Page 28 of Gotta Have Mistletoe
Everyone will know that I like men. They’ll all know the secret I tried to hold on to for decades, the secret I stripped bare, giddy in Glen’s presence, wanting to hold his hand and pretend that we were a couple.
How will people react?
All those years being quiet, and then I was impulsive. Will it matter to my people? To the world? I hope it won’t, but it had mattered in school when my classmates whispered about me, suspecting inclinations I hadn’t yet allowed myself to acknowledge.
I can’t feel my body, and when we exit the jet, and the strong Nordic wind slams against me, I press my hand against the icy railing, as if I might fly away.
More paparazzi are present than normal, and the pit in my stomach hollows further, like I’m being carved out on the inside, until I’m a shell, pretending everything is okay.
Some paparazzi direct cameras at us, others clasp recorders and notepads.
I stare at them.
What have I done?
They all know. What do they think? And what if they find out that this is a charade, that Glen doesn’t love me like he told Miss Haugeland, that he has no plans to marry me, that he’s going to fly back to Nevada and maybe, eventually, date a man who knows what it’s like to kiss another man, who is smarter than someone who spills all his secrets, then begs Glen for his presence?
Max chatters excitedly about the photographers. At least he considers the size of the cameras a plus.
Olav ushers Glen forward, then Glen is standing beside me.
“I’ve never seen so many cameras at once,” he remarks.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t warn you—”
“Hey...” His smile halts my rambling. “It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Solbergians are eager to get to know you,” I explain to Glen. “You’re the first person I’ve dated since...” I break off immediately and hope my cheeks aren’t stained red. “Obviously, we’re not dating. Not really.”
Glen is silent, and my heartbeat escalates.
Will he think I have a crush on him? Like some teenage schoolboy? Throwing myself at him? Will he think I brought him all this way to look at his symmetrical face, admire his muscular planes, inhale the scent of his skin, which somehow always manages to smell like pine trees and all things masculine, all things warm and good?
“Want me to take your arm and wave?” Glen asks, his baritone voice, his cowboy twang, easing all my anxious bits.
“Yes,” I exhale. “That would be of immense assistance.”
Glen chuckles. In the next moment, he slides his hand in mine. My eyes linger on him, and I think his eyes might linger on me.
I want to kiss him.
I want to taste him.
I want to feel the texture of his lips against my own, run my tongue along the interesting parts of his body.
I force my gaze away before I do something unthinkably foolish.
Glen was married to a man. He’s experienced in a way I’m not. I’m unsure and ungrounded in his presence.
He tightens his grip and rubs his thumb along mine, even though no one can see, as if to remind me he’s there.
He waves to the paparazzi and flashes his wide, shiny American cowboy smile, and camera shutters click and lights explode.
Sven leads us to the waiting limo.
Glen tilts his head up. “Wow. Look at those mountains. It’s mighty pretty.”
I follow his excited gaze to the snow-covered mountains, pink and violet under the late-rising Solbergian winter sun, that encircle us. He’s right. Solberg is beautiful.
