Chapter 7

I should have offered to walk Eric home. As I strolled through the night, buzzing from a couple of strong beers and a few of Olaf's fruity drinks, I couldn't stop thinking about the way he smiled when we said goodbye in front of Olaf and Fredrik's house. Had he blushed? The last time he'd smiled like that, twin patches of dark pink had bloomed on his cheeks. But tonight, it had been too dark for me to see.

I should have walked with him.

But how? It wasn't like he was a maiden in danger, right? He could have thought I was inviting myself over for sex.

Which…would have been incredible.

I paused on the street.

Could I go back? Knock on his door? Kiss him and sink to my knees… I wondered what his cock looked like. Slim and compact, like him? Would I be able to take him to the root? What noises would he make when I swallowed his cum?

I almost ran after him.

Then I reminded myself I was probably drunk.

I imagined myself barging into his home, smelling of beer, asking for a fuck. He'd think I was a Neanderthal.

With a groan, I turned and strode in the direction of my home.

He was so sweet. Pretty. He smelled so good, and I loved his soft, melodic voice. I had been trying not to look at him too much because I could feel Olaf's attention on us for the entire evening. Instead, I'd looked at his hands. He had slender but wiry hands with protruding veins and only a smattering of pale hair. They looked strong and capable, but somehow tender too.

Would he card his fingers through my hair when I sucked him?

Next time, I'd ask him out. I would. He might say no, but then I'd know for sure and I could stop obsessing about him.

Out to where? To the sushi-burger-pizza place in Ed?

Maybe I could take inspiration from Lars and be upfront.

I want nothing more than to fall to my knees and suck your cock. Then if we could cuddle…that would be nice too.

I liked how much smaller he was than me. I would hug him to me, wrap my arms around his ass and middle and bury my nose in his pubes while I choked on his cockhead…

I made it home breathless with a severe case of boner. I jerked off in the shower, imagining all the things I wanted to do to Eric. It took a while because of the beers. I sank deeper and deeper into the fantasies until I saw myself naked in the forest, on all fours in the moss. I'd be sweaty and dirty and wrecked, and Eric would fuck me raw while wearing his nice suit and those fancy leather boots he'd bought in Copenhagen.

After my orgasm, I got dizzy in the steamed-up shower, so I rinsed myself with cold water.

Then I brushed my teeth and gave myself a once-over in the mirror. My eyes were glassy, my skin blotchy, and my face slack. I did look a little drunk.

I forced two glasses of water into my stomach and fell onto my bed.

At least tomorrow, I'd see Eric again.

I wokeup bright and early and mercifully not hungover. My desperate masturbatory fantasies seemed over the top in the daylight. I pushed the memory to the back of my mind as I walked to the main house. Madde was already awake, pottering around in the kitchen, wearing woolen socks and her fluffy green robe over her pajamas.

"I wrote you a list," she said. "You have it in the app."

"Thanks. I saw."

"Do you have time for a proper breakfast?"

"Let's make eggs. I need to be at Eric's at ten." I hoped she would notice my casual tone and not make a big deal out of it.

Madde straightened and grinned at me, her eyes wide. "Eric?"

I turned my back to her, busying myself with the coffee machine. "I offered to drive him to Trollh?ttan and show him around the main stores. You said you wanted me to help him out."

A few seconds of silence passed while I could practically hear her think. "And did you have a nice evening yesterday?"

"Olaf and Fredrik are going out of their way to make him feel welcome. I think he had a good time. If you still intend to keep him in Gryta, you have strong allies on your side."

"I was asking about your evening."

"Yeah. It was okay." I pushed the button on the coffee machine, and the grinder roared.

"What do you think about Eric?"

Remain casual. No deep breaths, no hesitations."He's nice."

Except Madde was silent.

I lifted my gaze from my coffee cup to find her staring at me with a half smile.

"What?"

She pursed her lips and turned to the fridge. "Do you want two or three eggs?"

"Two is fine."

"Boiled or over easy?"

"Boiled."

"Do you like him?"

"And ham if you have it."

She pulled out a carton of eggs and sliced ham in a plastic wrapper. "I mentioned your name casually the other day, and I swear he blushed."

"He blushes all the time."

"You noticed, huh?"

"Madde, leave it," I said in a warning tone.

"You're no fun. What's the point in having a gay stepson when we can't gossip about men?"

"There's enough gossip in Gryta already, don't you think?"

