IVAN

—

the gesture was spontaneous, barely needs a conscious thought prompting it into being — it was pure chemistry: he reached for her hand so she had to take it, didn’t matter whether she did willingly or if this gesture would hold any sort of regret at all in the morning. it had to be — be it for a need for balance, a whimsical belief that it’d stop the spinning. be it because she wanted to. fingers tangled in his easily — too easily, one might argue. the unwanted spectator of the scene might’ve found her willingly putting herself on the edge where safety pours itself into danger, and that would all be a simple excuse to fall against him when the drop came.

oh, ada, what is happening to you? the conscious side of her brain still holding on to thoughts of controlled stillness, urged her to take a breath and run a full check of all the things that were slipping past her control now: the way her skin flushed just slightly the second their skins touched one another, the way her back had lost its arch but found the pride of a fierce, straight line, once she’d found the connection with his hand. all of this was unconscious — a side of her that was not thinking but feeling, auto-pilot without a steering wheel. and none of it came from the booze, no: all of it came from that single touch. but she would not see it — stubborn child that she could be, she would refuse to turn around and sober up, say i’m sorry, disappear back into the pearl-gray nothing she’d come out of. no: instead she kept her hand tangled in his, barely balancing herself, and laughed.

“oh come on, you’re just bragging now. oh, i’m iv-aah-n, i’m so strong, i’m the indiana jones of the fjords ——”, her voice made cavernous by the bad imitation she was providing, then quickly melting into laughter, the melodic kind, the one she seldom allowed to resonate through her chest. her balance faltering, she steadied herself against his hand — still not letting go. “skipping stones over the abyss”. she smiled to herself: wasn’t that, in a sense, what she’d been doing? toying around the notion of balance, knowing a fall was just waiting for her to slip up. “i think i should try that. i’d be fucking great at it”.

--

“No, it’s true! All Norwegian kids grow up to be mountain goats. It’s a thing.” Soft, quiet laughter left him, his lips in a slight part with the smile he carried -- the one he seemed to always carry when she was around, and only then. Most people thought him rude, mean, too intense, too quick-tempered, too this and everything else but Ada seemed to be the only person that saw him beyond all that -- beyond what came with the pain of losing someone he loved. He was a good guy, deep down...compassionate, generous -- he cared, and maybe that was it. Maybe his anger, his intensity, his bitterness -- it was all a product of caring too much, a product of feeling too much...more than he felt was necessary sometimes.

But being drunk -- that was a different story. He was carefree again, joyous, spontaneous, Ivan as Ivan truly was. The way he missed being as of late. Truthfully, he was hurt, and the only way he knew to move away from that, was through booze and weed. Ada, however, made it easier...so much easier, so much that he didn’t need the booze to feel himself again -- now, he needed it to fucking chill, his feelings for her growing every second they spent together, it was maddening...but booze and weed made it easier.

Instinctively, he raised his arm, her hand in his, when she stumbled, a quiet ‘careful’ leaving him as she continued. How she was doing this drunk, he couldn’t figure out. He couldn’t even see straight just half a metre in front of him. ---- “I don’t know,” he continued, “we’re bred at already high altitudes, so our equilibrium isn’t cut when we’re balancing that high,” just shut up, he thought. “Anyway, I’m being a nerd.” A small breath, a smile, and he jogged a bit ahead, turning to look at her. “Come on, Princess Ada,” he nodded toward her, extending an arm, “let’s see if you pass the drunk test.”

—

“and that’s why we’re ca — that’s why they call us land of tha free —” giggling to herself, stumbling twice on the way to the lock, fred finally won a five-minute long battle with the key and managed to lock up the bar — then, taking a long sip out the bottle, paused a second in pensive hesitation. “i don’t know if it’s legal… eh. whatever. i’m shaggin’ the police, so. drink up, baby boy”. the bottle practically shoved against his chest, she wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket and proceeded to stumble away, close enough to keep talking, far enough to find a new target over a stray soda can and start kicking it around the curb like a five year old.

