Page 106 of Only and Forever

The house hums with life that’s turned quieter, now that little ones are being tucked in, doors shut quietly, lights dimmed, voices hushed. It’s peaceful and content, floors creaking, dishes clattering gently as they’re washed (to my profound annoyance, I was, as sister of the bride, forbidden to help with cleanup). A window is lifted open; someone laughs softly.

The sounds of a family wrapping up the day.

I can see why Charlie and Gigi wanted to get married here, beyond the nostalgia of this being the place where they got engaged. Surrounded by a family that’s become their own, in a home filled with love and memories. It feels like an invocation, a hope, for their own future, Gigi and Charlie’s, to begin married life in a place like this.

Groaning, I stretch my arms up, one side, then the other, trying to work out the kinks from flying. Viggo and I came straight from the airport into setup mode for the wedding tomorrow, followed by the rehearsal, which was brief and went smoothly, then dinner afterward, which was delicious, noisy, chaotic, and absolutely perfect. This is the first time since we got here that I’ve felt like I could catch my breath, knowing that my sister has everything she needs, everything the way she wants it for tomorrow—I’vetriple-checked. I feel a unique responsibility, not just because I’ve always been protective of her, but because I’m the only member of our family here right now.

Harry has, to my relief, checked himself into rehab. We’ve been emailing, ever since he first wrote me, sharing his struggles, an apology for the ways his behavior hurt and scared me. I’ve opened up, told him my own struggles, too. We talk about therapy being hard, about how raw it is, healing those parts of ourselves we’d hardened to protect ourselves.

Mom and Dad aren’t here either, but they will be tomorrow. Charlie told them they were welcome to attend the wedding, but not be part of it. I can’t say I’m excited to see them tomorrow, given where we left everything, but I’ve started to learn hard things always have to start somewhere, even if they’re small. Just seeing them tomorrow, sharing Charlie’s day, I think that’s about all I’ll be able to handle. I hope that’s all they’ll ask of me, because if not, I’m going to have to draw a firm boundary around that—a skill I’m still very much working on.

But that’s a problem for Tomorrow Tallulah. For now, finally, I feel like I can slow down and just... be.

In need of some quiet to think and process, I walk the hallway of the first floor, soaking up the family photos. Viggo and Oliver, dark and light hair, same pale blue eyes, knobby skinned knees, and bright smile; Ziggy with her red hair and freckles wedged between them, green eyes squinted as she grins. Elin and Alex, Viggo’s parents, on their wedding day; Elin, white-blond hair, ice-blue eyes, sultry Mona Lisa smile; Alex, red hair, bright green eyes, beaming like a man who hit the jackpot. Freya, tallest, with her mother’s coloring; Axel, brown hair, his father’s green eyes, lanky and nearly his sister’s height; Ren, shorter, stockier, ice-blue eyes, freckles and wide smile; Ryder, windblown blond hair, bright green eyes, shovel in hand, all standing on the beach, eyes narrowed into the sun, anepic sandcastle in the foreground, Elin in the background, softly out of focus, her belly round... with Viggo.

I touch the glass covering the photo, trace the curve of her stomach. That’s where he began,howhe began—from love, so much love.

I swallow past the lump in my throat, moving down the hall, and come to a stop, a candid of little-boy Viggo, up in a tree, leaning against its trunk, long legs dangling off the branch he’s sitting on, a book in hand.

Tears well in my eyes.

Here, in this home, with all his family, the night before my baby sister gets married, I’m feeling so much. For once, I don’t resent it. In fact, I crave it, like I’ve been living my life holding my breath, drawing in only the bare minimum necessary to survive, but now the air is clear and clean, free for me to breathe in deep.

“Hey, Tallulah.”

I spin around, startled. Rooney. Tall, honey-blond hair drifting past her shoulders, blue-green eyes, and a wide, sunny smile. “Sorry I surprised you,” she says. “Just on my way back from the bathroom, and I saw you here. Figured I’d see how you were doing.”

I smile faintly. “That’s nice of you. I’m okay.” I turn a little, glancing at the photo wall. “Just... taking it in.”

Rooney steps beside me, hand going to the soft swell of her stomach, which I’d bet, based on her otherwise slender frame, is a baby bump, even though I haven’t heard anything from Viggo. I’m not saying a word. I get asked enough when I’m due that I am a firm believer that under no circumstances should a person ask another if they’re pregnant. That’s news you let someone share with you.

“It’s a lot,” she says, gaze roaming the photos. “To take in.”

I glance her way. “Was it for you?”

“Oh yeah.” She laughs softly. “I mean, I craved it, their family’s love, their closeness. But it was bittersweet sometimes, a reminder of all I didn’t have. They were so welcoming, and I always felt so athome with them, but I still used to worry that I’d never truly feel like one of them.”

“You did?” I turn, facing her fully.

She turns and faces me, too. “Absolutely.”

I swallow, trying not to let tears spill down my cheeks. “And that fear... went away?”

“It did.” She smiles. “Little by little.”

“How?” I whisper.

She peers back at the photos, a close-up of a boy I’m pretty sure is Axel drawing at the dining table, his tongue stuck out in concentration. “Time. Opening up to them. But mostly time. Until one day... I realized, to the Bergmans, I alreadywasone of them. That they’d opened their arms and hearts to me, and once they do that, they do it fully, without reservation. I had nothing to prove, no place to earn. Their love, that belonging, it was right there the whole time, waiting for me to see it.”

“I second that.” We both startle, glancing over our shoulders, toward the voice that’s joined us. Willa, Ryder’s wife, wild brown waves pinned up on her head, a powerful, compact soccer player’s physique, shimmies closer, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. Couldn’t help but overhear. Just wanted to chime in.” She clutches my hand, touch that even just a few months ago I’d have balked at, but after months of sweet, caring touches like that from Viggo, I lean into it. I squeeze her hand back. “Rooney’s right,” she says. “You have nothing to prove. But I’ll say that, from my own experience, it can take time to trust it, to feel safe in it. Be gentle with yourself along the way. That comfort will come.”

“Third that,” a new voice adds. We all spin and turn.

Frankie, Ren’s wife, stands tall, dark hair swept back in a ponytail, a sleepy baby in one arm, her cane in the other hand.

“Lucia!” Rooney coos, opening her arms, taking the baby from her mother.

Frankie takes a step closer, then leans her back to the wall, cane between her legs. “We’re missing a few members presently, but welcome to the dysfunctional section of the Bergmans.”

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