Madde knew better than anyone how hurtful people could be just because they were bored with their own lives. "You're right. Inger has taken it upon herself to walk casually past Eric's house a couple of times a week and report all the perceived mistakes he's been making. According to her, he ruined the oak hedge. She's been telling everyone who'll listen."

I rolled my eyes. "It was overgrown. He trimmed it, albeit a couple of months later than he should have. But it looks fine. It'll survive."

"She seemed miffed about the firewood." Madde waggled her eyebrows gleefully.

"Good. I should help him paint the facade just to piss her off."

Madde snorted. "Please, do. While you're at it, add a rainbow to the porch railing."

"Eric wants to restore the cottage in the old Dalsland style. He's been waxing lyrical about how Olaf and Fredrik renovated their house."

"He likes antiques?"

"Yeah. He lit up like a kid when Fredrik invited him to the loppis. He's headed there after we get back from Trollh?ttan."

"Did you know his mother is half Swedish? It's not entirely random that he moved here, of all places. His grandfather's family was from Dalsland."

Like always, Madde got her way, and we spent breakfast talking about Eric. I did my best not to show how invested I already was, but I suspected she saw right through me.

I dida double-take when I spotted him on the side of the road by the crossing. The dark-blue jeans hugged his lean legs like a second skin, and his hair fluttered in the breeze. He wore a short, stylish jacket and a blue-green scarf and looked like he'd walked out of a photoshoot. And glasses? I hadn't seen him wear glasses before. He looked cute in them. I stopped on the roadside to let him climb in.

"Hi! You sure are punctual," he said, grinning.

"Hi. I didn't know you wore glasses."

He looked startled by my comment, and I wanted to kick myself.

"I wear contacts most of the time, but this morning I couldn't be bothered." He closed the door and leaned back in the seat. "I'm a little hungover. It's a good thing you're driving. How strong does Olaf make those drinks?"

"You could say he's generous. I felt it last night but slept it off. Seatbelt?"

He chuckled. "Of course. Sorry. I'm not one hundred percent awake. But I do have a list." He clipped himself in, and I tore my gaze away from his blushing face so I could step on the gas and get us on the main road.

"You look good in them. The glasses, I mean."

"Thank you."

It would be almost a two-hour drive to Trollh?ttan, and I was unreasonably happy to have him to myself for so long. It was a good thing I was driving—otherwise, I would just stare at him dreamily, not knowing what to say.

"I was going to ask you to speak Swedish so I could practice," he said, "but my head is protesting."

"English is fine with me."

"Your English is excellent." I could feel his gaze on me and only managed a noncommittal grunt. I should have prepared a list of benign conversational topics, dammit. Even his scent was distracting—a subtle woodsy perfume, distinctly masculine but with a hint of something flowery. It was lucky I knew these roads down to the last pothole because all my focus was firmly on Eric.

"Um. Madde said you have Swedish roots. Your grandfather was from around here?" I asked.

"My great-grandfather on my mother's side was born on a farm outside Bengtsfors. He emigrated to the US when he was twenty-five, after his first wife died in childbirth. He married another Swedish girl but in Boston. So, my grandfather was technically Swedish but born on US soil."

"And your parents?"

"In South Carolina. We haven't talked in twelve years, not since I came out."

He said it lightly, but the sentence knocked the breath out of me.

"I'm sorry, Eric."

Twelve years. Did they never reach out?

"It's fine. I've been through the usual process—moving away, fucking around, getting my life in order, going to therapy. It took a while, but I'm good. I call it adulting two-point-oh."

"It must have been hard."

"Not harder than when yours passed away."

I shrugged. I lost my parents to illness, but his family gave him up because he was gay. I honestly thought it might have been harder for him.

"My grandfather got so mad at them for disowning me that he sent me his savings before they could inherit anything. That's how I could afford the deposit for the cottage. In that aspect, I lucked out." He paused, but before I could come up with a response, he straightened in his seat. "Anyway, hardware store. What are we getting?"

I had a barrage of questions in my head. Did he have siblings? Did they cut contact too? How did he make it all the way here? How was he so resourceful and upbeat? Where in the hell did he get the strength? But he clearly wanted to change the subject.

"I need replacement blades for a circular saw and a few odd screws," I said instead. "What about you?"

We swung onto the main road, and the low sun shone directly into my face. I lowered the visor, and Eric did the same.

"I tried making a list," he said, "but honestly, I don't even know where to start."

This I could handle. "Talk me through it. What do you need to do? Because I have tools you can borrow. You don't need to buy everything."

"Is Madde making you help me so I stay and work for her?"

"No."

