I'm looking back on my work today, and I've only managed seven welds. It's a complex thing though, a cross union, a T-junction, two 50 mm sight glasses, a racking valve, and three assorted RJT fittings. All purge welded on 50mm pipe—and that's the real reason I've only managed seven welds in a day. Purge welding, to a casual observer, might seem like a simple process, and for the most part it is. Getting in to access welds in complex structures like this, however, and the time it takes to complete such a weld with full penetration and no burn-through is where the time requirement multiplies. It's about an hour per weld as a ballpark. Audrey's a little faster, but set up on complex stuff still takes time, as does purging the pipework with argon.
This is another project for Naveen's guys, making some visual flow meters and drain valves to replace one that somehow got hit by a hoist on Monday. Kristoff has been out talking with Al about the year-end maintenance for that factory, and we have another guy lined up—whose name I forget—who wants a whole bunch of walkovers for his factory. For those, at least, we've got extensive drawings and plans, which will allows us to customise as needed to get the right stuff on site, on time. Depending on the complexity of access they need, it could still be as much as fifteen grand per walkway. I still remember a big one we did for Naveen when he got some new equipment in about a decade ago.
Getting off-track again, but it is the end of the day. I grab my lunch bag and throw it in the van, heading back to turn everything off in the workshop. I look at the pipework strung up on the bench, but I can't shake the nagging sense of disappointment I have. I know it's good for purge welding—but I do so little of it, my mind normally tracks progress as if it were standard welds. I shake my head and lock the doors behind me. I swing myself into the passenger seat of the van, and Kristoff starts the engine.
"Something's bugging you." Right to the point.
"It's purge welding. You know what it's like."
He nods. "I do. And you can still do it miles better than I can."
"I just… uh, it's silly, and I know it. We both know it," I shake my head. "But it still bugs me."
"I know, feistypants, I know," he places a hand on mine as we wait in the driveway for a gap in the traffic. "It's little things."
I squeeze his hand, remembering a time we were talking about little things like this. "It's the big pipes tomorrow. That'll feel faster at least."
"If you really want, you can start cutting for this walkway, and Audrey can finish the welds."
I give it some thought, and really can't decide. "How about we decide tomorrow morning?"
"Sure," it's a bit non-committal, but he's concentrating on driving now.
By the time we actually make it home, it's about five, and Joan is on the couch, half-watching some cartoons, and half-doing her homework. She hardly even looks up as we walk in. As I walk past I see another half of her attention—quiet you, I know how to math—focused on her phone. And a flash of an image I don't actually want to see too clearly. I clear my throat loudly. She drops the phone and turns around, clearly surprised I'm there.
"Baby, I'm not judging, but if it that photo was what I think, don't keep it."
"Mom! You—" I can hear the righteous indignation mixed with no small amount of embarrassment in her voice.
I look away. "Legal reasons. You're both under eighteen. Hell, you're both under sixteen."
"And…"
"Joan, think—do I really have to paint this picture for you?" I hold up a hand to silence her protest. "I'm trying to be 'wise, protective mom' here, not 'disapproving, overbearing mom'."
"That doesn… oh. Oh, shit." Incandescent doesn't begin to describe the shade of pink she just turned. And worried doesn't begin to describe what her eyebrows are now doing.
"Just send her a text," I'm slowly walking out of the room now. "Make sure you're both on the same page." I let out a heavy sigh. "And if you really think you have to, delete them afterward."
"Uh, mom…?"
"Be safe. In the eyes of the law. That's all I'm saying." I pause at the door to the dining room. "If you want to ask someone about it—because I'm not really up with the legality of this around young people, maybe talk to Lefou, or officer Erikson."
She frowns at me. "Should I?"
"This one's up to you. It's an adult decision you should make."
"Maybe I'll just message Lefou with some hypotheticals."
"Well, while you 'maybe' do that, I'm going to be cooking dinner."
"What's tonight?"
"Steak. You need your strength for fencing."
"Mo-om," she stretches the word out so much. "Okay, yeah, steak is good."
It's late now—I'd call it very late, actually—but Joan is still up, and kinda charged, given she won their mini-tournament tonight. Nothing in it but bragging rights, and a couple of nasty scratches, but that's beside the point. She's calling them battle scars now. And because she's still up—and so am I—she's asked to hear more of your story. Of course I'm going to oblige.
Right after we get her calmed down a little.
Which is why we're in the bathroom, with her only wearing a vest, and me with some strip bandage being 'fussy, concerned mom' right about now. Joan isn't actually too bothered by this. The cuts need to be re-covered after her shower, and sometimes, secretly, I think, she does like being fussed over. Just a little bit. I give her a very gentle punch on the arm, away from the cuts.
"Okay princess badass, we're done here."
"Thanks mom," she's already walking out the door. "But you still owe me a story."
"I want my drink first," I'm packing up our little first aid kit. "You want something?"
"You having hot chocolate?"
"Yeah."
"I'll have one too then, thanks."