“you’re a badass ‘cuz you’re like —” arms raised, trying to fill the lackings of her verbal language with excessive theatricality. “— kind of a good guy. a bastard! but a good guy”, and then, as if to underline the truth in her words, she reached back towards him, proceeded to tackle-hug him (as best as she could anyway, considering his height and her lack of one), then quickly stole the bottle and drank from him again. as if the bottle had some sort of magical brain juice, then, her face lit up in sudden epiphany, a child’s smile blooming over her. “hey — hey. can y’carry me piggyba — piggyback? no, wait. can i carry you piggyback? ”

--

“Yeah, I mean, I gues’so,” Ivan chuckled, watching her blankly the entirety of the five minutes it took her to lock the door, still and quiet as ever -- as if in some weird way, any movement or noise would take away from the seriousness of her current battle with the key and lock. When she finally finished, he took the bottle she shoved against him, downing a few gulps before feeling the sudden shove of her weight against him and then, like magic, the bottle was gone. 

Glancing at his hands, he looked over at Fred, “Wow, you’re fast, I di’nt even see that!” He laughed, stumbling across the edge of the sidewalk only to find his footing beside her again a minute later. “I can give you a piggyback, cause you’re way too small to carry me,” he looked over at her, “you’d collapse under me and then the night won’t be fun anymore -- hey, let’s go to the lake and swim naked!” He called suddenly, running a few paces in front of her, turning to face her, “come on! It’ll be fun and liberating and since you’re dating a cop, we won’t get arrested. C’mon, c’mon, let’s do it.”

where: somewhere on the outskirts of red ridge, around 1 am. with: @ivanringen​

the buzz was a blessing — not a need to numb herself to the reality around her (in fact she liked it, found a strange enjoyment in the oddity of the situation: the distant smell of industrial waste, the chill of the air against her skin, the way the smoke flared up her nostrils each time she took a drag). the alcoholic buzz she found herself in was a curtain allowing her some decent amount of leeway in which she could dance around facts that needed to be faced, eviscerated for the sake of clarity, and yet she still wouldn’t dare look in the eyes. it allowed her to ignore the way her eyes sometimes met ivan’s and found an unknown sense of calm inside of them — how she’d unconsciously pull closer to him each time they stopped somewhere, not meaning to steal any more room for herself and yet always finding her shoulder brushing against his. it allowed her to not think of the fact that she’d consciously turned her phone off the second she’d met him (loose plans to see a concert together turning into a whole night with one another, not anywhere near over yet) — not wanting to know that gray was looking for her. not needing to know that she belonged anywhere else but out in the wild of an unplanned time. 

the past few weeks had been… odd, at best. she’d found herself asking questions — too many questions. and the alcohol had helped: and tonight, again, when she’d found herself measuring her words a little too carefully, her composure a little too unbalanced around him, it had been a magic spell to calm her down. perhaps return a version of her that was still somewhat grounded — even though she felt like she was losing her grip, like the string of a kite slipping out of a child’s hands. but that was the point — feeling grounded wasn’t cutting it anymore. feeling anything had been reduced to a medical-induced fog she was tired of, aggressively so. as if it could help clear the fog away, without thinking, ada acted on a whim the way a child might have and took a step to the right, leapt on the half wall surrounding the colorful flowerbed of a park. “remember doing this as kids?”, she chuckled to herself, keeping herself balanced over the thin line of concrete, hair tucked behind her ears as if they could obstruct her sight, somehow throw her off balance. chuckling lightly, she took a drag off her cigarette and took the time to let the smoke fade off into the night, a sigh leaving her as it did: “it used to feel so badass ——” 

--

Ivan could still hear the music from the artists they saw that night at Violet. He had no clue there would be a live show, but was pleasantly surprised when they came on, some electro-indie pop band, the music carrying away the patrons of the lounge as they danced and sang and drank away the night -- Ivan and Ada included. He’d gotten drunk off shot after shot of something called violet lights, some purple-colored vodka based shot that hit him in such a way, it got him yelling profanities (lovingly) in Norwegian at strangers and the band. He hadn’t felt this good, this...relaxed, happy in so long and truth be told -- part of him wondered if it had anything to do with the alcohol at all, but entirely to do with her.

