I let go of her, wide-eyed, as if she caught me stealing cookies from the jar on the fridge. She invited us to watch a movie two weeks ago, and I told her we couldn’t because Erik was taking care of his dad in Jutland. She and I didn’t talk about the subject again, but Chiara is perceptive and understood he’s been gone all this time.
“He came back yesterday,” I answer hesitantly.
“You should tell the others, Sol.”
My heartbeat rises. I know exactly what she’s saying, but I pretend I don’t. I mean, how could she know?
“Tell them what?”
“That you and Erik are not a couple.”
I look around, now nearly having a heart attack. “What makes you say that?”
“That day at Tivoli,” she begins, dead serious, “it was clear. Anika noticed it too.” Her voice breaks when she mentions her ex-girlfriend, but she composes herself quickly.
This is...impossible. I thought we were so convincing!
But, no, of course we weren’t.
“That kiss,” Chiara continues, her tone more vivid now. “It was, without a shadow of a doubt, a first kiss. So full of insecurities and passion...”
Oh dear. Anika was being our cupid with that lie about the kissing tradition. How did I not notice it?
I’m getting so nervous about discussing this in a Scorpio Games bathroom that my compulsive looking around is bordering on paranoia.
“I don’t understand why you had to lie about this, Sol, but you must have your reasons.” I look down, not wanting to meet her eyes. “Lying is never a good idea though. Especially to your boss.”
“Are you going to tell Lars?” I ask, my voice small.
“Of course not. I’m your friend. I’d never do that. I’m just advising you as you advised me about Anika.”
I breathe, trying to calm down. “Then let us both think about each other’s wise words,” I say, and Chiara nods. She puts a hand on my shoulder and gives me a weak smile, ending our exchange in a way that makes it clear we’re good.
I’m early for the afternoon design meeting. I take an empty seat next to Lars, a vacuum in my stomach sucking the air out of my lungs as I realize he might know everything because Martin knows everything because Thomas Hansen opened his big mouth.
I keep my gaze on Martin, listening to their premeeting chitchat with a rush of anxiety burning my veins.
Lars then draws my attention when he offers me something from a small package. “Want one? The best licorice in the world.”
“What?” I blink a few times, relief washing over me as I stare into his smiling face and realize that Martin hasn’t told him anything. Yet.
“Licorice?”
I smile back at him, doing my best not to look disgusted. I hate licorice and can’t, for the love of me, understand why Danish people are so fascinated by this horrible salty candy.
But Martin is winning. He’s playing all his cards, so I’ll have to play mine too, no matter how much acting I need to do to be loved by Lars.
I take a licorice candy, thanking my boss. He is looking at me with so much expectation it would be an offense not to give the candy another chance. It’s almost like a rite of passage. Once you have learned to like licorice, you can be accepted in Denmark as an equal.
“Great, right?”
“Mmmm!” I fake a sound of delight, trying not to gag.
When Lars is chatting with the others again, I discreetly turn around in the swivel chair, spit the candy into my hand and hide it in my pocket inside a crumpled receipt.
“What is your opinion, Sol?” Lars speaks to me, and I turn around, startled. “What is your favorite thing about Denmark?”
Not licorice.
“Oh.” I look at them, pretending I’m still chewing the candy. “The design, I guess?” I say the first thing that crosses my mind and has a chance of pleasing Lars. He’s design-obsessed.
Although I do appreciate Danish design, that goes below Danish pastries and cakes in my ranking. But Lars is even more of a health maniac than Erik. He allows himself a tiny piece of cake on Fridays, and that’s all.
“I couldn’t agree more. So many good designers,” Lars says, and I smile, satisfied.
“What about the worst thing?” Simon asks me.
Licorice.
“The weather.” It’s not a lie, at least.
They all laugh, agreeing. I mean, who loves Danish weather?
“Favorite smørrebrød?” Lars keeps questioning me.
I have the answer ready on my tongue—chicken salad and bacon—but I pretend that all the options are so wonderful that I can’t decide. “Hmm... I don’t know. They’re all great.”
“What do you think of leverpostej—liver pâté?” he asks me with his eyebrows raised, as if expecting me to be like all foreigners who can’t understand Danes’ love for liver pâté.
