Somewhere Else

Chapter 8: Turning Point (i)

"Emilie."

I jump when I hear him speak – so used have I gotten to the silence that has permeating the apartment since the day I threw all my nasty emotions at him and they stained our kitchen floor bitter.

My heart has started up abruptly. I swallow, half-turning away from the pot of soup I'm heating up. He is standing at the entrance to the kitchen area, palm flat on the counter, looking at me but not entirely making eye contact.

"Yeah?" I whisper. Maybe he's ready to forgive me. Maybe we can finally get past this stalemate we've gotten into.

It takes him a while to get the words out. "It's Midsummer soon, so the gang is going up to Lumi's holiday house for a while. It's in Loikansaari – that's in Savonlinna." At my blank look, he settles for, "It's not that far north – somewhere up and to the east from here." He stops then, like he doesn't really want to ask. "Do you want to go?"

The sauna, I remember. The holiday house that he and his friends go to at least once a year, where they sit around in a sauna and hang out. Sitting around naked with a bunch of people that I barely even know? Especially now, with our circumstances being what they are – it sounds a little bit like hell. My expression must have twisted, or somehow given away my feelings, because Aksel's gaze dips like he can't bear to look at me anymore.

"It's okay," he says quietly. "I'll let them know you're not coming."

You, he says. The lump in my throat has gotten larger and heavier. He didn't even consider staying behind with me.

He turns to go, then hesitates. "Are you sure? The whole of Finland shuts down during Midsummer. There won't be many shops open or..."

Despite my previous reluctance to stay in Helsinki alone while he travels to the countryside with his friends, I can't push down the resentment at how he makes me sound like a child in need of adult supervision. Like I am so utterly inept in Finland that I can't survive without his presence.

"I'll be fine on my own," I say, my voice rising a little as my temper does, as well. "You should go with them."

"Yeah?" His voice has sharpened, too.

"Of course. It's your tradition."

"Yeah," he says darkly, "My tradition."

"You should go," I repeat. "I'll be fine here. You'll probably have more fun without me, anyway."

He doesn't say anything.

"Maybe I'll do something for Midsummer, too," I go on, driven by the hurt bubbling in my throat. "I should fly back to Hamburg while you're gone. What's the point in staying here, anyway?"

There is a buzzing silence. I angrily think to myself that I should have just bitten my tongue out.

"Yeah," he says finally. "Maybe you should do that."

***

"Where have you been? I've barely seen you lately."

I mean for it to be inquisitive – caring, even – but it falls flat. I sound like I'm accusing him of something. It's the first time in two weeks that we're more than passing ships in this apartment, and it's already shaping up to sound like an inquisition.

How have we gotten here?

"I'm sorry," Aksel tells me flatly. Or at least that's what I assume, because he looks as if he's speaking directly to the tabletop.

Over the past two weeks, he has barely been home – I'm not sure if it's gotten busier at work, or if he has been spending more time at the office to avoid me. Today I've gotten home after class to find him sitting at the desk with his head in his hands, staring at the documents scattered across the surface.