Page 7 of Heat It Up (Off the Ice)
I wait five minutes, my back against the door, before peeling myself away from it. Once I’m positive no one is out there, I open the door and peer over the metal railing to check the ground floor. The coast is clear.
At the cafe, I order a Diet Coke, sit in the far corner, and turn on my laptop. Claire responded to my email from yesterday, bemoaning, once again, that she has to wait forever to talk to me due to my WiFi situation. She has a million questions about Kyle.
I tell her what I can, which is nothing, and switch topics.
You know the soap The Endless Circle? I swear there’s a guy here who looks like one of the actors. He plays Eric Kincaid. He’s hot.
And my grandmother is trying to set me up with him,I type.I imagine Claire laughing at that. And then after she’s finished laughing, she’ll decide it’s a great idea if it means I’ll experience a steamy romance while I’m here. Anything to help me get over Ian and his death.
Correction. Anything to help me get past what he did to me. I’m long over what we had together, which wasn’t what I thought it was. Not like back in high school when we were dating and he meant everything to me, and I thought I meant everything to him. We had even discussed our futures, which included both of us in each other’s. Silly me.
Once I’ve finished my email to her, I surf the Internet, update my social media sites…and look up the cast ofThe Endless Circle.
According to one website, the actor who plays Eric is Brad McKinney. Not even close to a Finnish name, so there goes the theory about them being twins. Unless they were separated at birth.
After I finish, I wander around the neighborhood, the late afternoon sun warm against my bare arms and legs. I approach a wall covered with graffiti. Some words are in English, words you don’t want young kids to read. Others are in Finnish or another language I can’t read. Some designs are clumsy, while others are artwork in themselves.
I remove my lens cap from my DSLR camera and shoot photo after photo. I take a few pictures far enough away to capture most of the graffiti in the frame, including the surrounding concrete wall. Others are shot from a closer angle, so the design isn’t recognizable. All you see are abstract colors and patterns. I get lost in those patterns, the contrast of curves and harsh edges.
I spend hours shooting close-up photos. The more bizarre and unrecognizable the picture the better. It’s about the minute detail, that singular element so full of meaning, but which is lost in the big picture. It’s the big picture everyone else sees because they’re afraid to look closer, afraid to see the truth. Like how being far from home is messing with my head so I confused Joni for an actor.
The sun’s still shining when I head back to the apartment. That’s the best part about the location of Vantaa latitude-wise. It means more hours of daylight during the summer, so it’s easy to lose track of time.
It’s already after 6:33 p.m. Usually Muumu and I eat around five-thirty, so I know I’ll be in trouble, especially if she knows that I’m not with Joni after all. But really, how much trouble can I be in if I can’t understand her? All I have to do is look sorry and say “anteeksi” a few dozen times.
I reach out for the apartment door at the same moment it swings open. I’m not sure who is more shocked—me or Joni. He calls out something over his shoulder that includes my name. As I step inside the apartment, Muumu hustles into the hallway and flings herself at me.
Still hugging me, she speaks in rapid Finnish. I’m not sure who she’s talking to, so I keep quiet.
After the hug fest is over, she turns to Joni, and I notice we’re not alone in the hallway. A woman Muumu’s age, with short white hair and a few extra cookies under her belt like Muumu, takes in the action. When she spots me watching her, she smiles and nods at Joni. I’m not sure how to translate that. It’s either, “Hi. I’m Joni’s grandmother,” or “That’s my grandson and I hope you’ll fall madly in love with him and make me a great-grandmother anytime now.”
I vote for the first option.
“Your grandmother was worried something bad had happened to you,” Joni explains.
Perfect, a translator. No charades for this discussion required. “I’m sorry,” I say to her in Finnish then switch over to English. “I was shooting photos and lost track of time.” I glance at Joni, hoping he gets the hint what I need him to do.
Joni tells her what I said. Or at least I assume he does. For all I know, he just told her I was shooting penguins.
More rapid Finnish from Muumu.
“She was worried you got lost,” he explains.
Muumu gestures at the kitchen and fires off more Finnish, except this time I recognize “syödä.” Eat.
And inwardly I groan. Now I get why Joni and his grandmother are here. I shot him down for lunch; now they’re making sure I can’t shoot him down for dinner, too. Double groan.
Since I don’t have many other choices, I sit at my usual spot at the small table, crammed into the equally small kitchen. Mina, the canary, chirps and Muumu coos back at the bird, then she and Joni’s grandmother sit opposite to me, forcing him to sit next to me.
A long, red candle burns in the center of the table. Since when do Muumu and I eat dinner by candlelight? The groan from earlier is back, echoing off my ribs like wind trapped in a tunnel. Why does she have to be so freaking obvious?
While I’m one hundred percent against this plan, I can’t deny that dinner smells amazing. Muumu made fish soup with chunks of salmon and vegetables in a milk broth. The dinner tastes great, and the company isn’t bad either. I mean, other than when the meddling grandmothers keep asking Joni and me questions. Joni is forced to translate, and it’s clear their questions are nothing more than a weak attempt to push us together through conversation. The kind of conversation you have during a first date.
“If you were a frog, what kind would you be?” Joni translates for his grandmother.
My mouth flops open for a second so I look like a frog, which wasn’t the look I was aiming for. Our grandmothers watch my reaction with great interest, leaning forward, eyebrows raised, and I get the feeling they weren’t the ones who asked me the frog question. If it weren’t for the mischief in Joni’s eyes, I never would’ve guessed the truth: he did it on purpose.
“An extremely bouncy kind,” I say, struggling to keep a straight face.
