Chapter Thirteen

Thirteen

I f I knew I would meet Martin at the coffee machine first thing Monday morning, I would have stayed at my desk and handled my hangover without caffeine.

"Hi, Sol," he says casually, arriving from behind me and placing his cup under the dispensing spout as I move aside to put sugar in my espresso. "Did you and Erik arrive home safely yesterday? You two looked quite drunk."

"We were fine," I say, and Martin sneers like he is above such prosaic things as drinking alcohol, particularly on Sunday evenings.

I know what he's getting at with this. He wants me to talk about Erik and how we are living together—the hottest gossip in the office this morning. I've gotten stares from at least five people who are not in our Fun Season group. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I can usually tell when others talk about me behind my back.

"Are you hungover?" Martin keeps being annoying.

I shake my head, opening another sugar sachet. "Nope. All good." And I give him a smile that communicates, Conversation over. On you go.

His cup gets filled, and he brings it to the counter next to me to add honey. "I'm not sure I believe it," he says when I'm about to go back to my desk.

I look at him. "Believe what?"

"You and Erik. So sudden..."

I stare at him, incredulous. "We are together. Why is that hard to believe?"

Keep a calm face, Sol. Don't give yourself away.

Martin's smile is victorious. "You really don't know? Did he not tell you about Lena?"

Lena. Oh my.

"Of course I know about Lena," I say.

I was cleaning my room the other day and found a hairpin deep inside the drawer of the night table the former occupant left there. I already had my suspicions since the day Erik told me he didn't want to live with a woman. I shouldn't judge him when I don't know his history, but my certainty grew after finding the hairpin, and now it has been confirmed.

"I'm glad he's finally moved on," Martin says, stirring his coffee.

I hold my cup tight with both hands to not let them visibly tremble, then I take another sugar sachet just to avoid standing still.

"We used to be good friends, Erik and I, but you must know that already." Martin glances at me. "We haven't talked in a while, but we have a few friends in common, so I hear a little about him occasionally." Martin looks at me again as if expecting me to engage in the conversation. I remain quiet, however, staring at my coffee. "I've heard, for instance, that Erik abandoned his hockey team and hasn't been joining the game jams or any other events of our gaming community."

I wonder what his point is, but I still don't say anything.

"When she left, it was tough on him." Martin looks as emotionless as the beetle I named him after. I register the information. Lena left Erik. It broke him. "The last thing I'd expect is that he would commit the same mistake again so soon after."

Anger builds up in my gut, and I must use every ounce of self-control in me to avoid exploding.

Martin is playing a foul game, saying so much crap between the lines of his falsely cordial words that I want to spit in his face.

" I am not a mistake," I find myself saying, dry as a fallen autumn leaf.

"It's no surprise you like Erik. Women tend to have a soft spot for him," Martin says with a casual tone loaded with disdain. Jealousy. Like he wants that kind of attention. Like he feels invisible when near Erik.

"What people don't usually know," Martin goes on, "is how quickly Erik Storm can discard you—and disregard you —when your wants don't align with his."

I swallow hard. I have just discarded Erik, breaking our deal at the first sign of trouble.

But Martin is not referring to this kind of backing out. He means real treachery . And he's accusing Erik of his own crime.

My face heats up. " You left him , Martin."

There is so much more I want to say. None of it would be pretty. I must remind myself I don't swear. Or shout at people at work. I'll still need to face him in this office every single day.

"Have you asked him why?" Martin lifts one eyebrow, gazing at me. "But I guess it won't matter. You'll always know his version. And what do I care, honestly?"

He turns to walk away, but I can't let him end it here. I hate the guy, but he's giving me a different angle on the facts. Shouldn't I listen to his warnings? "What are you trying to say?" I ask and hate myself a little for taking Martin's bait.

"If you ever think about working with Erik Storm, don't. That's all I can say." Martin chuckles and walks away, enjoying himself for leaving me rooted to the kitchen floor with a cup of overly sweet espresso in my trembling hands.

Just when I find the strength to move, Lars shows up at the sink to get a glass of water.

"Everything okay, Sol?" he asks, not too concerned, as usual.

No. I've told Erik I don't need him anymore, and Martin is being an even bigger *beep* than I thought he could be.

I have the impression that it doesn't matter to Lars if I answer or not, but I say, "All good."

"Good. It was nice seeing Storm again. The two of you are...something rare."

I smile wider, laughing and crying a little inside. Is it wrong to want him to be right?

"I must say I'm a big fan of Team Sol & Storm. By the way, the third event is not this Saturday but the next," he says. "A cooking contest. You'll get an email soon."

"Cool. I love food."

Lars laughs. "Perfect. See you and Storm there!"

As soon as he turns around, I exhale heavily. I can't do this without Erik after all. I'll need to get him back onboard. While I'm a great eater, I won't win without a chef.

When I get home, Erik is already cooking his dinner. The smell of fried garlic and mushrooms hits me with full power when I enter the kitchen. My stomach growls, hungry to taste whatever is being made in Erik's expensive frying pan.

