“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.
Fourteen
The autumn weather in Denmark can be truly awful. Especially if biking is your means of transportation.
I love my new light blue bike with a charming basket decorated with fake flowers, but I don’t love pedaling her up the bridges when it’s raining and so cold and windy my face and fingers freeze to ice. I love my scarlet raincoat, but I don’t love dripping half the water pouring from the sky onto the floor whenever I get inside and take it off.
Erik is ready with a cloth for me to clean the floor when I get home soaked on the last Friday of October, the day before the cooking contest. I went to the office earlier than usual so I could be home early to work on Erik’s project.
It hasn’t been easy to handle both a full-time job and a side project as complex as Erik’s app, but I’ve been managing it. I don’t care that I get too tired and there is no time for anything else in my routine. I’m excited about what we’ve been doing, and I can’t wait to shove our wonderful app in Martin’s face. Number one most downloaded in app stores. It will happen, I’m sure.
Erik has done a lot already, so I’m jumping in on a half-finished product. He has coded the basic features, and the core structure is there. I should be focusing on UI and UX, on making all the art and animation we’ll need. In reality, though, there’s so much more he’ll need help with. There are advanced features to design, game mechanics to plan and improve, user tests to perform, bugs to find... It will be challenging, but he’s well aware of that.
Erik gave me access to the project files, I tested what is playable, then suggested a few things to improve what he’s made. He’s been listening to me, and when he disagrees, he has strong reasons for it. Most of the time, I end up agreeing with his point of view. I keep in mind all the time that it is his project, but he has been so welcoming and open to feedback that it doesn’t feel like that.
It feels like something we are building together.
Erik helps me wipe the floor, takes my raincoat to hang in the shower, and hands me a towel so I can dry myself.
“Terrible weather,” I complain.
“I’m making tea to warm you up.” Erik goes to the kitchen and fetches a teapot and two cups. He puts it all on the table next to our computers, sketches, and notes.
This is what our dining room has looked like for the last two weeks. When we eat, we move things aside to make space for our plates, and often we don’t even close the laptops and keep discussing our work between bites.
Erik has also not been cooking to save time. Either he makes a large amount of food when I’m not home to freeze so we can reheat the portions in the microwave another evening, or we make a quick smørrebrød with whatever is in the fridge, or we order takeout.
After a quick hot shower, I jump into my cozy pants and favorite home sweater. When I approach Erik from behind to look at the progress he’s made when I was away, he says, “You need to change your shampoo.”
I smell my hair, frowning. My wavy locks are a little below the shoulders now, a tone of dark brown as close to my original color as possible. When Erik saw me arrive from the hairdresser last week, he gave me a genuine smile and said “perfect” after I asked what he thought.
“What’s wrong with my shampoo?” I keep sniffing the ends of my hair, detecting nothing but a lovely fruity and floral scent. The corners of Erik’s lips stretch up.
“It distracts me too much.”
The butterflies in my stomach awaken, and I smile. He can’t see it, his eyes on the computer screen.
Sometimes Erik lets these little comments slip. At first, it seemed he was a bit embarrassed, as if he’d found out too late he’d said the thought out loud. But he doesn’t seem to mind anymore.
A lot of bridges have been burned and many boundaries have been crossed since we started working on the project.
In our busy new routine, we don’t pay attention to what we wear, which means I often catch him walking around in boxer briefs and a worn T-shirt full of holes, and I might sit at the table for a combo of breakfast and work while wearing pajamas.
We end up in the bathroom together sometimes when I’m late, and he is there with the door open, brushing his teeth or his hair, and I need the sink, the hairdryer, or the mirror. We share the drying rack too, our socks and underwear hanging side by side.
