks back down at the paper. The pen scratches as he fills in more answers.

“I… I could t-take you. Someday. I-if y-you’d like.”

“Perfect.” I close my eyes again, nestling into his shoe. “I’m just gonna take a little nappy nap. You finish that and we can plan a vacation.”

My heart races inside my chest. My stomach flips.

Because the idea of traveling with Ragnar? Seeing his hometown? Belonging somewhere? Even just for a moment? It sounds… nice.

Howl shoves his nose into my crotch the minute I push open the front door. It’s the same move he takes every time I come home from the rink. He starts with the delicate parts first before inspecting every other inch. I rest my hand on the soft fur between his ears, ruffling them back and forth as he lets his tongue flop out in what I assume is a doggy grin.

“Hver er góður strákur?”

He leans against my leg, leaving long white hairs on the navy cotton of my sweatpants and sneezes as if to say “It’s me. I’m the good dog.” I smile even as I shake his snot off my fingers. He sneezes again—I’m half-convinced he’s allergic to the metallic ice smell that seeps from my pores—and coats the bottom of my pant leg in mucus.

“Megi tröll hafa þína vini.”

The look he gives me reminds me I’m his only friend, which probably says more about me than him. So yeah… not my best insult.

He follows me from the foyer into the kitchen and I pull a box of bone-shaped treats out of my pantry. Yes, they cost a fortune at the farmers’ market. Yes, I grumbled about it as I forked over two twenty-dollar bills. Yes, I told the teenager working the register to keep the change. Yes, I went back and bought moreevery week when it became clear Howl preferred the peanut butter and pumpkin flavor.

He prances at my side, paws tap-tap-tapping against the hardwood floor, and I toss him a cookie. He catches it easily in his jaws—something never guaranteed—and trots out of the room, treat held gently in his teeth.

“Ekki málið,” I call after him. The ingrate never says thank you.

I can hear him crunching away from his memory foam dog bed, the one he never uses for sleep, and I pull out my phone to send a quick message to my sister. She should be home from school now, just finishing up dinner.

Me

Your dog is a menace.

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