He was standing by a large mesquite tree, his arms folded across his chest and he wore a smile as he watched her balance along the edge of the flowerbed. Ada was so...different when she wasn’t with Gray. Any time he caught sight of them in public, whether at Steinbord, walking alongside each other in north side, coming out of a shopping center or a cafe, she just looked...dismal. Absolutely dismal. She hardly wore a smile and when Ivan would catch one, it was just forged in front of Gray. Probably to satisfy some stupid, stuffy joke. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand why she couldn’t see how unhappy she was with him -- it was so clear. And yet, Ivan couldn’t help but think that was just him hoping, wanting to be with her. At times, it was so unbearable; the tension between them as of late just...awkward -- like that moment back at Violet that night that he just couldn’t get out of his head: Ada standing by the bar, Ivan coming out of the bathroom and approaching her, about to grab his ninth or tenth shot of violet lights and he trips over someone’s iPhone, only to lean awfully close to her, hand on the edge of the bar counter to hold himself up and their faces...so near he could smell her perfume. The whole walk over to the park, he just kept thinking about it, playing the scene over in his head -- hating Grayson, cursing him for just existing. 

Ivan nodded, stepping closer to her, following her path alongside the wall. “Except we didn’t have this back home, little parks like this,” he gestured at the flower bed with his chin, “my balancing was done on boulders. Not the same, but, you know,” he shrugged, his hand instinctively finding hers, helping her make her way around. “I have this picture of myself in my apartment, I was like...ten or eleven or something,” he looked at her, “I’m literally balancing on this rock near Trolltunga, wedged between two fjords,” he paused, a smile, “you can see the fear in my eyes, literally. I’m like shaking, fucking terrified in this picture and smiling with my thumbs up at the same time, y’know, no big deal, just standing on a rock looking down at the ocean 900 metres above sea level.”

—

she was drunk, too — and thank god she’d been sleeping at her own place the past week, or else it surely wouldn’t have helped the tension back at jake’s place. in fact she wasn’t truly looking forward to spending the night alone in this state, but for the sake of ivan she’d keep walking with him down this booze-induced rabbit hole: and this journey involved some half-slurred tough love, or else he just wouldn’t see anything clearly but instead keep wallowing in this self pity that was so absurdly odd around him. with a huff, fred let go of her glass (maybe she could look just slightly sober, give herself enough authority for him to listen to her). leaning over, fred stared him right in the eyes — she needed a second to collect her thoughts, her words coming slowly but firm, despite the stumbling:

“ivan, babe? you’re being a fffucking lame ass baby righ now. first of all, you don’t have her now, so you can’t lose her. what, do you wanna stay like this forever? not knowing? being her lame ass lap dog? it’s like… you’re supposed to be the cool one. there’s already a pathetic idiot in this duo”. downing what was left in her shot glass, it was slammed back down on the table and she leaned in even closer, a half conspiratory look about her. “you’re badass. now stop whining.” a grin, and then she was up, grabbing the bottle as she did. “come on. we’re going for a walk, it smells like piss in here”.

--

“As a friend, lose her as a friend,” he intervened, watching her lean in, words leaving her that he could hardly take seriously because of her drunkenness. A small laugh, like a breath, left him. “And no, you’re right, I mean I want to know. I mean, I would fucking love to know, y’know? But I just don wanna make shit weird between us in case she doesn’t like me. That would fucking suck….so bad.” Sighing, he took another shot of bourbon, the room spinning just slightly around him -- well, not necessarily spinning but unsteady, like how someone’s parked in their car and the one next to theirs starts backing up but it feels like they’re the one moving. He wondered, then, if he should stop -- nah.

He let out another small, breathy laugh at her latter words, “you only think I’mma badass cause I’m angry all the time. But I have feelings, y’know….sometimes.” He stood then, the legs of the chair scraping along the tarnished wooden floor. “You know wass’crazy?” He called out, bumping into one of the stools by the bar as he stumbled his way out after her. “In Norway, iss actually illegal to walk the streets with a bottle of alcohol. Even if iss covered up. You get a fine and e’erything. I remember the first time I saw a bunch of drunks holding vodka bottles on the streets here -- it was pretty exciting.” Lowering his head a touch, he walked out of the bar, waiting for her to lock up. “Wait -- yer gonna share that, right?”

