Maybe Baby (18 page)

I couldn't relax; couldn't just wipe my mind clear and stop worrying.

"
Maybe we should just stop," I said suddenly.

"
Laney, she's not going to say anything."

"
I don't know that."

"
It doesn't matter now though, does it? She's not here in the room with us. You told her I was your colleague."

"
Maybe she saw us in the bar. We don't know how long she was there or what she saw."

"
So what if she saw us kiss! You said you wanted to leave Niklas. This is your out. I am your out."

It was hard to think when I was lying naked in bed with a man whose body made mine sing. I rolled away from him, but he didn't let me get too far.

"I'm your out, Laney," he said again. "When the shit hits the fan with Niklas, I'm here."

"
We hardly know one another." But then I laughed. Saying it when I’d just let him go down on me was ridiculous.

"
I know I like how you taste," he said and then rolled me over on my back again. He slid down between my legs and teased me with his tongue, with his lips and adept fingers.

By the time I was able to tell him my news, he'd pushed Siri far enough out of my thoughts that I'd finally relaxed and we'd made good use of the bed.

"
So you're moving to Copenhagen?"

"
Temporarily. I'll be working, but it'll make things easier for us."

"
You could stay with me."

"
The company's already arranged an apartment for me, and until things are resolved with Niklas, it's better this way."

Mads muttered under his breath.
"How much longer do we have to be in limbo?"

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to be able to say
"tomorrow" but it wasn't that simple. I'd never imagined I would be in this situation. I'd always assumed that, at some point, Niklas would propose to me, and we'd be married. I'd assumed we would have our own family, even if I'd always behaved as though children weren't part of my future. And I'd behaved that way because Niklas's involvement in his kids' lives and his career was always more important than mine. I'd let my own wants take a back seat. Maybe I'd always done it.

So instead of giving Mads an exact time, I said,
"Once I'm in Copenhagen, I'm yours."

*      *      *

We spent the entire weekend in bed. Leaving the room felt too risky, and Mads wasn't in the mood for sightseeing. Besides, autumn had settled over Stockholm with a vengeance, and sheets of rain battered the city.

Room service was our salvation, and Rival's room se
rvice was phenomenal. Mads had booked a deluxe room, and the wall of windows and balcony overlooked Mariatorget's verdant urban escape. I lay there in bed, stretching like a satisfied cat, while Mads showered. This was our last day together and he'd ordered a late checkout since his flight didn't take off until six in the evening.

I checked my phone. Only two messages from Niklas, and both were vague. None mentioned Siri. The first said he was in a meeting until 9:00 p.m. The second me
ssage said he was going to stay in Göteborg an extra day, and visit some friends. He was lying. I was certain of it, but at that moment I didn't care.  I tossed my phone back on the bedside table, and then focused on Mads. The wall separating the bedroom and bathroom was made of glass and only venetian blinds afforded any modesty or privacy. Mads had left the blinds open. His body was too beautiful. I didn't seem to be able to get enough of it. I only hoped that once we were together in Copenhagen, the novelty wouldn't wear off. There was a connection between us, and it was amazingly strong, but I hoped it wasn't just the sex that held us together. And there was no way of knowing until we finally took the plunge.

I hated for the weekend to end. Hated even more ha
ving to return to my life with Niklas when every part of me still ached for Mads. We ate breakfast in bed, paid the extra fee for a late check out so we could make love one more time before he left.

Mads seemed to read my mind as we rode the elevator down to the main floor. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and said,
"It's not much longer."

I smiled up at him, anxious and still happy that we had something we could hold onto. This weekend wasn't the end of something, not for us.

"In Copenhagen, you're mine," he reminded me.

"
I'm yours." I leaned into him, feeling relieved that soon we wouldn't have to sneak around. We could be a couple. I could go home to him whenever I wanted.

