Page 1 of Only and Forever

ONE

Viggo

Playlist: “Everybody’s Lonely,” Jukebox The Ghost

If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love a happy ending. That butterflies-in-your-stomach, rush-of-serotonin, breathless, euphoric, wrapped-up-in-a-bow happy ending. The last page of a romance novel as my eyes dance acrossThe End. A shorefront view of the sunset, toes wedged in the sand, watching fading light spill glorious gold across cool blue waves, the grand finale to the perfect beach day. The first bite of homemade pastry, finally perfected after countless recipe tweaks. And, of course, most of all, my family, side by side with their happily ever afters, crammed together at the long, worn wood table in our home away from home nestled in the woods of Washington State, the A-frame.

My gaze drifts around the room, the sound of everyone’s rowdy voices and laughter sweetening the bittersweet. I’m surrounded by happy endings—my six siblings, their partners, their children, my still-so-in-love parents—and, given my love of happy endings,Ishould be fully, utterly content, too.

But I’m not.

Because I’m still waiting formyhappy ending. Irony of ironies, salt in the wound, unlike these lucky ducks, who, in six different ways, serendipitously tripped and fell, kicking and screaming, into meeting their perfect match, I’ve beensearchingfor mine. And I’m the only one who hasn’t found them yet.

“Viggo!” Ziggy, my baby sister, the youngest in the Bergman brood, calls my name from across the table, wide smile, freckles, and bright green eyes, flipping her long red braid over her shoulder. “Scrabble doesn’t have to be so serious. Play already.”

I snap out of my daydreaming and peer at the Scrabble board, tugging down my ball cap to hide my eyes. I don’t like being caught in maudlin thoughts.

“ ‘Scrabble doesn’t have to be so serious.’ ” Ziggy’s boyfriend, Seb, tips his head her way. “Did you really just say that? The woman who punched my thigh when I built a word off of the letteruand compromised her plans for herq?”

Ziggy blushes bright red, narrowing her eyes at Seb. “That’s different.”

His tongue pokes his cheek. “How so, Sigrid?”

I still can’t believe she lets someone call her by her full name. Then again, if anyone could get away with it, it’s Seb.

“You,” she says breezily, plucking a cracker off the plate of snacks, “looked at my tiles. You cheated.”

Seb grins. “Now, why would I ever do that?”

“Because you live to fire me up and suffer the consequences.”

He sighs dreamily. “And what glorious consequences they are.”

“Ew,” I say miserably. “Stop with the double entendres— Oh, hell yes.” Inspiration having struck, I lean in and spell outentendre.

Everyone groans around the table.

“With that double word square,” I tell my sister, “I’ll take eighteen points.”

Ziggy grumbles as she writes down the score. Seb takes the opportunity to whisper something in her ear that puts a smile on her face.

I avert my eyes and try not to slip right back into my mope, but it’s hard. Mom leans into the crook of Dad’s arm, her hand restingon his as they talk with my oldest siblings and their partners—my sister, the firstborn Bergman, Freya, beside her husband, Aiden; my oldest brother, Axel, born after Freya, holding hands on the table with his wife, Rooney, so at home in how they lean in together and talk and touch. My gaze dances farther down the table to Ren, the next sibling born after Axel, his arm around his wife, Frankie, who sits, hands folded and resting on her very pregnant belly, as she makes some dry quip. Willa, wife to my brother Ryder, born after Ren and preceding me, laughs loudly at what she says. Ryder grins at Willa, his arm stretched across the back of her chair, softly twirling a coil of her hair around his finger.

So affectionate. So effortless. So romantic. My chest feels tight. Pain knots, sharp and sour, beneath my ribs.

A toe nudges me beneath the table. I glance up and find my brother Oliver, just a year younger than me, whom I’m so close to, not just in years, but emotionally, that we’ve operated like twins for as long as I can remember. Except now he has his someone, too—Gavin, who sits, shoulder wedged against Ollie’s, our niece, Linnea, perched on Gavin’s lap as they color together, dark-haired heads bent over the page.

Oliver’s eyes, ice-blue-gray, just like mine, like Mom’s and Freya’s and Ren’s, lock with mine.You okay?he mouths.

I swallow, then force a smile.I’m fine.

He frowns, which is rare for my sunshine-bright, often smiling brother. But he knows—he always has—when I’m low. And when he does, Ollie will go to great, often ridiculous lengths to make things better. This is just one thing he can’t fix.

Oliver stares at me, brow furrowed. He doesn’t buy myI’m fineline one bit. Which means it’s time to redirect before he stubbornly decides to get to the bottom of it and problem solve. I nudge my chin at the Scrabble board. “Your turn, Ollie.”

He sighs, shaking his head, dropping the subject for now, and peers down at the board. A devious grin lights up his face as he brings his first tile to the board and places it beside theeat the end ofentendre.

Tile by tile, they stretch across the Scrabble board, building a word that builds my sense of dread.E-S-C-O-N-D-I-D-O.

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