—

mrs. grayson. ah, she could almost hear the churchbells — ominous-sounding, like the kind she’d once heard playing in a funeral scene, in some black and white movie of an italian countryside tragedy. for a second she was almost tempted to confess her unspeakable secret to ivan: admit that, while too frightened to ever pull herself out of the equation that involved grayson cullen and his million-dollar house with a view, the idea of staying by his side for the foreseeable future led her to spend whole nights awake, and when he wasn’t around go out instead, in search of a way out, a solution she couldn’t see — on one side freedom, but from the other side’s perspective it looked like danger. by all means, ada had been finding herself at an impasse for a while now — a startled cat in the middle of the road, not knowing which side she was supposed to fall on before the car ran her over. 

but she couldn’t admit to any of this, and it felt especially wrong to confess all this to ivan, now that she’d already sequestered his day off: so the smile she offered was entirely fabricated, a mask worn for the benefit of the conversation, to not let either of their thoughts dwell too much on the gloomy note hers had taken. “sure. it’s not gonna be easy, i can tell you that”. a reserved chuckle, gaze avoiding his — ada took yet another sip, and regretted that it seemed she had to keep turning to the glass to rub the edge off her own thoughts. but the food arrived — the scent leaning into her nostrils right away, an involuntary smile curling her lips.

she’d been meaning to retrieve the trail of his words, say that no, she had no plans, and if he wanted he could come along for a walk that would no doubt end up cutting through the desert at an ungodly hours — before she could make a fool of herself, the food before her captivated her. her fork raised, she approached the carefully decorated plate with curious interest, one look at ivan as if somehow she needed directions to bring it to her mouth — but she did, and when a small piece of chicken met her tastebuds she was caught in surprise by the flavor. “oh my god”, a childish smile, quickly covered with a hand as a drop of sauce threatened to slip out her lips. “sorry”, she apologized, reaching for the napkin. “i forget how to eat like a proper lady when i get excited”.

--

Ivan couldn’t help but watch as she experienced his menu. He dug his fork into one of the raspeballer, cutting a bit of it away with a small swirl in the honey glaze -- the entire time, his eyes focused on Ada, watching as she smiled then looked at the plate in front of her, studying it, it seemed -- and he wondered what else it was she ate through-out the day. He wondered if she cooked, if she cooked a lot, what it was she cooked. He wondered if she cooked for Grayson, if he appreciated it (appreciated her) or if they were so loaded that cooking had been left to private chefs and restaurant cooks. He realized he had known her for so long (his entire life here in Red Ridge, technically) and he still knew barely anything about her -- the two of them too distracted by their lovers (then-lover in Ivan’s case), it seemed.

Taking the bite of his food when she did, he watched her scramble, raising a hand to cover her lips -- her comment catching him off guard. “Is that so?” He questioned, brow furrowed, half a smirk tugging the corner of his lips before swallowing. “And what exactly does a proper lady eat like?” He lowered his gaze, cutting off a piece of the chicken, the scent of it flowing along with the steam reaching his face as he raised the fork, his eyes following to catch sight of her again -- “I didn’t know proper ladies ate differently than other humans.”

—

“jesus. you sound like me”. how much easier it was to see just how fucked up everything was when someone else was speaking the exact same way she did. and though she was in a much better place than she’d been three years before, though she was her own person now, and not just the shadow of someone else’s penchant for chaos, she still found it hard to not speak that way — consider herself something alike a pool of mud, shallow and dirty, undesirable, filthy. but hearing ivan speak like that almost made her angry — an exhausted huff leaving her lips, freddie straightened her back, then moved closer, staring right into his eyes after gently kicking the leg of his chair.

“cut the bullshit, iv. you got a fucking documentary produced about you. shut up. what the fuck do you have to lose anyway? just try it, and it is what it is. if she’s not interested then she’s an idiot, but at least you’ll be able to move on”. downing what was left of her shot, freddie leaned back and sighed: her gaze turning soft now — call it empathy, call it a genuine need for him, at least, to be happy. one of them at least deserved it. “listen, man, i can’t tell you it’s gonna be the time of your life or whatever, just — moping around won’t help. trust me, i’ve done plenty of it. it just makes you fucking miserable. you think i would’ve gotten with jake if he hadn’t been a goddamn bullheaded moron about it? you just gotta like —” a hand raised, wanting to offer some better, practical advice — in the end, a fist closed and rested over the wood. “— push a little”.

