Page 63 of Nora's Kraken

“Did Elias bring this one home today?”

Marta nods. “He did. He got home just about an hour before you did.”

I take a deep sip, and an incredible floral taste blooms on my tongue. The tea has an almost effervescent quality to it, like if I closed my eyes and opened them again, I might find myself in a forest clearing filled with wildflowers and sunlight.

“It tastes like summer,” I say, smiling even wider.

Marta just nods, like she knows exactly what I mean.

“Has Elias tried it? And is he around here somewhere?”

“Not yet. And that restless creature went into a workout straight after work. But I think he finished some time ago.”

If he’s following his usual routine, he probably hopped right in the shower after his workout. The idea of a wet, naked Elias just waiting to be ambushed is incredibly appealing, but I keep my thoughts in check.

Marta and I chat for a few minutes more before she pulls her coat on and gets ready to leave.

“Thanks, Marta,” I say with a smile, raising my mug of tea. “And not just for this, either, but for all the help you’ve given me since I came here. I really appreciate it.”

She tries to brush aside the thanks, but looks pleased all the same, and with a last goodbye and good wishes for her upcoming trip with Maud, she leaves.

I grab my tea and head for my room, not so sneakily taking a small detour to press my ear up against Elias’s door. I don’t hear anything from inside, and even though I’m aching and to go in and find him, I hesitate.

It’s not that I think he’d be unhappy to see me, or that he’d ask me to leave. Actually, it would probably be exactly the opposite.

We’ve been keeping each other at arm’s length this week, and the tension has been nearly unbearable. It’s there, in the lingering kisses and the way we find any excuse to touch each other. In the absolutely wonderful misery of him sliding into bed with me at night—even though he always,alwaysgrumbles about how he should give me some space—and having to keep myself from saying the hell with it and jumping him.

It’s getting really, really hard to remember why slowing down was such a good idea. Even if we have been spending the time getting to know each other, getting comfortable just being together, it doesn’t erase the fact that I still want my kraken so much it makes me ache.

With all those frustrations hounding me, I carry my duffel and my mug into my room and toss the bag down on the bed before taking another long sip of delicious tea. Shooting off a quick text to Elias, I let him know I’m here and that he can come find me when he’s done with his shower.

Bored, restless, impatient, I reach for the duffel with the vague thought of getting all my stuff put away, but I’m stopped by the item laying right on top.

The manila envelope is heavy in my hands, its edges worn smooth with time.

It’s filled with photos and documents and little scraps of the life I used to lead. There are more pieces I can hold on to now—art prints and framed photographs in my apartment, little trinkets I’ve picked up during the past couple years—but once upon a time this single envelope held all the things I could claim as uniquely mine.

The first photo I pull out of the envelope is a snapshot from my freshman year of college, taken in the dorms. I’d been so eager to get away from a mother who I loved dearly, but who never quite bounced back after dad left, so ready to start something for myself in a new place with new people.

I run my fingers over the glossy photo paper, smiling at the younger version of myself with my arms wrapped around my two roommates, friends who I haven’t spoken to now in over five years.

I look happy. And I had been. For the first two and a half years of university, I’d felt more like myself than I ever have.

Other photos follow that one, snapshots from my childhood, one of which makes me pause and study the two figures in it.

It’s my seventh birthday, and I honestly can’t remember who would have taken the photo—maybe my aunt Patty, maybe one of the neighbors in the small rental bungalow my mom and I lived in for most of my childhood—all those memories are a little hazy now. There’s a cake lit with candles in front of me, and my mom is crouching down next to me. She has a hand on my shoulder and a smile on her face, but also a tired, blank look behind her eyes.

That’s one of the things I remember most about growing up, mom always being tired. Well, that and the fact she was always working, always doing what she had to do so she could provide for us. Even if sometimes I’d catch her looking at me like I was the problem, like maybe she wouldn’t have to work so hard or be so tired if I didn’t exist.

She never said the words out loud, and never really talked about my dad. By the time I got to my teenage years, started being more independent and relying on her less, things got better. We cohabited more or less like roommates until I left for college.

It took me a long, long time to realize it’s not my responsibility to fix my mom. I wanted to, for so long I wanted to. When I was young, I thought if I was good enough and cheerful enough, I could make her smile. I’d thought if I followed all the rules, never got in trouble, and brought home good grades, it would make things easier for her, and she might stop looking at me like I was a problem she couldn’t solve.

Shaking my head, I set the photo aside and flip through a few more. Middle school volleyball, a stiffly posed photo with my date for Junior prom, little bits and pieces of the girl I’d been and the young woman who’d had so much in front of her.

When I’ve had enough of my stroll down memory lane, I tuck everything back inside the envelope and stand up from the bed. All the reminiscing has made me unsettled in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. I check my phone to see if Elias has texted me back and find no new messages.

Feeling even more restless, I cross over to the wall of windows at the opposite side of the room and look out into the dark, not really seeing anything beyond the glass.

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