But when I walked back into my old life, I felt haunted. Doubt trailed me as I tried to reacclimatize to the sterile world Niklas and I had somehow created. I moved through the apartment, turning on lights to chase away the autumn darkness. Niklas wasn't home yet. Jesper was in his room listening to music. He'd left a Post-It Note saying he wanted pizza if I decided to order in. Siri was thankfully not around. I closeted myself in the bedroom and waited for the unease to leave me.

For the first time in a long while I found myself thinking about my father. He would not have approved of any of this
—not my living with Niklas, not my involvement with Mads. Sometimes my father or some phantom version of him became my conscience. It didn't matter that he was still very much alive, still not interested in the daughter he left behind. I imagined him watching me with those hyper-critical eyes, his mouth pulled into a grim disapproving line, shaking his head at me the way he used to when a younger version of me managed to disappoint him.

I was glad my mother was not around to see what was happening. After what she'd been through with my f
ather and his infidelity, I doubted she would have been very supportive of what I was doing. Even if she liked Mads, she would have tried to convince me to call it off with him. I could almost hear her gentle voice in my head urging me to work things out with Niklas.

"
But he's still in love with his ex-wife," I murmured. "And I'm in love with someone else."

I waited for a reply, but silence was my only answer.

CHAPTER TEN

Mistaken for Strangers

T
he first few days I was in Copenhagen, I didn't think about Niklas at all. I worked late nearly every night, met Mads at his workshop, and then we walked together to his apartment. I loved it there. The exposed brick walls were a dusky shade of red that reminded me of Philadelphia row houses. I could imagine living there with him. And, during the week, I did.

We'd lie in bed together at night and he'd tell me things I'd wanted to know since I'd first met him. And the more he told me, the greedier I became. Sometimes he teased me and asked if I was memorizing his life for a pub quiz. We were both memorizing one another's lives. He prompted me for stories of my childhood. And som
etimes it really was like a pub quiz.

"
Who was your first love?" I asked him one night. We were lying on his sofa, listening to one of his playlists on Spotify. Outside it was chilly and rainy. Neither of us wanted to do anything more than kiss, and touch... then kiss a little more.              

"
My first love? That's easy—a girl called Adriana." Mads grinned. "She was from Cuba. She moved into the house across the street from my grandparents' place. I used to follow her everywhere."

"
How old were you?" I traced the ridges on the bridge of his nose.

"
I don't know. I think I was... fourteen? I made a mix tape for her, but she didn't have a tape player."

"
Silly girl."

"
Yeah, that's what I thought, too. Didn't she know that all declarations of love are made with mix tapes?"

"
She missed the memo, apparently."

"
So who was your first love?"

"
A boy called Billy, but he had zero interest in me. I used to try to get him to notice me. But he just never looked my way."

"
Stupid boy." Mads pulled me into his lap and nuzzled my neck. "You should have made him a mix tape."

Mads and I fell into a routine pretty quickly. Every morning we walked to what had become our café, where I'd first glimpsed him. We'd sit by the window, perched on bar stools with our feet resting on a toasty warm radiator, drinking our morning coffee while he read
Jyllands-Posten
and I read Justin Cronin's latest novel,
The Twelve
. Sometimes I'd lift my head from my book and catch Mads watching me. He'd take the opportunity to gently massage the back of my neck or steal a quick kiss that sparked into something more. His touch erased whatever residual doubts I might have about being there instead of going home, chastened, to Stockholm and Niklas. On the other side of the glass, the world kept moving: Copenhageners flew by on their bikes, oblivious to the pouring rain and heavy gray skies; buses rumbled past and lines of tourists in matching rain jackets braved the elements in search of Tivoli or the Little Mermaid.

If there was time, we either met for late lunches at a small café near my office, or I'd ride my borrowed bike to his workshop, and we'd eat
smørrebrød
at his workbench. Our idle conversations danced around our future. Sometimes we touched on it, never mentioning Niklas or when I'd have to return to Stockholm. Other times we avoided it completely and focused on the here and now. When the other carpenters who shared the workshop joined us, the conversation switched from English to Danish. I couldn't always follow it, but listening to Mads and hearing the confidence in his voice reminded me that I didn't need to over-think what was going on between us. It was only when his workshop mates slid curious looks at me or ignored me completely that doubt crept in, and I felt like an aberration in his life. Other women had probably met him here, showing up unannounced, giddy with their ache to be near Mads. I was sure of it. I was one of those women. I hoped I was the only one now.

