Page 49 of The Orc That Got Away

I spend my second day catching up with old friends, taking more pictures, and checking in with my agent. It’s not a bad way to spend a day, and there was a lot about being in a big city that I missed while I was in Green Haven. But I also feel like a part of me is constantly waiting to hear from Ragnar, hoping that we won’t go another day of technically living together but actually never seeing each other.

That night I decide to cook dinner. I’m almost done when I hear the door open. “Honey, I’m home!” Ragnar calls out.

“And here I am, slaving away over dinner,” I smirk as he comes into the kitchen. “Aren’t we traditional.”

“God, I hope not,” he says, grabbing me in a hug. “Smells delicious, though. I didn’t know you could cook.”

“Not very well,” I admit. “But I had to learn once I was living on my own. I couldn’t afford to eat out every night. Don’t you know how to cook?”

“No,” Ragnar says shamelessly, uncorking a bottle of wine. “I could afford to eat out every night.”

“Ah, the rich are so different,” I joke as we sit down. “I’m just glad that we’re actually seeing each other today.”

“For a little bit,” Ragnar says, and my heart sinks. “I’m really sorry, Bradford, but I have to go back after dinner.”

“Then why did you bother coming home?” I ask. I’m careful not to sound aggrieved, but I am disappointed.

“Because I wanted to see you,” he says softly. “And if I’d stayed at the office, I wouldn’t have had a break.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate you making the effort to come back.”

“I really didn’t think that work would be this intense,” Ragnar says, sipping his wine. “I figured that I was looking at ten-hour days, not sixteen-hour ones.”

“Do you think that things will smooth out soon?”

“I hope so. But it’s going to take longer than I’d hoped. I’m sorry, Bradford. This wasn’t how I envisioned our first few days together going.”

“It’s okay,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “We have the rest of our lives together, right?”

“Right,” he says, sounding relieved.

I do truly believe that. But it’s harder and harder to hold on to that perspective as the days pass. Ragnar is working all of the time, even on weekends. And when he’s not working, he’s so wiped out that he falls asleep as soon as he gets home.

I try to be patient. I stop expecting to see him, and I don’t say anything when he stops leaving notes for me. He’s too busy, and besides, I wouldn’t believe his assurances that he’ll be home by a certain time.

I know that Ragnar’s company means a lot to him. He might never phrase it like this, but it really is his longest-term relationship. I admire his dedication to his work and his employees. And I respect what he’s built, and how determined and clever he had to be to make his company the powerhouse it became. I know that if anyone can turn the company’s fortunes around, it’s Ragnar.

But it’s difficult not to wonder just what the hell I’m doing here. I feel like I’m existing on the very fringes of Ragnar’s life, and that’s not a position I’m used to occupying for anyone. All of my past relationships were more egalitarian than this; they weren’t driven by the needs and demands of one person, no matter how justified those needs and demands might have been.

I fill my days with photography and friends, talk with my agent about the next stage of my career and making the condo less of a sterile bachelor pad and more of a home. On the rare occasions that Ragnar is home and awake, I try to have conversations with him, about his work or mine, or about books that I’m reading that I know he’s read. But he’s always tired and barely responds.

One evening Ragnar comes home when I’m about to start making dinner. “Good timing,” I call as he walks in. “You can be my sous chef.”

“Are you sure you trust me?” he asks and I laugh.

“Not at all. You can start by washing the lettuce,” I say. “I think that’s simple enough that not even you can fuck it up.”

“You’d be surprised,” he says and I grin, happy that he’s in a playful mood.

Ragnar gets the lettuce out of the fridge and drops it in the colander I’ve already put in the sink. Then his phone buzzes and he pulls it out of his pocket.

I notice that he’s reading an email, but I keep up with what I’m doing. “After you wash the lettuce, I could use some help chopping garlic,” I tell him. “It’s on the cutting board. Don’t worry about making all of the pieces even. Just try not to cut off a finger!”

“Hold on,” he says, his tone grumpy and distracted. “Shit, shit, shit!” He throws his phone across the room.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Some fuckup at work,” Ragnar growls. “I have to go back in. Dammit!” He walks over and picks up his phone.

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