She could, but with my own increasing efforts to spend time with him, she wouldn't have to.

"She did send me with the firewood and cinnamon rolls," I clarified. "But I didn't mind doing that. And today is on me."

"Thank you. I'll try to work through my embarrassment without inconveniencing you."

I chuckled. His subtly self-deprecating humor made these tender, fuzzy feelings stir inside me. I already liked him so much.

"I took a picture of the bedroom window," Eric continued. "One of the locks needs replacing, and the stuff around the pane is cracked and peeling off. I think I need one of those pastes you smear there. When it was cold during the night, I got frost on the inside."

"You'll need seal paste and a roll of weather-stripping tape. When we arrive, show me the picture. Worst case, we'll replace some parts of the frame."

"Seal paste, weather-stripping tape," he repeated as he typed. "Then a new drill. I got a screwdriver that can carry a drill tip, but it's weak as hell."

"You can borrow mine."

"Seriously?" He glanced at me, but I returned my gaze to the road. "I'll need it like every other day. I should have my own."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you had a lot of expenses moving here. I own three different drilling machines, including a stone and concrete drill. It's not like I'm using them all the time. You borrow what you need, and when I need it back, I'll call you. If we realize it's not working, you buy your own. Deal?"

He seemed to mull it over for a second. "That…would be amazing, thank you."

"Great. Next?"

He pulled out his phone, and we went through his list of the most pressing repairs. Some of them were quite easy, but others, like cleaning the gutters, needed specialized equipment.

"With a pressure washer, it takes ten minutes," I said.

Eric groaned. "I don't even have a ladder."

"I'll come over with mine. Are you free on Tuesday evening?"

He paused, sighed, and then, "You don't have to fix my house for me, Bj?rn."

"No. But I can help you flush out your gutters."

"Can I pay you?"

"You're not giving me money."

"Why not?"

Because I want to fuck you."You need it more than I do."

He made a sound, something like a scoff.

"That might have come out wrong," I said. "Just… I know what the salaries at schools are, okay? Please, don't mention money."

He was quiet. When I gave him a quick look, he was gazing out of the passenger window. We passed a pasture with a group of horses standing around, bathing in the sunshine.

"You're a little arrogant," he stated, his voice kind.

"I guess. It's one of the things I inherited from my father. I'm working on it."

"Good."

"Will you let me help?"

"Yes. But only because I'm desperate."

I took a left turn, checking the blind spot, then looked at him again. "For the record, I admire you."

He grimaced. "For what? You've only ever witnessed me making a fool out of myself."

Oh, if only he knew how much about him I admired.

"You bought a house and moved to the middle of nowhere in a foreign country, and you're building a new home on your own. It's incredible."

"Or incredibly naive."

"I didn't say that."

"You mean well. It's a nice compliment. Thank you. But honestly, some mornings I wake up and wonder if I've gone mad."

"Do you regret it?"

"No," he said firmly and without hesitation. "Not at all."

I exhaled a breath of relief.

"Last night, when I walked home, I was a little drunk," he continued with a smile in his voice. "I came to the porch, and in the weak light coming from the village, I saw the logs lined up. It all looked so cozy. I stood outside for a while, and a few stars peeked out between the clouds. And I was so happy. Almost giddy. Look at me, I'm in Sweden, and I have my own house. It's difficult and overwhelming and a little crazy, but I love it."

While I gazed at the winding road in front of me, a plan was forming in the back of my head. I'd support him as much as I could in fixing his house and show him the best this part of the world had to offer. I had the whole summer stretching out in front of me. Would he like to go to the lakes? Did he swim? Hike? Did he eat mushrooms? Blueberries? I could show him fly-fishing.

Fly-fishing? Seriously?

But the hiking and swimming… We could rent a kayak in the Tresticklan National Park. Would he enjoy that?

Eric pulled a water bottle from his bag and drank.

"Now that the snow is gone, I found out I have strawberries in my garden," he said. "Like two huge beds of strawberries. I wonder if I should use some fertilizer and weed out the small ones or if I should just leave them be when they're getting new leaves."

"Weeding is necessary. Just be careful around them because they have shallow roots. Don't fertilize before they get the first green fruits because then the nutrition goes mostly to the leaves. You can sprinkle between them with coffee grounds."

"Coffee grounds?"

"Yeah. Something to do with the acidity of the soil. But you'd better ask Madde. She's the gardening expert."

"I will. Thanks."

"Do you like mushrooms?" I asked and immediately felt silly.

"Yes. Why?"

