37

Sunday, 26 July

Day Thirty-five

The world zoomed by as Kate drove Erik’s SUV back to Andre Hjem. Ben’s music played on the radio, fed from his phone.

“I hate this for her,” Kate said. “As if she needs any more shit to deal with.”

“I will take Frida to a therapist. I will explain to her why it is a good idea.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I hate Lina with, like, every ounce of my being.”

“I…yeah. I hate her as well right now. Perhaps she also needs a therapist.”

“Therapy for everyone! At least it’s free in Norway, right?”

“For Frida, it is.”

“Small blessings.” Kate sighed. “Well, so much for glacial potholes.”

Ben gave her a sympathetic smile. “They will be there for a little while longer.”

She grinned and turned up the volume on the radio. The song playing was somber. Acoustic guitar with a male singer in French. Ben was humming along, and for a while, he was in his own contemplative world.

“I love hearing you sing,” she said. “Or hum. You never played guitar for me, though. Didn’t feel like serenading the camp?”

“I had considered it. I even sat with Zoe’s guitar. I hadn’t played in years because of my back, and…” He sighed. “I tried. But it was too uncomfortable.”

“No worries. I’ll hold my ‘you owe me a song’ card for a time when you’re not in pain.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

The song changed to an upbeat, folky tune. Though she couldn’t recall the artist, she recognized the melody, and drummed the steering wheel with her thumbs as she hummed along quietly, acutely aware of her tonal ineptitude. Ben turned up the volume and, when the chorus hit, began to sing along, deep and resonating.

Despite everything, he was so freaking happy.

Since last night, his mood had shifted from happy to sad to happy again. He’d gotten back a missing piece of himself, and the resulting joy was so infectious that it was difficult to be sad about sending him home.

Kate blinked her welling tears away and stole more glances at this amazing man, immortalizing the moment with a mental photograph.

Click.

She joined him in singing, not caring that she ruined the song with her voice and hoping he didn’t care, either. Instead of hushing her, instead of lowering the volume or turning the music off, he reached across the divide, took her right hand into his, and knotted their fingers.