Page 18 of Only and Forever
“Hi, sweetheart,” he coos.
“Dada!” she shrieks. Her legs kick out, then back. She nearly nails me in the nuts with her heel.
“Take it easy,” I tell Ren, clasping her pudgy feet. “She’s got long legs and she knows how to use them.”
Ren grins, picking up his daughter’s hand and blowing a raspberry in her palm. Lucia giggles. “Course she does. She’s a Bergman.”
“Anda Zeferino,” Frankie adds, stepping up beside him and arching her eyebrows.
“As if anyone doubted that.” Ren ruffles Lucia’s dark hair, the same color as Frankie’s.
Lucia’s legs start kicking wildly again as she clocks Frankie. “Ma! Mama mama!”
“That’s it,” I tell them, gently lifting Lucia from the baby-wearing contraption. “I’m gonna lose a nut if you two don’t stop fawning over her.”
Ren takes her from me greedily, like he’s been waiting for thismoment, and props Lucia up in one arm, pinned to his chest. Her hands go straight to his beard, and she tugs.
“Easy, Luce,” he croons, guiding her hands from his face. “Gentle.”
“Gentle.” Frankie snorts. “That child doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“Wonder where she getsthat?” I ask.
I narrowly avoid being whacked in the shins by Frankie’s cane. I swear, the women in this family rule us with an iron fist.
Leaving Ren and Frankie with Lucia, I set aside the baby wearer, then turn and start a loop around the store. It’s my super-soft opening tonight—only my family butallmy family here, seeing my dream come to life, which I finally found the courage to tell them about last fall—and I’m a bundle of nerves. That’s why I was wearing Lucia. Something about holding a baby makes me feel better about everything. The sweet smell of their hair, the promise of who they are just beginning, who they’ll become, bottled up in this tiny body. Babies remind me that good things grow from humble beginnings; that before we run, we crawl, then teeter, then walk. Spending this past year watching Lucia grow from a small, dark-haired, crying bundle to a bright-eyed, vivacious little person has been exactly what I needed as I worked my way toward opening the store.
“Everything looks wonderful,älskling,” Mom says softly as I nearly walk right by her to lift my favorite succulent, Lorraine, out of Theo’s reach. Theo’s just a little over two and hell-bent on destroying everything these days. Why I thought it wise to invite tyrannical toddlers to my super-soft opening is beyond me. Well, I knew it wasn’t wise; I just also knew it wouldn’t feel right if my whole family wasn’t here.
“Hey, you.” Aiden swoops in quickly, lifting his son rather than the succulent, and deftly turning him upside down. It makes Theo erupt in belly laughter. “Hands off Uncle Viggo’s plants.”
Relieved that Lorraine’s lived to see another day, I turn toward my mother. “That’s nice of you,” I tell her. “Thanks, Mom.”
My mother arches an eyebrow, the same expression I see often on my oldest sister, Freya, with her wavy white-blond hair, Mom’s twin in looks, twenty-five years apart. “It isn’t ‘nice,’ Viggo. It’s honest. Everything does look wonderful. I say what I mean.”
“She’s right,” Dad adds. Bright green eyes he gave Axel, Ryder, and Ziggy. Red hair bequeathed to Ren and Ziggy, too. But now his hair is heavily streaked with silver so pale it’s almost white. I swear it happened overnight. How many of those gray hairs did I put on his head?
I feel a pinch of anxious nerves as Dad squeezes my shoulder firmly and says, “We’re proud of you.”
My chest floods with relief, even as doubt lurks in the corners of my mind. I glance between my parents. I haven’t always made things easy for them. I was a decent student, inclined to do well in subjects I cared about and the bare minimum to scrape by in the ones I didn’t, but I also screwed around a lot—got myself into trouble and nonsense I shouldn’t have. I’m the late bloomer of the family, the only one to merely dabble in, then abandon, college; the last to find their professional path. I’ve blown up Mom and Dad’s kitchen with my baking side hustle for years, crashed in my old room at their house when my living situations went sideways. I’ve worried them. I want them to feel like all the hand-wringing and fretting, everything I put them through, was worth it. I want them to be proud of me.
I know they’re proud of me, simply because they love me and I’m their son, but I want them toreallybe proud of me—to objectively see this place and think it’s good.
I swallow my nerves as Mom clasps my hand and squeezes, too. “Thank you,” I tell both my parents.
I glance around, trying to perceive the place with impartial eyes, to sift between what they’re saying they see and what’s there, without the bias of months of planning shaping how I perceive the store.
Late April’s evening sun spills through the shop’s windows, bathing the space in a butter-yellow glow. Floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves teem with colorful spines, row after row of romance novels. Along the register is a reclaimed-wood bar that Ryder helped me build, dotted with tiny succulents, philodendron, ficus, pothos, and spider plants. Behind it are shelves stocked with my handmade mugs—pottery has been my latest love, giving my hands something soothing to do when my mind is whirring. A rainbow of coasters that I’ve crocheted sits stacked beside them, ready to hold hot cups of coffee or tea while patrons read their new purchases, hopefully while snacking on my baked goods.
I scratch at the back of my neck, my thoughts spinning. I need to hire people to do some of these jobs—make coffee drinks, serve baked goods, help patrons on the floor, not to mention handle unpacking and stocking inventory. But I’ve poured all my hard-earned money into making this place great, and I’m a little thin on the funds to compensate people right now. For a while, I’m just going to have to do everything on my own. Alone.
I have friends, and I have my family—I know any of them would, even with their limited free time, chip in and help—but I want to get this right on my own, to do things in a very certain way,myway, and not feel like I’m being intolerable with my demands.
A pang of loneliness hits me. If I had my person, they’d be the one who’d share this with me, who’d at least be the one I unburdened myself to. I don’t want my parents to worry about me anymore. I don’t want my siblings to hear how overwhelmed I am and feel obligated to help, when their lives are full with their work, their relationships, their kids.
“Viggo?” My dad’s voice wrenches me from my worries, bringing me back to the present. His eyes narrow. “What’s the matter, son?”
“Nothing.” I force a smile. “I’m good. Fine.”