--

“What do you mean what do I have to lose? Her, obviously,” with his brow furrowed, Ivan leaned in again and wrapped his hand around his glass, raising it to take a few gulps before continuing -- “our friendship is what I have to lose. I mean, imagine me telling her I have feelings for her, she doesn’t recip-recipri, what’s the fucking word,” and there went his English, “return the feelings or whatever, you know? She’d get weird, I’d definitely get fucking weird -- he took a shot of bourbon -- then we’ll avoid each other and it’ll be so uncomfortable that we’ll never want to see each other again. Too much to lose.”

Leaning back, Ivan swallowed, his eyes finding a small indentation in the wood of the table. He scraped at it with what little nail he had on his index, thinking about what would happen if he were to tell Ada. It was still very fresh to him, this whole situation. He didn’t even know he had feelings for her until what? A little under a month ago? A few weeks after he’d broken up with Lena? He didn’t even understand it himself. And how fucking quickly it happened was what baffled him and made him feel even more like a piece of shit -- he’d just broken up with his ex-fiance of six years and here he was falling for someone else immediately after. Unbelievable. 

“Well,” he sighed, “I’m not Jake. I mean I push and I push, I’m stubborn, you know? But just...I mean,” he leaned in again, “she’s engaged. And I’m sitting here like a jackass hoping she’ll leave him for me and what the hell do I even have to offer? I mean, I’m not saying I’m the rump of a pig -- (it sounded better in Norwegian) -- but I’m like...a good, crisp apple and he’s a ripe, juicy peach. Fucking weird analogy but you get what I mean.” He took another shot of bourbon, leaning back hard against the chair, a small laugh finding it’s way out through his slightly parted lips in a breath -- “man, I’m fuckin’ drunk. I am drunk right now.”

—

part of her (a side of her that was vivid, and yet thoroughly unaddressed: like an unwanted guest that would still make their presence known, despite how badly she wished they’d leave her alone) knew her enjoyment for his idea went far beyond the simple idea of a nice day out. it wasn’t just that. it was him, really — at the bottom of the day, ivan symbolized a world that was in stark contrast with the one she’d chosen to trap herself in the moment she’d agreed to marry grayson. a world made of steel-like coldness, controlled behaviors, shades of beige over white, anti-septic cleanliness. she saw none of that in ivan — she saw something (quite ironically) summer-like instead, colors, flavors that went beyond what he offered in his menu. that part of her knew this wasn’t just a plan for a shared afternoon — but a step further away from the resolution she’d made, to condemn herself to a life as a good girl, where good girl mostly just meant a rendition of a statue.

busy. the word inciting a childish giggle out of her, and it was cheerful, or attempted to sound so, but mostly it hid a form of despair — she could find a million ways to fill her days, all of them would remain non-consequential pastimes that grayson would only approve of as long as they kept her attention focused on him, too. he’d found ways to get her out of any activity she’d truly longed for: horse riding had been replaced by him taking her on walks through some art gallery that just bored her to death. theatre class had been sacrificed because, come on, wednesday was his only day off — why would she stay away? “i’m never busy”, ada chuckled, quickly following up with another sip of wine, avoiding his gaze, not wanting him to look too much into her — the cobwebs of a life she poorly tried to hide. “i like the sound of that”, ada’s smile widened, sincere now, not trying to hide — widening a little more just before she took another sip, and teased: “alright then. it’s a date”.

--

“Really?” Ivan smiled, a small laugh, more like a breath, escaping him as he watched her sip her wine. “I find it hard to believe you’re never busy. I mean, you’re gonna be future Mrs. Grayson soon, right?” -- the question came out almost hopeful, in need of hearing whether or not she considered herself truly his; he wondered whether or not there was a chance Ivan could somehow fit in all of this. What a horrible thought -- just drink her out of your head, he remembered -- and with that memory, he took another few sips of his wine, finishing it off with nothing left but a few lingering drops. 

It would’ve been a lie if Ivan hadn’t been thinking of all the ways her use of the word date could’ve been interpreted. She meant date, as in two friends meeting up for lunch or a drink and having a good time, definitely not date as in two people, romantically interested in one another, of course...or did she? He was so in his fucking head about all this, about her and them and what she thought of him. He needed to move. He needed to get up and walk, maybe say some excuse about leaving a roast in the oven and then once again, his stupid, fucking impulse: “What are you doing after this? Dinner, I mean? Did you wanna walk the city a bit? Grab a coffee? Maybe a dri--?” 

