"Did you enjoy your walk, Emil?" He had made it back home right on time. The scent of meatloaf filled the kitchen; Mrs. Bondevik smiled as she began to chop vegetables. He kicked off his shoes and began to walk towards the couch.
"Yeah. I took some pictures of the mountains." He hoped he sounded as if nothing exciting happened to him. Thoughts of Mathias burned in his mind; how the hell could he have so much control? Upon realizing what the two had in common, Emil had tried desperately to prove that the person he had met was not alone. Unfortunately, Mathias was forced to take the teenager's word for it. It left him frustrated, but the walk down the hill had drained him of the energy to vent.
The guest room was no longer flooded, meaning Emil would cease to share a room with Lukas. The white-haired teen felt as if he was imposing, so it was much nicer to have his own space. He could retreat in here, and lock himself away from socializing with the family. After five minutes, he had decided to move himself from the couch to the privacy of his room, where his phone rested on his nightstand, charging. He walked over to the device; he had given Mathias his phone number and instructed him to send him a message, to ensure it worked. Sure enough, he found a new message from an unknown number: hello this is mathias. Begging that the foreigner wasn't one for texting lingo, Emil replied, confirming that his new friend had the right number. A few minutes later, he received a response.
u wanted 2 talk more about us?
Emil rolled his eyes and sent another message: Your grammar sucks.
dont care. we have important things to talk about.
Already sick of incompetent language, Emil dialed Mathias's number and waited for him to pick up.
"Hey, what's wrong with texting? Our conversation could stay private that way!" He had a point, but the Icelander would not tolerate such awful texting skills.
"When I say your grammar sucks, I mean it's so bad I can't look at it." He shrugged. "Whatever. We're on the phone now, so we may as well talk." He opened his door a crack, checked to make sure the hallway was clear, and closed the door once more.
"You said you knew someone else like us?"
"Yes. There's somebody in the house I'm staying in. He'll probably kill me for telling someone about him, but I'm sure he'll want to meet you. Can you make it to the park tomorrow?" He assumed it would be hard to force Lukas to come with him. Perhaps if he brought the idea up in front of his mother, he would have to follow Emil to the park.
"No, we're actually going to a museum tomorrow. It's far away, so I have to be up by six. We're going to spend three days in the area, so we wouldn't be able to meet until Friday. Maybe, if you really want to, we could do it early?" Mathias clearly agreed that a meeting was important. However, Emil wasn't too keen on waking up—or waking Lukas up—at such early hours. "I really don't want to wait that long. Please can you do this?" Waiting to talk more would be even worse than enduring one early-morning meeting. He would have to rethink his plan to bring Lukas along, but it could work out.
"Fine. How about five in the morning?" He did not know how long this would take. It couldn't possibly last more than an hour.
"Sounds good! I've always been a morning person, so this should be no problem . . ." Emil did not bother to add that he for one, despised mornings. Maybe a couple of shots of the sunrise and more information about Lukas and him would make it worth the trouble.
Steady footsteps made their way down the hallway in which the guest room was situated. Sensing the presence of a third person, he talked a little quieter. Mathias spoke of where he was going, but Emil's mind strayed from the conversation. He dared to open the door a little; he saw the frame of Mrs. Bondevik walk into the laundry room, holding a phone to her ear. She began to talk; he listened eagerly.
"Problems? Oh no, he's been great! He doesn't talk much, and he's hard to connect with, but nothing's happened . . ." Who was she talking to? Who was she talking about? Emil was suddenly determined to find out.
"I'll meet you tomorrow, Mathias. Five in the morning, on the hill," he interrupted.
"Wait—" He hung up, threw his cell phone on his bed, and crept into the hallway. Her voice rang from the room across his own. A door separated her from him, but he could hear well enough from the hall.
"Are you recovering well . . . oh really? Oh . . . are you sure, Elisa? My, I don't know what to say . . ." A painful jolt seared through Emil. His mother was on the phone with his hostess, when she hadn't bothered to contact him once. What gave her the right to talk about him? He inched closer to the door, desperate for more of the conversation. "I see. He's a good boy, Elisa. I can tell . . . are you suggesting that he meant to hurt you?" It pained him to know that he couldn't hear the other end of the call. He considered picking up another house phone and listening, but he was glued to the wall. If he ran in search of an object he could not find, he would miss more of the conversation.
"Elisa . . . I don't know what you're suggesting." His heart pounded in his chest. His breathing felt short; his chest constricted. He had never needed to hear his mother's voice so badly. What did she think of him? He needed her voice in his ear, telling him she would always love him. She needed to know that he would never hurt her again. The desire burned inside of him, so intense that he felt as if he was sick.
"Let me talk to her," Emil muttered, fully aware that the woman on the phone could not hear him.
"Surely this isn't real? . . . Well, nobody could've possibly known this! Don't blame yourself, dear! And don't blame your son, either . . . he was only two years old. The orphanage wouldn't have known, either."
Orphanage. He shook his head vigorously, still aching inside. These women were talking about him, but they couldn't be; they must be talking about Lukas. Yes, he decided. Somewhere, between panic and curiosity, the conversation had turned to Lukas.
He was desperate to tune out the pounding in his ears, to hear more, to be reassured . . .
"There had to have been something wrong with the birth parents . . . I don't know why it wouldn't say anything about them . . . the father was long dead before he was born, right? I remember you telling me that, years ago . . . the mother had crashed her car, but there's nothing that could possibly explain it . . ."
It wasn't until a burning sensation brushed his bare skin when Emil noticed that he had burned a hole in the wall he stood against.