I cleared my throat. "Starting July, we have loads of chanterelles in the forests around the village."

"You do? Really?" He sounded excited.

"Sure, they're everywhere."

"But that's luxury food! In eighteenth-century France, only aristocrats could afford them. On the market in Stockholm, they cost like three hundred for a kilo. Don't people have special hidden places to find them? The secrets have been held for generations, and only the chosen child is shown the magical circle of mushrooms after crossing seven rivers and climbing seven mountains. Stuff like that."

I laughed. The workings of his brain were fascinating. "During the season, they grow alongside the road behind your house."

"You're kidding."

"I really am not."

"So I've got strawberries and chanterelles."

"Buy a cow and a couple of chickens, and you can be self-sufficient."

He chuckled. "Ha, no, thank you. I'll happily get my butter at the grocery store. But if you know someone in the village who sells eggs, I'll be most grateful."

"You care a lot about food, don't you?"

"I'm a nerd, especially when it comes to food and drinks. I'm not ashamed of something that makes my life sparkle."

Makes my life sparkle.

I smiled at his words. In the sharp sunshine, all of him seemed to sparkle. Like, if I looked at him for too long, my eyes would tear up.

I'd better watch the road.

"Do you want some music?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Would it be considered an invasion of your privacy if I clicked on this little icon here"—he pointed at the screen on the console—"and checked out your playlists?"

I had no idea why his question made me blush, but it did. What if he found my taste in music dull?

"Go for it."

"Hmm. Let me see. What's your latest… Ha! What do you consider classic?"

Instead of waiting for my answer, he tapped on the touchscreen, and the intro notes to the long version of Meat Loaf's "I'd Do Anything for Love" surrounded us.

"Oh wow. That is a classic."

"You can skip it." I must have been red in the face.

"Why? It's a great song. There are million-word discussion threads online about what Meat Loaf wouldn't do for love."

"It's in the song. Like, six times. Meat Loaf used to get frustrated during interviews when they kept asking him the same question."

"Well, that's what you get for releasing such an earworm banger."

I felt like I had to defend myself, which was probably pointless, but Eric must have much more sophisticated taste in music than me. "When you listen to it, the lyrics are kind of simplistic, right?"

"Yes, but he sure makes you believe he means every word. Just listen to the growl of the beast, the needy howl. I caaan't doo that! Nooo!" Eric joined in for one line, his singing off-key.

I laughed out loud. "Seriously, you can skip it."

"No. I haven't heard it in a long time. Shh."

The piano rose and fell, and Meat Loaf's dramatic voice pleaded with his imaginary lover. The spring sun bathed the rolling hills around us in a golden glow… And I squirmed in my seat next to a boy I liked.

I felt like a fucking teenager again.

"See, this is beautiful," Eric murmured when the duet began.

I drove just a little slower than I would have if I were alone. Then I'd get to spend a few minutes longer with him in the enclosed space, feeding on the colors and warmth he seemed to be spreading around himself. How was he in the classroom? He must be a fun teacher, lively and interesting, but caring too.

After twelve minutes of rock opera, Meat Loaf repeated one last time that he wouldn't do that, and Eric sighed as the piano and guitars began to fade.

"Damn. It fills you up, doesn't it? For a dude who named himself after a greasy meal, he could sure make you feel things."

"Other than heartburn," I muttered, and Eric snickered. "The lyrics suggest sex equals love."

"Don't all men think like that?" Eric said lightly.

"Do you?" I shot back. I shouldn't have asked that. That was stupid. Stupid.

But he glanced at me with a soft smile. "No. I don't believe that."

Relieved for entirely foolish reasons, I fixed my gaze on the road. "I love the song," I admitted.

"It's magnificent. Now let's see what you have next." He must have paused the list because he tapped on the screen before another song started. "No, really?! ‘Somebody to Love'? Right after Meat Loaf?"

"It's the George Michael version," I said as an apology.

"That is not an explanation. That demands more explanation."

"I have the one with Freddie Mercury on the playlist too, just later."

"Oh my God, Bj?rn, you're a big softie, aren't you?"

I shrugged one shoulder. "I'm gay. I don't have to be ashamed of liking heart-wrenching love songs by other queer men."

"You shouldn't be ashamed, no, but you're blushing anyway. Is this what you listen to in your headphones when you ride that big ol' tractor of yours? You do, don't you?"

When I didn't answer, he patted my thigh lightly, and the touch burned my skin through my jeans.

"Your secrets are safe with me, don't worry."