But before he could finish, one of his servers arrived with their meals, ‘one raspeballer med honning and two kylling i hvit saus,’ Ivan leaned back, allowing the dishes to be served (exquisite fucking work) -- “tusen takk, Clara. More wine would be good,” he smiled at his server, then spooned a raspeballe onto Ada’s then his own plate, a bit of resentment in him at Clara cutting their conversation short -- “enjoy.”

—

fred listened quietly, wanting to offer something to lighten his mood — a joke, some numb teasing perhaps. she couldn’t he looked like he was too far gone already, and suffering for it. her gaze lowered, a sudden sense of sadness coming over her: she remembered that. the struggle. the desire. the constant fight between wanting someone and denying herself to even admit that need. she remembered the tension — not meant to end in conflict, but pregnant with expectation, like water curving at the top of a glass right before it overflows. she remembered all of that — and missed it. how sour things had turned lately, how gladly she would’ve gone back to those fights instead. 

“i don’t know, ivan”, fred let out a tired sigh, leaning back, rubbing her forehead as if it could allow more clarity into her thoughts. they couldn’t, so she dodged the sadness with a laugh instead. “i mean, you make it sound like she’s a poltergeist or something. come on.” she wasn’t being any helpful, she knew this: with a huff, fred straightened her back. if she couldn’t give any solution, she might as well just have offered some insight. “alright, listen. the only thing you can do, literally the only thing you can do — is talk to her. either she’ll tell you you’re an idiot or she’ll start asking herself questions, and if she’s anything like me, well —”, with a shrug, freddie smiled. “she’ll go insane and then haunt you forever, most likely”.

--

“Talk to her? What -- tell her how I feel, you mean?” He paused, taking another shot of bourbon (how it got there, he didn’t even know at that point -- the alcohol had been taking its effect, it seemed). “No fucking way. I’d rather die.” He chased the words with a few sips of Stockholm, before standing (stumbling a bit on his way up) to make his way back to the bar tap. What he found interesting was what Fred said next; she’ll start asking herself questions. What if...in some fucked up way, Ada found herself in the same situation as he was in? Not calling off the engagement (though that could happen, considering it’s taken them years and they still weren’t married for some reason), but maybe...Ada found herself attracted to him? What if she, too, had feelings?

No, he thought, that’s fucking stupid. Sighing, he poured himself a new beer, waiting a few seconds before topping it off and heading back. “I doubt she’d ask herself questions. Highly doubt it. I mean look at me, compared to that…” asshole -- “guy she’s engaged to. Grayson Cullen, stuffy, high class, charismatic. Walks like he’s got a stick up his ass. Always smiling like a fucking moron. And then you have me,” he pointed at himself with both hands as he sat, taking a few gulps of his beer -- “I’m a fucking troll that drinks too much and has anger management issues.”

—

a spark of interest suddenly brought her back up right, chin up, gaze widening as if a lightbulb had just lit up by the side of her head. a voice, for sure, stuck to the back of her mind, whispering don’t do this — not just a betrayal to gray’s need of always having her playing the role of the doting arm candy, but something close to a child’s whim, teenage-driven, something that wasn’t supposed to interest her so. but be it as it may, the truth was unavoidable: evidence a, she genuinely enjoyed ivan’s company, far more than anyone else’s. evidence b, she’d spent the last few months trapped in a callous haze of boredom that, on a good way, led her to drinking too much, smoking too much, spending too much time awake, roaming around town. evidence c — no one was around to judge. 

glass suspended mid-air by her hand, forgetting suddenly her desire for one more drink, ada smiled. “— that’s a great idea!”. the hesitation she could spot in his words (perhaps he wasn’t much inclined to spend his days off with someone, and if she was any less focused on her overwhelming apathy she’d see that) was met with equal and opposing enthusiasm, and right as her mind began conjuring prospects of activities they could engage in, one more lightbulb lit up. wiping her lips with a napkin, she reached to the side of the table for her bag, fishing out her phone and tapping quickly. “there’s this event i’ve been wanting to check out — sort of a farmer’s festival, or something like that”, outstretching her hand she offered him her phone, the landing page of a farmer’s market carrying a load of related activities with it — lessons in organic farming, horse rides, things that would’ve inevitably gotten her dirty and made grayson scoff with superior sufficiency. “it’s a bit old fashioned i guess, the whole… country vibe of it”, ada chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she took back her phone, never letting herself loosen up too much. 