Don't get your hopes up , I tell my stomach. We'll have to settle for a frozen meal as usual.

"What are you making?" I ask after placing my water glass in the dishwasher. "It smells wonderful."

"Beef stroganoff," he answers, his mood unreadable.

"Mmmm... Stroganoff is my favorite dish," I tell him. "Well, at least the Brazilian version. My mom's, especially." I tiptoe closer and sneak a look over his shoulder, spotting a pot with bubbling water. "Pasta though? We usually eat it with rice."

"Hmm, I never thought of that. I guess you'll have to make me your version one day."

His comment makes my heartbeat rise. Are we at the point where we can eat each other's food? "Does that mean I can try yours?"

He looks at me, and I close the dishwasher, giving him my best hungry-puppy eyes.

"Lucky for you, I'm making enough for two today." He smiles at me, stirring crème fra?che into the pan. I smile back, delighted, and stand by his side, watching him work with speed and skill.

"The next event in the Fun Season is a cooking contest," I tell him in a casual tone, but my body is tense, full of anticipation. "Not this Saturday, but the next. I hope you can make it."

He looks at me, eyebrows lifted, and my stomach quavers with a mix of hunger and anxiety. "I thought you didn't need my services anymore," his deep, rough voice utters.

A shiver runs through me as I recall our last exchange. How I almost pulled him by the collar for an ardent kiss like my cousins kept suggesting. Me saying he was discharged, and his smirk as he told me something in Danish I didn't understand.

Maybe he hadn't taken me seriously. That smile, the light tone as he said goodnight... The cocky bastard knew I'd come crawling back to him.

Ugh , I can't let him think I need him that much.

"Lars would like you to be there," I say to the counter, as indifferent as I can.

"Lars. Of course."

When I glance in his direction, I see an expression of disappointment. Not like he is disapproving, but like he is...sad?

"Besides, you're a better cook than me," I add. "I'd never win without you."

Erik nods to himself, stirring his dish. It looks done. I wonder if he's overcooking it in his distraction.

"I'll be there, then," his statement is emotionless.

Is he sad because he thought I wanted him to go?

But no...of course not. He's just being the usual moody Erik. So I keep speaking. I'm happy he said yes, regardless of his level of excitement.

"Oh, I had the most dreadful conversation with Martin today," I tell him, now with my back to the counter. Erik's alarm rings, and he hurries to drain the pasta before it overcooks. For a perfectionist like him, one second more ruins an al dente pasta.

"What did he say?" he asks while pouring the pappardelle into the colander.

"He thinks we're lying."

Erik turns his head so abruptly that boiling water splashes outside the colander, and he yells, "Ouch!" I hurry to help him, taking the pasta away and pulling his hands closer to examine them as he keeps complaining. His thumb is a bit red, but it doesn't look like a bad burn.

And then I'm holding his hands in mine.

"Are you okay?"

"It's fine, only stings a little."

I turn the cold tap and put his fingers under the running water. He groans, sounding uncomfortable and relieved at the same time.

"What did Martin say?" Erik insists, turning his eyes to me.

We are too close to each other now, my heart racing from the shock of his cry of pain—and perhaps a little because of my unplanned proximity...

"Martin suspects we might not be together for real because he thinks it's unlikely you'd commit the same mistake again," I say, suddenly very nervous. "You know, so shortly after what happened between you and Lena."

His blue eyes become as wide as saucers, and he turns away, tensing up. A reddish tone spreads across his face, starting with his ears. I retreat a few steps, letting him handle the pasta, which is now the most important task in the world for Erik.

I understand now why Erik had to come up with another version of the story about how we met. He knew Martin could provoke him about it, and he did. So Erik's improvised version was supposed to free him from the shame of admitting he got involved with a roommate a second time. Like he'd learned nothing. But that version, including Cinder, was still not enough to fully convince Martin.

"He said it was tough when she left you," I continue, but Erik gives me a condemning look.

"I don't want to talk about this."

I face him. "We have to, Erik."

His forehead creases. "So that Lars can keep believing your lie?"

"I'm on your side." He serves the food on two plates, ignoring me to avoid a fight, I guess. But I can't let this go. "I can't defend you if I don't know the truth."

He turns his back to the stove, giving me his full attention. At first, his face is tense, angry, but then he sighs and looks down, saying, "Martin loved her."

"What?" My mouth drops open. Holy shiitake mushrooms. "Martin loved Lena?" I'm still processing the information. Martin's jealous tone earlier makes total sense now...

Erik nods. "I didn't know." He pulls his hair back, looking unsettled, and ties it in a new quick bun. "She came from Poland to study. Martin had classes with her. He was the one who insisted I give her the room when I was looking for someone to share rent and she needed a place to live." He takes a breath. "I had found this apartment thanks to a friend of my dad's, but I couldn't afford it alone."

I nod to show that I'm listening. I know how big this is for him, and I'm glad he's finally opening up.

