Page 70 of Fourth Base with the Alpha
“He seems all right to me.” My tone is disgruntled and Klara knows the accusation sitting there. Has she dragged me over here on false pretenses?
“The doctors said it’s a matter of weeks, maybe days, Hjalmar. He can barely stand anymore.”
I don’t answer her, stuffing cookies into my mouth instead.
Isabella sits on a chair opposite me. “This isn’t too bad,” she comments as she nibbles on a cinnamon roll. “I’ve always had a soft spot for cinnamon rolls.”
My sister smiles at me. “Me too.”
“How was Freja?” I ask her.
“If you talked to her yourself you’d know.”
“She could talk to me, you know.”
“I have a feeling stubbornness runs in this family,” Isabella says as she nibbles on her roll.
“You have no idea,” Klara says.
“Well, I was serious. You should all come and see Hunter play. Give me everyone’s email addresses, Klara, and I’ll make sure you all get tickets. I can book you somewhere to stay too.”
My sister glances at me and I shrug. She pushes back her chair and leaves the room, returning later with her address book, a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbles down a series of email addresses and phone numbers and folds the paper in half, passing it to Isabella. “I can tell you are going to be a good influence on him,” she says.
And truth is, I think she already is.
Isabella slides the paper into the back pocket of her pants. “I know how easy it is to fall out of touch. But this is family and siblings are precious.” She looks up and meets my eyes and after everything she told me on the plane, I know she’s right. I have my bandmates but I have been a lousy brother to my sisters and my brother these last few years.
“They are,” I agree, “we’ll get it organized.”
Klara beams at me and then flings her arms around me.
“So,” Isabella says, reaching for another roll, “tell me all those embarrassing stories about Hunter from when he was little.”
“There are none!” Klara says. “He turned from this stupidly adorable kid to this supercool man. He seemed to side-step that awkward stage the rest of us have to go through.”
“Hmmm,” Isabella waves her roll in my direction, “I’m not buying that, Klara.”
Klara smiles at me with affection. “It’s true. Do you want to see some pictures?”
I groan. “No, she doesn’t.”
Isabella throws the roll straight at my head. “I do!”
I go and boil the kettle to make a fresh batch of coffee and when I return to the table, Klara has several old photo albums spread out across the table.
Mick twists a photo around to show me. “You were a pretty cute kid,” he says.
“Your hair was so blonde it was almost white,” Isabella says.
“We all had hair like that,” I say, showing her a picture of a young Klara, her hair hanging over her shoulders in pigtails. She’s sitting on the lap of a young woman.
“Is that your mom?” Isabella asks. I squint at the photo.
“Yes,” Klara says.
I glance up at her. “I thought he burned them all.”
“No, hid them. I found them stored safely in boxes in the loft.”
