Page 69 of The Happiness Blueprint
“Klara,” he whispers, his voice weak and hoarse. “You don’t have to rush off. I doubt you have an appointment after this, and Saga is at home with your dad, am I right?”
He is right. Those are not the reasons I’m drawn toward the door, the exit and the fresh air on the other side of it. I told him to drop it, to leave me—us—firmly in the friend zone. But deep down I know that’s not what I want; it hasn’t been for some time.
“I think you should know that I like you,” I say finally. “Like I shouldn’t, it’s that sort of like, I mean. I haven’t known the right thing to do. I’ve been googling. A lot.”
“Of course you have.” His voice is tender and amused, and I finally turn around. I am really close to him now. Inches away. Focusing on measuring the distance was a bad idea—only makes me more unsettled.
He lowers his head, and I raise my chin, our faces suddenly an inch apart.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined telling you how I feel about you. I wanted to respect your wishes, though. And you told me never to mention it...”
“I had to.” I take a deep inhale of breath, then say, “What about your wife?”
“What wife?”
“Your wife—the one you’re married to. The one your ring matches. Or did you forget about her?”
He suddenly looks a mix of total insult and bemusement.
“I’m not married—this is my brother’s ring. I’ve had it ever since the accident. I can’t seem to take it off. I feel like he’s with me when I wear it. You thought I had a wife? Three months of working together, and I didn’t mention her once? You know my Social Security number and my shoe size but thought I was somehow hiding a wife?”
“What about the couple’s therapy?”
“Inside joke. It was with my friend, Paul, who I’d love to introduce you to, by the way. My therapist wanted to meet someone I was close to, a friend, as part of my therapy. So I labeled it couple’s therapy.”
Did everyone except me know this? Gunnar? Hanna? EvenDad?Didn’t he once mention that I should invite Alex over more? And I thought it was becauseheenjoyed his company. Am I the only one who’s gotten it so incredibly wrong?Inside my mind, missing pieces click into place.
“I need a few moments to reset. Refresh the feed, so to speak,” I say.Alex is single. Alex is single. Alex is single.
“You never thought to ask me? A simple question could have solved this,”singleAlex says.
“I don’t tend to ask questions to which there are obvious answers,” I say. “Rings are recognized devices for indicating marital status, just like headscarves can indicate a religion.” I find tokens helpful. Name tags, bright orange vests that shoutAsk me for help. My eyes flicker between the ocean and the door, and Alex’s hand reaches out and touches the side of my face, guiding my eyes softly back toward him so he has my attention.
“You’re right, of course, anyone might have assumed as much. But there is no wife. No one. Absolutely no one in my life. But I’d like to change that.”
“You would?” I whisper. “Tell me more.”
“Klara, you are strong and fearless, beautiful and smart, with a kind heart. And you have the best bum I have ever seen.” He brushes the backs of his fingers across my cheek, and I find myself leaning in. His fingertips smooth over my bottom lip.
But he still doesn’t kiss me. Instead he whispers against my mouth, the air from his breath tingling my lips.
“Do you really mean it, Klara?”
It dawns on me that Single Alex is insecure too, and that I perhaps misread his confidence like I misread his ring. I move my face closer to his, standing on the very tips of my toes and still not fully reaching him, nodding.
“Does that meanyes?”
“Yes, you twit.”
He pulls me close.Finally.I feel like I’m losing my mind, a little, like the time I lost all inhibition and ordered chipsandmash as sides. I press my mouth against his.
First the kiss is a slight brush over my lips, then hungrier. Alex kisses me with all the determination I know is part of his character, that he brings to everything he does. There’s a whole swarm of what feels like very bright and very yellow spring butterflies in my abdomen.
When I come up for air, I need something to say, anything.
“I thought you were a girl, the first time we met,” I say and he laughs in a way that makes it clear it’s with me, not at me.
“Even my parents thought I was a girl the first time I met them. I’m named after Princess Alexandra. At least my parents had the decency to put onlyAlexon the birth certificate.”