Erik looks down with a distant gaze. "I was too stupid to notice, too self-absorbed. Too selfish..."

" He is to blame for not telling you how he felt about her." I defend Erik. "Did she like Martin back?"

He shrugs. "They were good friends. The three of us were. Later—too late—I realized Martin wanted her to live here because he would have an excuse to see her often. He was always coming over. We were already working together on the project." Erik turns to grind salt and pepper onto his food. "But Lena never showed signs of liking him more than as a friend. It was me she went after."

Erik stops with his palms on the counter, absorbed in his memories.

"I grew fond of her, and we became best friends. Things got...confusing." He seems embarrassed for talking about this with me, but he continues. "She made a move, and I went for it. Headfirst."

I lean my back against the fridge, watching him, bracing myself. This explains it all. His uneasiness when near me. The fear that he'll go through everything all over again.

"She didn't want to tell Martin about us. Whenever he was near, she went away. He noticed something was wrong, and I realized she knew—or suspected—that he had feelings for her."

"Oh my, Erik... I'm so sorry you went through all this," I say, meaning it. I can't blame him for never wanting to go through anything similar again.

There is no third wheel now though. No one else but us.

I frown at myself. Why am I having these thoughts? Would I ever want to be with Erik for real? Physical attraction is one thing—it's another to want to dive into a relationship that would quickly become what he described: confusing.

Besides, he carries too much baggage. I don't want to be Lena 2.0. I don't want him to think of another girl whenever he sees me. A girl he isn't over yet. A girl who lived in my room. Who probably stood here in this kitchen cooking with him.

I hug myself as if a strong wind just blew, freezing me inside.

"This mess," he continues, "it was affecting the three of us. And I did what I usually do—I escaped into my work." He takes two forks and knives from the drawer like he is not even aware of what he's doing. "I worked hard on the project. Alone. All the time. It helped me cope with the things I couldn't cope with. But instead of bringing me relief, it only made things worse, to an unrepairable level, because I...wasn't giving her the attention she deserved."

"Oh, Erik..." I want to come closer and comfort him, but I'm stuck in place, something in my mind telling my body not to move.

"My relationship with Lena deteriorated, and my partnership with Martin ended. We had been working on different things. Apart. Not communicating. Then one day we had a big fight. He showed me the version of the app he had been working on, but his vision wasn't mine, and he said he wanted to leave and asked for permission to keep working on his version alone. I said he couldn't, that it was my company, my idea, but he argued it was just as much his, and, well, it got ugly." Erik laughs darkly. "He brought up Lena. You can imagine how that went."

I nod, my brows knitted. "And then he stopped talking to you and got a job at Scorpio, the company you left?"

"Yes. Three months after our fight."

Ouch. That's heavy.

"And what about Lena?" I ask, almost whispering, afraid my words will open up his wounds.

Erik stares down at the surface of the counter, his back to me.

"She wanted to pursue the academic path. She had finished her master's and was applying for PhD programs all around the country, with no success. This... chaos in her personal life was the last straw. The final reason she needed to go back to Poland."

I move one step closer, bringing my hand forward but still lacking the courage to put it on his shoulder.

"I tried to get her to stay, but..."

He turns around, and I'm there, right behind him, breathing unsteadily. I put my arms around his waist, giving him the warm hug I would have liked to receive if it had been me telling this story.

It was one thing knowing he was large and muscular, but feeling it flicks the switch again. I'm overly aware of how small I am against his hard chest, and how his warmth spreads through me until my face is flushed and my legs feel unstable.

I slide my hand up and down on his back, caressing it, and he accepts my comforting embrace. It's soothing for me too, as long as I tell myself it's a friendly hug. But once my chaotic blood flow starts concentrating in my intimate parts, I let go.

Safely distanced from him, I stare into his tired eyes, noticing that he is more destroyed inside than I'd realized. He looks numb with pain, exhaustion, and hunger. I give him a quick stroke on the upper arm, breathing to get my pulse back to a resting pace—and failing.

"Let's eat now," I say. "The food is getting cold."

I smile, trying to lighten the mood. I take the plates and carry them to the table, going back for water and napkins. Erik sits on his chair and eats like someone who is not present. After those tough revelations, I let him enjoy some introspection. He's earned it. I'm also so hungry I feel no need to speak until I've devoured my entire portion of stroganoff.

"It was delicious, Erik. Thank you."

" Tak for mad. It's how we say, ‘Thank you for the food,' in Danish. We always say this to the person who cooked or bought the food."

" Tak for the lesson."

He smiles a little, looking slightly better after eating.

"When are we going to work on the project?" I ask him. "I'm available the rest of the evening."

Erik looks at me, surprised and hopeful, as if he expected me to never work with him after all I'd heard today about him and Martin.

"I trust you, Erik Storm," I say, my voice firm and reassuring.

I help people. I don't abandon them when they need me most. And if there is someone who needs me now, it is Erik Storm.

Just as much as I need him.