After work, Mads met me at a pub halfway between my office and his apartment. We'd have a beer there and then go home, where dinner was sometimes forgotten in our desire to continue exploring one another's bodies. By the time we'd remember to eat, it was late enough that we opted for grilled cheese sandwiches or scrambled eggs. We lived like newlyweds.

In a way, I guess we were.

Of course, our idyll was short-lived. Niklas called one night and said he missed me, that he needed to see me. I couldn't tell him to stay in Stockholm. We were still technically together. I suggested coming to Stockholm, but he countered with "I know you're busy. I'll come to you."

Mads wasn't too happy about it. We were eating breakfast together in a café near his workshop when I told him the news.

"Why does he still get to demand anything of you?"

He didn't raise his voice, but his tense posture and the stony expression on his face revealed the anger inside him.

"I just need to—"

"
Do you remember what you said to me in Stockholm?"

I nodded guiltily. I'd promised him that I was his once I was in Copenhagen. And I wanted to keep that pro
mise, but I needed to figure out a way to end things with Niklas without it turning ugly. That was the worst part of it. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I was doing it anyway.

"
If you can't follow through and give us a chance to get to know each other better, to be a couple, then what are we doing?"

"
I'm just trying to do this the right way."

"
Is there a right way, Laney?"

"
I don't know, but there must be. I don't want to hurt Niklas, I don't want to hurt you. It's not like this is easy for me. I love you both."

"
The thing is, though, you can't have us both. I don't want to share you. I doubt Niklas wants to share you."

"
I know."

"
Maybe you should tell him this weekend."

"
I'm supposed to go to Stockholm in a couple of weeks. It would be better if I did it then. I could move my things out at the same time."

"
Are you tied up in the apartment?"

"
My name's on the lease, but it's never really been mine."

The tension began to fade. Mads kissed the side of my face, his fingers grazing my neck and shoulder.
"You don't need to be a good girl, Laney. This is your life."

We drank our coffee in silence. It was something I'd learned after so many years in Stockholm. In the US, I was one of those women who always needed noise around her. I had to have my iPod or a TV on in the background or friends to chat with. I couldn't simply sit and enjoy quiet. That never felt right. I'd grown up in a noisy
house, where silence was unnerving. Silence marked the beginning of the end of my parents' relationship. But living in Stockholm—and especially those years of being with Niklas—had taught me to accept how calm, how reassuring it could be to sit quietly with another person, and let the vibes we emitted speak for us. If I was reading Mads properly, he was no longer annoyed, just cautious. He didn't want to get hurt. He didn't like opening himself to me, not knowing if there was any sort of future ahead of us.

*      *      *

Niklas arrived the following day. I'd given him directions to the hotel-apartment complex where I was staying, and told the front desk clerk to let him in just in case I was running late. I spent so little time at the apartment that there was hardly anything to clear away. Mads and I never stayed there. We always slept at his place. I preferred it that way. This apartment was one of those glass modernist cubes, and it reminded me of living in a fishbowl, or someone's wacky idea of a museum exhibit with me as the subject under observation. It made me feel exposed.

I managed to leave the office early enough to make it to the grocery store and wine shop before Niklas pulled up in his cab. I was already upstairs when the front desk clerk rang and said my
"husband" was on his way up. Husband. The word bristled inside me. For more than five years, I'd been faithful to him, helped him with all the trials and tribulations of raising teenagers, while his ex-wife escaped to Antibes or Seychelles or Goa for yoga retreats and getaways. I'd accepted his frequent absences for conferences and taken care of making his life easier, and he'd never proposed to me, never slipped a diamond solitaire on my ring finger, never seemed to consider moving our relationship to another level. And now he was calling himself my husband.

