Tell Me You're Mine by Elisabeth Noreback

Author:Elisabeth Noreback
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780735218550
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-09-04T07:00:00+00:00

Kerstin

I’ll be in Stockholm soon. At Isabelle’s. Thank God. I detest taking the train. Hate it. You never know who you’re going to end up next to. It never fails, it’s always someone who loves to talk, who has a lot of opinions, who chews too loud or spreads out onto your seat. And why is the train so packed on this normal Wednesday? What an awful trip. But the car is undependable, and it would be even worse to end up stranded on the side of the road. I had to leave it at the garage. Just hope I won’t end up swindled out of the last of my savings.

Does that boy on the seat opposite me have to be so freaking loud? Parents nowadays. They’re turning their children into little monsters. Letting them lash out, scream, disturb people, behave like animals. Good manners are a thing of the past. There’s no respect or even basic courtesy.

I throw another angry look at his mother. She doesn’t notice. She doesn’t care. The boy kicks at my purse, but she pretends not to notice. In the end, I take matters into my own hands. I grab his legs and tell him to cut it out. The boy starts to cry, and the mother gets upset. She looks at me like this is my fault. Adults aren’t allowed to take part in society today, it seems. Just let everyone run amok.

I take my bag and leave my seat. I find a free spot in the next car. Not too long left now.

I haven’t told Isabelle I’m coming. She’d try to stop me. I wanted to leave yesterday, but I had to work. I have no idea if she’s at home or not. Worst-case scenario, I’ll have to wait in the mall until she gets home. I asked for a spare key to her apartment, but haven’t received it yet. We’ll take care of that now.

If she’ll let me, I’d like to look over her schedule. Get some insight into her days. I’m not sure she can manage on her own. She needs all the help she can get from her old mom.

The train rolls into the Stockholm Central Station. I wait until everyone leaves the car before standing up. That horrible boy and his equally dreadful mother are walking down the platform. Our eyes meet, and she gives me an angry look. I disembark, cross the platform, enter the station. There are always so many people here. A voice over the speaker is announcing train delays, a carpet of human laughter, human language, human shrieks. The smells strike me from every direction—coffee, pizza, freshly baked cinnamon buns, perfume, sweat.

I ride the escalator down, headed for the subway. On this lower level it’s even worse. An inferno. People pour down the passageway in a single torrential stream. Everyone is in a hurry, everybody is in a rush, everyone is running. Hurry hurry hurry. It stresses me out to no end.

At first I head in the wrong direction, toward the commuter trains.

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