Page 2 of The Truth of Our Past

I do my best to smile, but I’m grimacing. They are a picturesque couple. Jayce is huge—an inch or two taller than my six feet but much bulkier. All the years of weightlifting and skating with over twenty pounds of gear show, even in his suit.

Madyson has a default stern expression, but she lights up when she looks at Jayce. I’ve decided that her face hides a soft heart. She defies the stereotypical New Yorker and has been extremely helpful.

If Jayce weren’t so in love with his wife, he’d be my type. It has been years since I have dated, but I do prefer my partner to be muscular. Both men and women.

Dating is out of the question right now. It requires things my heart is not yet capable of.

I am determined to put the past year behind me and not wallow. Grief and denial are unsuitable for love, but someday I hope to find it. A love like my parents’, stable and reliable, with immense trust. Predictable and reserved, unlike Americans who thrive on thrill seeking and never hesitate to voice their opinions.

“How did your parents take the news?” Jayce pours the champagne.

I hesitate. “They are supportive.” Mamma and Pappa are stoic and would never voice their disappointment, and I can pretend their silence is approval.

“It never gets easier for parents, even when we’re older.” Jayce hands me a glass. “Mothers never want to lose their sons, especially their firstborn. When I left Minnesota, you would’ve thought I was going to Mars. Even though she knew I dreamed of a shot at college hockey and the NHL since I was a kid.”

“Are you a firstborn?”

“Yes, and the only son.” Jayce kisses the side of Madyson’s head as he hands her the champagne. “My poor sisters have to hear my mother either sing my praises or curse my name. You?”

“Firstborn and I have a sister as well.” The truth tightens my throat, clogging the untold lie I might choke on. I hold up my glass. “To success.” My hollow laugh falls flat as I try to fake optimism.

“Success is all a matter of personal definition.” Madyson clinks my glass, giving me a side-eye as if she knows I cannot picture success as an artist. I wonder if all Americans are this direct, or if it’s New Yorkers, or only this redhead. Or maybe she googled me.

“To all forms of success.” Jayce raises his glass.

“You know…” Madyson pauses as Jayce sits in her chair, and she snuggles into his lap. “New York City has a reputation as a place where dreams come true. Coming here, meeting us, it’s all kismet.” Her smile is wide, showing all of her perfect bright white teeth.

“That’s sweet.” Jayce nuzzles her neck.

Madyson’s laugh erupts out of her. “Who knows, Von, maybe you’ll never want to leave.”

Even though the thought of going back to Sweden fills me with dread, this is temporary. The work visa should be valid for three years, the maximum time I can live here before I return home—a lifetime. I could always reapply for a work visa or apply for a green card, but I cannot imagine living here permanently.

They have been so helpful and friendly, but I’m waiting the socially acceptable amount of time to excuse myself and retreat to my new loft. Small talk is not something I am good at or want to engage in.

The front door crashes open, startling me, and an obnoxious voice sings, “Honey, I’m home!”

Madyson squeals and scrambles out of Jayce’s lap to meet the late-night guest. I catch a glimpse of an emotion cross Jayce’s face, but it’s gone too fast to identify. He asks me about the weather in Sweden compared to here, but his eyes stay on Madyson.

After a few minutes of excruciating small talk, he rises slowly with a sigh. “It appears this celebration is over. Come meet Madyson’s friend and then I’ll show you to your loft.”

The man’s voice is boisterous, and Madyson clearly welcomes him. His tone radiates joy and everything in me fights not torun. It’s agonizing to be subjected to the newcomer’s easygoing cheerfulness.

The familiarity of it breaks loose the pain I’ve tried to wrestle into submission.

I hang my head, dreading an introduction and more small talk before I can leave.

I turn to face the voice standing between me and peace and quiet.

Helvete. The voice is attached to a stunning man. He’s tall, well built, with a lazy smile, and has eyes full of mischief. He gestures with carefree confidence.

But worst of all, he has my kryptonite.

Dimples.

I need to leave immediately.

Dimples are my downfall.

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