Flowers Under My Pillow by Nell Iris

Author:Nell Iris [Iris, Nell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-06-14T00:00:00+00:00

Epilogue

Midsummer’s Eve, One Year Later

We get married on Midsummer’s Eve. Of course, we do. I’ve been waiting for this day for what seems like forever; I would’ve married Viljar a month after we met had I let my heart decide.

After our first meeting, we spent all our free time together, getting to know each other. Laughing, talking, touching. Making love. I’ve never felt as close to another person like I do to him, never shared so much of myself, not even with my sister.

But a few weeks back, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and asked him to marry me. It was all very prosaic and unromantic on a particularly crappy Tuesday when everything that could go wrong at work had gone wrong, and as the icing on the misery cake, my car wouldn’t start when I was going home. But Viljar picked me up with a smile and a kiss, drove me to his apartment where he’d prepared dinner, and proceeded to feed me and do anything in his power to cheer me up. Afterward, I insisted on doing the dishes, and with suds up to my elbows, it hit me.

I needed this, needed him, in my life every day, so I swirled around, splashing water everywhere, and blurted, “We should get married.”

That made him throw back his head and laugh, a loud sound that echoed in his tiny kitchen, and he was so astonishingly attractive, I couldn’t resist climbing onto his lap, despite being too tall, too heavy, and too old for such a thing. I wrapped my arms around his neck, dribbling dishwater down his back without him complaining, resting my forehead against his, and murmured, “Please marry me. Please.”

His hands found their way underneath my shirt and splayed on my back, keeping me steady, making sure I didn’t slide off his lap and fall to the floor and hit my head. His palms blazed on my skin, marking me with their heat. He whispered, “Okay,” then sealed the deal with a kiss.

Later, I complained that “okay” was an unromantic answer, and he countered by saying that having sudsy water running down the back while being proposed to didn’t exactly inspire romance. That was a valid point, but instead of admitting it to him, I kissed him some more.

I’m addicted to his kisses. And his touch. To him. And today, we’re getting married.

That thought is propelling me forward when I sneak away from my parents’ house without saying anything. My mom has thrown suspicious glances at me the entire time I’ve been there, eyeing my outfit that somewhat fancier-than-normal but still doesn’t scream Frode is getting married today, but she hasn’t said anything. But I don’t want to risk an interrogation, so I sneak away when her attention is directed elsewhere.

I take the same route to Viljar’s parents’ cottage as I did last year, but there’s an urgency to my step that’s never been present for any of my previous leisurely Midsummer walks. Anticipation bubbles inside me like I’m a shaken champagne bottle threatening to shoot my cork with a loud, happy bang.

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