It's not long after, with both of us sitting on the couch, sipping hot chocolate. I turn the TV down, and outside I can hear a light pattering of rain. Not too different from another evening, so many years ago.
—∞—
It was late afternoon on Saturday, and I was just staring at the kitchen floor. Elsa had come up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I leant gently against her.
"I really should fix this."
"I know you are an engineer, Anniken, but you can do woodwork too?" She seemed quite surprised.
"Uhh… no. I meant more that maybe I should hire someone to fix it." I looked at the tide marks again, the sheer size of them. I felt it when my knees went weak, and I sagged against Elsa's side. She turned to me, concern writ large upon her face.
"Anna?" I was kneeling by then. She'd circled around in front of me, lifting my chin. "Are you okay?"
I wanted to say yes, but I could only shake my head. I was starting to wonder if therapy might be necessary. This was the second time in two weeks after all. Even if I had to get Elsa to drag me there, I would go.
"I am thinking, Anniken, that this might be bothering you more than you want to tell me." I could see the hint of disapproval on her face.
"No," I shook my head, turning away. "It's not that. I kinda want to tell you, so maybe you can help me through it, but… I don't really know how."
"You told me once before."
"And you told me I might need to see a therapist." I looked around, feeling a little better with Elsa beside me. "I think you were right."
"So you will go?" she sounded skeptical—not that I could blame her.
"You might have to drag me, but yes." I stood, slowly, letting her help me up.
"Why would I have to drag you?" I saw the consternation on her face, the quizzical tilt of her head.
"Because I don't want to go—but I think I need to."
"You are very strange sometimes, Anniken," she pulled me into a quick hug. "But I like your strange."
I had tried arranging an appointment for Monday, thinking I might be able to take a half-day of sick leave to cover the time I'd need. No dice. The soonest appointment—at least from the website I checked—was on Wednesday. It hadn't occurred to me how much therapy was actually needed by people at that point. To this day, I still find it hard to understand. But, I resolved to go, told Elsa the time of my appointment, and then rang Kristoff to ask if he knew any good woodworkers.
Not personally, he told me, but there was a company he kept hearing about. Fix It Co. I rang the office and left a message. After that, Sunday—well, the evening at any rate—was mine to waste as I pleased. I wanted to do something for Elsa, given how supportive she was being—and also because I really just wanted to do something for her. Something intimate, just for us. Not sex though… not yet. I didn't think I was ready for it—but recently she had been less subtle about her wants and desires, which I found both refreshingly bold and slightly intimidating.
Of course, this being me, planning was not my strong suit. Dinner would probably be passé at this point. Talking about each other, sure, but we were doing that a lot—and we were pretty honest anyway. Okay, both of us had reasons for being guarded about certain things, but nothing huge. I wondered about dancing—maybe something she could teach me. The closeness too; that would certainly count as intimate. But that wasn't exactly what I wanted either. It was something deeper; more raw and human. In fact, it was something I wasn't quite sure what it was.
All this was part of my extended healing process from what Hans had done to me. At the time, of course, I didn't see it for what it was, or understand why I took such small steps in some places while making great strides elsewhere. I just wasn't very self-aware. It was that thought process—and the odd thoughts about Hans—that brought me to something he'd never done for me. A massage. It seemed to tick all the boxes for what I wanted, too. It would be intimate, and relaxing, and yes, it could be quite sexual. Or sensual. That was a better word to use.
It was over dinner that I suggested it.
"You want to give me a massage?" I could see the puzzlement behind her eyes. "But you are not a masseuse."
I rolled my eyes and smiled. "None of your previous girlfriends did this for you?"
Elsa shook her head. "No. Or perhaps it was more to begin…" she coughed softly. "Other things."
I stared at her for a moment, understanding slowly falling into place. And me being me, I just blurted it out. "You mean foreplay?"
—∞—
"Mom!" Joan thumped with a cushion. "I don't need to know that!"
"Don't try and tell me you're as prudish as she was," I grab the cushion Joan's using to wail on me. "But hey, we were having an honest discussion. She was always so reserved talking about sex, outside the bedroom at least."
"I—still—ugh…" I give Joan a moment to collect her thoughts. "It's just… I don't know… beyond weird and kinda—disgusting?—having this picture in my head of you and her… doing… that."
"Well how do you think I feel about picturing you and Tina?" Did her eyes get wide at that one.
"Touché." She really couldn't say anything else.
"Now, if you'll let me get back to the story where, unfortunately, you'll have to learn a little about your mothers' sex lives…"
—∞—
I had just mentioned foreplay, in dinner conversation, no less. Elsa had turned the brightest pink I had ever seen anyone turn, and she managed to choke out a single word. "What?"
"If I get that reaction just from mentioning that, if I talk about the other thing I feel like you'll faint."
"I did like how Sonia touched me." Elsa coughed softly, maybe hoping I wouldn't hear her whisper. "Even there." She blushed brighter as her whisper trailed off. "Especially there."
