Page 52 of Left-Hand Larceny

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. “Frænka?”

“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 pinchedtight 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’sjust 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.”

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