Page 37 of Trusting the Fall
My mother ditches the spoon into her pot and beckons him over.
“Tristan, love.”
He crosses the room and greets her with a hug. She pulls back with a soft smile, tapping his cheek a few times before saying, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Jesus,” I mutter, burying my head in a palm.
“Beer?” Dad asks.
“Please,” Tristan says, his eyes wide and pleading.
Dad pulls two bottles out of the fridge, placing one in front of me and the other in front of the chair opposite.
“Not at the moment, Aunt Frey.” Tristan’s cheeks bleed pink with the confession before he gently pulls out of her arms with a shy smile. He slaps Dad on the back as he passes him and joins me at the table, reaching over to clasp my hand in greeting.
Amongst the scattering of little tattoos dotting his forearms, a bracelet of beads wraps around his wrist that matches mine. The letters of the four cousins, Astrid, Thyra, Tristan and me, decorate his white beads.
My sisters and I inherited most of our features from our Swedish mother, where Tristan looks more like his mum. A head of light brown curls and a kind smile.
“Such handsome young boys, yet no wives, William.”
“Oh, god. We’re not on another have-you-met-anyone-nice tirade, are we?” My sister Astrid says as she walks in. Her blonde hair is tied up with a pale blue scrunchie, and little sunflowers are dotted over her pastel pink overalls. Her eyes don’t move from the screen of her camera as she crosses to join me at the table. I throw an arm around her chair where she now sits beside me.
“Afraid so, Adi. It’s babies and marriage galore here.” My baby sister looks up at me with wide, horrified eyes. The same piercing blue as mine.
“Fuck all that shit,” says my other sister as she strides into the room.
“Thyra!” Mama scolds.
Thyra and Astrid are identical twins. From the neck up, strangers might struggle to tell them apart, but their different personalities shine through in everything else about them.
Thyra gives Mum the stink eye for daring to bring up romance in her presence. Her denim shorts are a fray away from the bin, but it matches the stack of silver and beaded bracelets up her wrists, the glittering stud in her nose and the bright tattooed half sleeve on her right shoulder of a Norse shield maiden surrounded by lightning strikes. She takes her name meaning to the extreme. Her blonde hair, the same golden blonde we share with our mother, is always half falling out of the tie she wraps around her ponytail. Little beads are threaded through the strands of tiny, scattered braids.
“What? You won’t see me settling for that shit any time soon,” she says, sitting beside Tristan on the other side of the table. “Or at all,” she adds under her breath.
“Well, that’s fine. You girls are still young and pursuing your careers. Plus, you have your Europe trip in a few months. You’ll finally see my home country. These boys, however, are comfortable in their careers, perfect time to search for someone to share a life with.”
“Freya,” my dad says, bringing her into his arms once more and swaying them side to side. “Do I make you happy?”
Mum blanches at his words. “Of course. What kind of question is that?”
“Don’t you want the boys to find happiness?” he asks as he rubs his hands up and down her biceps. I watch as she melts into his arms.
“Yes.”
“You can’t force it. The boys are in a good place with work and home, but when the right person comes along, they’ll know it. Just trust them.”
My mother looks at me, her body relaxing against my Dad as she accepts his words.
I can’t help when my mind takes me back to the mornings when I’m leaving Bombshell’s bed, struggling to pull myself from her warmth. From the smell of plum and soft vanilla. The way she’s so hard and fierce, but so soft for me. Particularly when I’ve made her come a few times.
A ripple of amusement fills me, and I know by the way Mum’s smile pauses that she caught it. That confirmation that something is different. I just don’t know what to do with that knowledge. But I know it starts and ends with a blonde bombshell.
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