Now I had a problem, because my plans for a massage had never included 'there' as Elsa so vaguely put it. I didn't want this to be so strongly sexual. Elsa must have seen the confusion and worry on my face. She smiled brightly and looked me straight in the eyes.
"I would like your massage, Anniken—not Sonia's. I am thinking you still do not feel ready."
I blinked. How had she known what was racing through my mind without me even being aware of it.
"But if you would like more, I will not stop you. I will not force you. What happens is up to you."
"I…" I just shook my head. Was she a mind-reader now? "I'm still not sure. I don't really know where I am in this relationship."
"And you take time figuring this out—but you must know how it is frustrating."
I nodded, blushing. "For me too. But I have my hands." I gave a little cough, and whispered the next part. "And toys."
She heard it quite clearly, blushing incandescently, but whispering perhaps the boldest thing I had ever heard from her. "Perhaps one day you would share."
It felt like my cheeks were on fire. I couldn't answer. I couldn't meet her eyes, and she couldn't meet mine. We were like a couple of shy schoolgirls, talking about our first time. More than that, it would be my first time, whenever it happened. A much bigger—and somehow smaller—step than I wanted to admit. Because in that whisper I had heard a great deal of hope, and lust, and mischief. A whisper that seemed more like it should be mine than hers. A whisper that was at once liberating and terrifying in all it implied.
And then Elsa lightened the mood, smiling cheerfully at me. "We would have dessert first, of course?"
"Of course," I was up before her, and took our plates to the sink. We could wash up later. "You think you're more important than dessert?"
She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like: I could be dessert. It was accompanied by a mock-hurt expression.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Just something silly about dessert."
The conversation over dessert was much less risqué, and I was honestly glad for the distraction. Mostly because I'd only looked up a couple of videos earlier, and those showed a massage more like Elsa had mentioned Sonia had delivered. I didn't want to do that. I wanted something quiet, and intimate, and quite frankly as far from sex as possible. Yes, I was an idiot. Thankfully Elsa hadn't noticed my growing distraction throughout dessert—but given the slight flush of colour in her cheeks, and the little smiles she kept inadvertently flashing me, I figured she had other things on her mind as well.
After dessert she half-dragged me up the stairs and into her room. Not that this was uncommon, but I just thought that if I was the one giving the massage it should have been in my room. She flopped gracefully onto the bed, bouncing slightly, dragging me down with her. She must have seen my confusion earlier.
"My bed is more comfortable."
I took a chance and draped myself atop her, resting my head against her breast. "I think you're more comfortable."
She stroked my hair softly. "Anniken, should you tease me so?"
"I really shouldn't." I sat up slowly, still unsure how to start. I crossed my legs and cocked my head, trying to think. "Would you like to undress a little first?"
"Naked?" But she wasn't protesting—in fact, she seemed a little too excited.
"Well, shirtless at least. Maybe pants-less too."
She pulled the t-shirt she was wearing over her head, cursing when her hair got tangled in it. She threw the offending item quite impressively across the room and into the hall. I had to stop and look at her then. Properly. Not that I hadn't when we passed for showers and stuff, but this was… more. I saw the subtle trail of freckles from her decolletage to the top of her bra. I saw what must have been a very old scar on her left arm, a little way down from her shoulder. She said it was from a TB vaccination when she was a baby. I saw more pale freckles over that same shoulder, and the other one too. I saw her subtle, beautiful blush as she realised I was seeing her—ogling her, even—in this new light.
I saw a lithe, tight belly, and some quite well developed abs. I hadn't really appreciated how strong dancers need to be. She was thin, yes, but like me she was lean, and more muscular than I had thought for some time. Then she was teasing me, shuffling slowly out of her jeans, leaving them in a heap beside the bed. I moaned in frustration, because I was almost ready to be left in a heap beside her bed too. Focus, Anna. I had to snap myself out of it somehow. I was supposed to be doing something for her, not me.
Something to help her relax, feel more at peace, be more intimate.
—∞—
"And honestly, mom, I think that's quite enough detail right there."
I cast my mind back to what happened next, and what we really talked about during that massage. "I think you're right."
"Wait, you're actually agreeing with me?"
"Yup," I nod vigorously for her. "Because a lot of the following conversation was about sex. Or foreplay. Or, umm… something about not sharing the same room for an hour or so for both our safety."
"For both yo—eww, mom. Not again," and Joan just gives me this weird, disgusted look, and I can't really tell how much of it is an act. "I'll never get that picture out of my brain now."
"And you're too young to drink."
"Wine tastes nasty anyway," she shudders, moving a little further from me on the couch. "And you're really gonna leave the story hanging there?"
"Unless you'd rather be hearing a not-quite-sex scene starring your mothers, yes." I relented a moment later. "For now. Give me some time and I might be able to give you just the story—and some PG-13 action."
"Not helping."
I was laughing when a fresh pillow hit me at thirty miles an hour. I grabbed the nearest pillow from the couch, hearing an excited squeal as my intended target rolled off the back of the couch. Another pillow hit me square in the face.
"Oh, it's on now."
