“Done,” I say, stopping when the water covers my belly, freezing my guts with a punch. “We have the photo, now we just—”
“In with your head, Sol, or it’s cheating!” Erik smiles, not letting go of my hand.
“Like we haven’t cheated plenty already,” I mutter, but he ignores me.
“Together. Three, two, one... Now!”
I do it. I dive in. Once I’m submerged, I feel as though a thousand knives are perforating my body. I lose all air in my lungs for a long, tortured second. Oh for cod’s sake, it hurts.
Erik pulls me up to the surface with him and signals for us to move toward the pier. Gasping for air, burning with coldness, we reach the nearest ladder, grip its metal bars, and Erik finds his voice again.
“Fuck! This is fucking cold!”
“Oh gosh, I need to get out! Holy cow!”
“Come on, Sol, find the Samuel L. Jackson in you. Release all the shit,” he says, his teeth chattering. “I’m not letting you up until you’ve cursed properly!”
I laugh, a mix of desperation and extreme shivering.
“Shit!” I say and laugh. “Shit, shit, SHIT!”
“Yes! SHIT! Feels good, doesn’t it?”
“No!” It’s weird to say it. It’s wrong.
“Fuck yeah!”
“Fuck no!”
He laughs, enjoying my liberation. He’s right. It is freeing.
I’m dying. But it feels good somehow.
“FUCK MARTIN!” I let it out.
Erik looks proud, and we repeat it in unison.
“Fuck Martin fucking Olesen!” I shout to the gray skies.
Erik quotes Ezekiel 25:17 the way Samuel L. Jackson says it in Pulp Fiction, emphasizing the line about great vengeance.
“Fuck Scorpio Games!” I shout next. We’re laughing our asses off now.
“Fuck Lars!”
“Fuck working! Let’s all do what we love!”
Erik comes closer, his lips purple. I’m afraid there will soon be small ice crystals blocking his nostrils.
“I’m fucking tired of faking,” he says, his voice almost not coming out now.
I can’t stand it any longer. I can’t feel my body. “It’s too fucking cold,” I say, climbing the ladder. “And you’re a bad influence, by the way.”
Erik laughs, following me. I try not to think that he’s staring at my bare butt, but I feel that he is. I mean, it would be hard not to when I’m climbing the ladder right in front of him.
Out of the water, it’s even colder. It’s so cold, I can’t think. We run toward the sand to reach our backpacks and get the towels. I wrap mine around me and throw the other one to Erik. We dry quickly, jumping around, groaning and cursing nonstop.
When I’m dry enough, I get dressed at the speed of light. Still trembling convulsively, I sit on the sand, wrapping the blanket I brought around me and curling into a ball. Erik sits by my side, and I put the blanket around him too. We stay like this, packed together, chattering teeth and shivering next to each other. I remember I have tea in my backpack and reach for it. Erik and I then take turns warming our interiors with the hot drink.
“I’m tired of bullshit too,” I say at some point, following up on what he told me in the water—that he was tired of faking.
Erik smiles. “You’re tired of me?”
“You’re an idiot,” I say in a tone that makes it clear I don’t mean it. He stares at me with breathtaking intensity, and I add, “But no, I’m not tired of you. I’m just tired of us not being honest with each other.”
“That is also what I meant,” he says, even more intense, his nose so close to mine, they will touch if I lean just a little more his way. The thought makes my heart leap.
“I don’t actually think you’re an idiot,” I confess, uncontrolled. “You’re a sweet person under the tough facade you try so hard to keep up.”
I’m trembling so much it’s hard to tell if Erik’s shivering comes from himself or from sitting shoulder to shoulder with me.
“I don’t hate that you live with me,” Erik says, and I stare back at him, my pulse quickening. “I love it, actually.”
I hold my breath. He keeps staring at me like he...like he...
“You do?”
“I do.”
