Page 139 of Pucking Strong

Morrow and I just laugh.

Ilmari mutters something in Swedish that has him and Henrik smirking.

“I’ve almost got it,” says Jake. “It’s the last line. Just do the last line again.”

Taking a deep breath, Henrik holds up his shot glass and chants, “Han heller inte halvan får.”

Jake repeats it twice under his breath as the rest of us laugh again. “Okay! Alright, I got it. Let’s go.”

Henrik holds up his shot glass a little higher. “Ready?”

“We’re ready,” says Morrow.

“Let’s fucking do this,” Novy shouts.

“Wait—” Jake’s eyes are wide as he stares down the table. “Mars, you’re really gonna do a shot with us?”

At my left, Mars is holding up his shot glass. “If I’m singing ‘Helan Går,’ I’m taking a real fucking shot.”

Cheers go up around the table as he looks to Henrik and nods.

Henrik pounds his fist on the table. “Right. This is for Teddy O’Connor, my husband, min kärlek, mitt allt … and the best-looking man in any room!”

Novy lowers his glass an inch. “Hey now—”

Henrik launches into the song, and this time we all sing along. To either side of me, Henrik and Mars both have rich, baritone voices. The words flow off their tongues with ease. I’ll admit, I just feel like I’m along for this wild ride. The whole restaurant turns to watch us as we sing at the top of our lungs:

“Helan går,

Sjung hopp faderallan lallan lej

Helan går,

Sjung hopp faderallan lej.”

Then comes the tongue twister that has us all gasping for breath:

“Och den som inte helan tar,

Han heller inte halvan får.

Helan gååååår!!!!”

As we hold out the last note, drumming the table with our free hands, Henrik holds his glass high. “Now, drink!”

As one, we all down our shots of sake, slamming our empty cups onto the table.

With a wave of Henrik’s hand, we finish the song with one more chant of, “Sjung hopp faderallan lej!”

All around the restaurant, the other patrons cheer for us. Some shout their congratulations. Several of them have their phones out, taking pictures and videos. I know our trusty voyeur is doing his job. Surprising the heck out of me, Henrik leans over and kisses me right on the lips. “Well done, min älskade.”

I’m smiling, breathless, high on this moment. Not wanting himto get away so quickly, I wrap my hand around his neck and pull him back to me, kissing the taste of the sake from his lips while our friends all pound their fists on the table and cheer.

Two hours later, we stumble out of the elevator, nearly tripping each other as we try to kiss and walk at the same time. I’m drunk, but I don’t care. Henrik is in my arms. He’s alive and kissing me, and I never want him to stop. He backs me up against the door, my ass slamming into the doorknob, as he fumbles and drops his keys to the floor.

“Fan i helvete,” he mutters.

Okay, maybe he’s a little tipsy too. By the end of the night, I lost track of how many times we actually sang “Helan Går.” Things really got out of hand when our waitress, Kiko, taught us a Japanese drinking song. Caleb called us all Ubers, piling his drunk husbands into the back of their truck. Henrik and I kissed all the way back to the apartment. Now his English translator seems to be on the fritz. He mumbles something in Swedish, looking for his keys.

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