--

‘That’s a great idea!’ -- Ivan thought immediately about his night with Fred, about his confession, about the words she told him -- ‘if I were you, I’d probably just drink her out of my head’ -- and this definitely, definitely wasn’t drinking her out of his head. In one way, he regretted his stupid, fucking impulse but in another, he was grateful for it. At least, this way, he got to see her (and without Grayson around, more importantly -- he hated seeing them together. He hated covering for his bartenders and seeing them walk in, arm in arm, trying his best to ignore her gaze). Still -- it made it harder, the more time they spent together.

Seeing as she reached into her bag, he took several more gulps of wine (a little desperate, but not enough to cause attention). He watched her pull out her phone (how fucking rare, someone who doesn’t have their stupid mobile on the table beside them) and point to the event. Crossing his arms against his chest, he leaned in closer, his eyes focusing on the screen in front of him. He knew of it, of course. Taking the phone in hand, he took another sip of wine, nodding as he lowered the glass. “Yeah, this is every summer here. It’s a nice festival,” his eyes found hers for a moment, “we can go, for sure.” He handed her the phone again. “I like it a lot, reminds me of home in some ways. And they sell a lot of good produce, maybe I can make us a late lunch after? Unless you’ll be busy then or something but, it’s an idea.”

—

when it came to matters of the heart, even something as harmless as an infatuation, freddie dawson surely was the least qualified person to talk about it. love had been nothing but a shapeless form of seasickness before she’d met jake, and even that had been less like falling, more like being thrown in the hands of some sort of hurricane — yet these were the stories she’d always loved. an out of character obsession with sweet, sugary stories of happy endings that would fix anything — but it was easy when the stories involved unrealistic characters whose fates she could get attached to for the span of a book and then forget. different, surely, if it involved her best friend, perhaps the closest thing to a family she’d ever be able to consider her own — what if he got his ass handed to him, again? she was barely able to hold herself up right, these days: the thought of ivan moping around like she was, that was just far too depressing to bear.

“alright, listen. you’re a little stupid”, she explained, coyly, as she poured them both new shots and didn’t look like she was gonna stop anytime now. by now her speech was mellowing down to a soft slur, but she could still somehow focus enough to get the point across: let out a sigh and shrug. “it’s not your fault you have the big ass heart of a dumbass — not all of us can be expert heartbreakers like yours truly”, one fonzie-like thumb aimed at herself, and she downed half of her glass. she wishes she had a solution to offer him — a good friend would perhaps have an escape route prepared, ready at hand for any possibility. she didn’t. all she could offer was a shrug, a sigh, and a sincerely apologetic look. “look, man — i wish i could give you some advice, but you know i’m the last person who should be giving anyone advice right now. i just… if i were you, i’d probably just drink her out of my head, you know? that sounds messy. messy is probably the last thing you need right now”.

--

Ivan took the shot glass between his thumb and index, giving the bottom of it a slow spin against the old, tarnished wood of the table, listening to Fred as she rambled, his mind half listening, half preoccupied with the thought of Ada, balancing some place in what to do. Fred was right though -- Ivan had a habit of falling in love in general, he was always half in love with everything, in different ways, different levels. That was just who he was. So what made Ada any different? Everything -- he heard himself say -- absolutely everything. “God, I’m a fucking idiot,” he threw back the shot, his free hand gesturing for her to pour more in.

Regardless of how much Ivan agreed, he was stubborn, ridiculously fucking stubborn. He didn’t know how to let go. His determination knew no bounds and neither did his stupid sense of hope -- always hopeful, always...waiting. “How do I just...drink her out of my head?” His gaze found hers then, “I mean, we’re good friends. She’s just always gonna be there and what am I supposed to do? Ignore her? Avoid her texts and calls? I mean she’s always there.”