He let himself in, and then made a big show of calling out for me and reuniting. He'd tucked an overly large bouquet of hothouse flowers under his arm. This was new. He hadn't surprised me with flowers since the early days of our relationship. Or since the night I found out he was fucking his ex-wife.

"So this is where you live." He strode forwarded and grabbed me in a bear hug. I scrambled away, but he caught me again. This wasn't the Niklas I knew.

"
This is it," I said as he pressed a kiss to my cheek. I stepped back and gestured at the living room area. "Do you want a tour?"

"
No. I want to show you how much I missed you." Niklas was still smiling that charismatic smile of his, trying to woo me with those chocolaty eyes. A glimmer of the old Niklas shined through. He was wearing the cranberry-red cashmere sweater I'd given him for Christmas, and it brought out the natural tan he seemed to have all year. He'd also worn the black corduroy jeans and monk strap shoes I'd talked him into buying when we were in the US. It was a nice change from the wool dress pants he usually wore on weekdays. But it didn't make me feel a renewal of attraction or desire for him. It was too late for that. "It's strange not having you around all the time."

I took a few more steps away.
"It's not the first time we've been apart," I reminded him. I didn't want to delve into our history and revisit the arguments, the times I walked away from him, or he walked away from me. That path only led to an emotional minefield and I was already too unmoored. Instead, I showed him around the apartment. He murmured his approval at the sober colors and luxury hotel feel the apartment afforded. He wasn't a man who liked a lot of color on walls. White and beige were good enough for him.

I opened the door to the guest bedroom, with its u
ninterrupted view of the harbor and stood aside to let him take it in.

"
Nice," he said approvingly. "I like the view."

"
It's one of the perks of this apartment." I crossed my arms over my chest. "If you're on the balcony, you can see the opera house."

The room was furnished with the usual Danish, mo
dern style furniture—a platform-style bed in dark wood veneer with a sleek glass bedside table. The walls were painted a creamy beige that reminded me of steamed milk in a caffe latte. Niklas wasn't interested in it, though. He touched my elbow and I felt nothing. No spark. No thrilling tingle of desire or love.

"
Show me where we'll sleep."

"
I thought you could sleep in here." I tried to keep my face impassive. I didn't what him to misread me. I had to do this for Mads and myself. I didn't want this, him, anymore.

"
I don't want to sleep in a different room from you," he said cautiously. "And why, exactly, do you want me to sleep in a different room?"

"
It's better this way," I ventured. I tried to edge a way but the firmness of his touch kept me in one place. "We both know it is."

"
I'm not sure I follow you, Laney." Niklas's fingers tightened around my elbow.

"
Nothing... never mind. Are you hungry? I made dinner."

"
Laney, what the hell?"

"
We can talk over dinner, Niklas. Let's eat. I'm hungry." I was also a coward. I dodged away from him and headed back to the open-plan living room. My chest felt tight with guilt and I'd already set the table. All I needed to do was open a bottle of wine, so I took a bottle of Verdicchio from the fridge and set about looking for a corkscrew. Niklas was lurking in the living room, keeping his distance.

"
Laney."

I started. I nearly dropped the bottle of wine, but I regained my composure. I pretended instead that I ha
dn't heard him and continued with bringing our meal to the table. He came into the kitchen area and said my name again.

There was no avoiding him now.
"Siri told me she saw you at Hotel Rival. That weekend I was in Göteborg."

I swallowed hard.
"I was there for a meeting."

"
I'm not stupid, Laney. You think I don't notice how distant you are with me? You don't want to touch me. Now you don't want me to sleep with you."

"
I'm sorry, Niklas." Why was I such a coward? This was when I should have taken the plunge—told him the truth, he'd even handed me a perfect opening.

"
So, what's going on, babe?"

I needed a glass of wine. I tried to pour one, but my hands were shaking. Niklas took the bottle from me and filled my glass.