The Last Dance Card – Part 2: Waltz Number Ten

Freja did lead. It was not, Erik admitted afterwards, a graceful performance. She steered him across the wooden floor with one hand firm on his shoulder and the other holding his, and he limped along behind her, cane forgotten against the wall, laughing so hard he could barely count the steps.

"One, two, three," she said, sternly. "Stop looking at your feet."

"I'm not looking at my feet. I'm looking at you, and it's very distracting."

"Then you'll fall over."

"I've already fallen over," said Erik. "In the sea. In front of the bride's mother. This is an improvement."

They spun slowly past the long tables, past the children with their sparklers and the aunts who were watching with their arms folded and expressions of enormous satisfaction. The accordion played a sweet, sad waltz. The paper lanterns swayed overhead, throwing soft gold light across the dancers.

When the music stopped, Erik didn't let go of her hand.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk down to the water with me, after the dancing? Not to talk about Anton, or Uppsala, or the boat. Just to watch the sun go down over the fjord, and see if the view is different from the other side."

Freja smiled, slowly. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise not to fall in the water."

"I'll fall in the water," said Erik solemnly. "But I'll fall in beside you, so we both get wet."

They walked down through the birch trees to the little wooden jetty at the edge of the island. The evening was long and gold, the water still and shining, and the sky above was the soft, endless blue of a Swedish summer night that refused to get dark.

Freja sat on the edge of the jetty, feet dangling over the water. Erik lowered himself beside her, with a series of groans that she pretended not to hear, and let out a long breath.

"You're very good at leading," he said.

"You're very good at letting me."

"That's not the same thing."

"It's better," said Freja. "Sometimes the best partner is the one who lets you choose the steps."

He was quiet for a while, watching the light on the water. A duck paddled past, unbothered by either of them.

"Can I tell you something?" said Erik.

"Yes."

"When I said that thing at Uppsala, I was jealous. Of Anton, of your certainty, of the way you always knew what you wanted. I thought if I could make you doubt him, I'd have a chance. It was a cruel, stupid thing to do, and I've hated myself for it ever since."

Freja turned to look at him. His face was open, unguarded, the sunset light softening every line.

"Thank you for telling me," she said. "I didn't know that."

"Can I ask you something else?" said Erik.

"Yes."

"Would you let me kiss you, here, on the jetty, with the duck watching and no one else for miles? Not as a delivery. As an apology that's finally made properly."

Freja's breath caught. She thought of the dance card in his pocket, the single blank line she had filled herself.

"Yes," she said. "But if I say stop, you have to swim back to the island, and I'll wait at the dock with a towel."

"Fair," said Erik, and grinned. "Can I?"

"Yes," said Freja, and leaned in.

He kissed her slowly, carefully, his hand coming up to rest against her cheek, the warm sunset light on both of them. The kiss was unhurried and sure, tasting of champagne and salt air and something sweeter underneath. The water lapped softly against the jetty, and the duck, having seen enough, paddled away.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Erik, very quietly.

"Green," said Freja. "Very green. Now dance with me once more, Erik, on the jetty. The accordion is still playing, somewhere over the water."

"I can't hear it," said Erik.

"Then I'll hum it," said Freja, and did, off-key and happy, as he pulled her gently to her feet and they swayed together in the long gold light of the Swedish summer night.