—

the look on her face was only vaguely puzzled. this way of his — the carefree way he had of letting his spirit out boldly, unfiltered, unbridled by assumptions and conventions — somehow mesmerized her: and yet a part of her, the one that had been taught to listen and observe rather than make a sound in her own world, wondered whether it wasn’t some sort of cover, too. like there was something else he wanted to say or let go of, and laughing about life was his way of covering the sound it made in his head. she could understand that pull: she’d hear that sound too, more often than not, shattering glass getting crumbled over and over. she’d found her ways of covering it — perhaps unconsciously, she’d made one out of her conversations with ivan, too.

concern (the quiet, unspoken kind) could still be felt, but dulled down by the sound of his laughter — ada let it subside, listened to him in appreciative interest instead, let her chuckle echo into the glass as she sipped at the wine slowly. “wow. two whole days? will you even know how to hold a pan when you’re back?” her tone lighter with her harmless teasing, ada cracked a smile and set the glass down, both arms then down on the table, as if her posture and the nature itself of their conversation required them to never put too much distance in between them — part of her mind, perhaps, approaching this shared moment as something close to a secret. as innocent as it was, gray would’ve scrunched his nose at this, for sure: and yet that was hardly a reason why she so enjoyed this — she could’ve questioned herself, perhaps, find out the exact meaning of her attachment to this place, even more to the company of its owner. perhaps: it seemed the illusion of tranquillity was much too dear to her to consider the possibility she’d been looking for something else instead. ada shook her head lightly, laughing. “that is so much free time, ivan —”, she teased again, an exaggerated ‘so’ with her gaze widened. “— how are you gonna fill it all up?”

--

“Hardly,” he laughed lightly, leaning in with forearms against the table -- finding himself in a position he wished he wasn’t in -- but it was unintentional, random, a natural reaction; the response to the pull she had on him. No matter what, he always found himself lured to her, closer than he expected (wanted in the place of expected would’ve been a lie), and then realizing it suddenly and backing away before it’d be too late, before it got too far. But he leaned in still, even if she’d been closing in too, not wanting to make her any more curious about his nervousness. 

“And I don’t know, honestly. Probably sleep,” he cracked a smile, his gaze flickering to a glimmer against his glass of wine before glancing at her again. “I mean, if I can. But uh, yeah, maybe go camp in the woods somewhere, grill some fish out in the forest, sleep under the stars, you know, the usual.” A half shrug later, he finished off his glass of wine -- glad to feel the heat of the alcohol ease him into the moment, finally. And then a thought occurred to him and he bit his lower lip, the words don’t do it, don’t fucking do it repeating themselves in his mind but it was of no use against his impulsive nature: “Maybe we should hang-out, if you’re free, of course.” -- idiot.

—

even though her shit, right now, seemed to be a lot like quicksand and drag her deeper each passing day — somehow, she dragged herself out of it. call it a childish, angry response: jay and all that crap could wait. ivan, at the moment, mattered more. in a way, she was grateful for the chance to get out of her own head: leaning over, bringing the shot glass to her lips, her eyes were warily observant in capturing each detail on his face — the furrow of his brows, the half-evading look in his eyes. yeah, it didn’t look like this was anything fun. surely would require a lot more than a few shots to hash out the combined bullshit of both their lives: smirking, fred pushed her chair closer to the table.

“i can’t believe you let me talk about all my depressing shit when you had all this hot goss to share —”, overly playful tone to make up for the weight of both their problems, fred reached over to pour herself another shot and was careful not to let her gaze be too openly concerned, too blatantly focused over him. downing half of it, she turned her chair just enough that she could lay her legs on the one right next to it, elbow against the table, then perking an eyebrow at him. “alright, that first part i knew of — that second one sounds like a whole new load of crap”. head tilted, a mock compassionate look coming over her face: “oh, ivan — when are you gonna learn to keep it in your pants?”

--

What the hell did that even mean? Hot goss? “Americans have weird phrases,” he toyed with the rim of the shot glass, his thumb running along the glass edge, eyes set along the few drops of bourbon left. Throwing her a look, he smirked, sighed then leaned back, taking his glass of beer with him.

“It’s not so much about keeping it in my pants,” he peered at her, his tone suddenly a lot somber, his mood a lot less lively. God, was he tired of this shit -- feeling. Fuck feeling. Feeling fucking sucked. “It’s...different. I don’t know. I didn’t mean for it to happen, I mean we were all friends -- her, her fiance, me and Lena,” her name was still bitter on his tongue -- rotting lemon; “we just suddenly hung out one day and that’s when I realized it. It’s fucking stupid. I’m fucking stupid. Typical me, wanting something I can’t have,” he poured himself another shot and threw it back, offering her a lazy, false smile. 

—

her eyes followed him silently as he moved around his restaurant, walking his territory and yet somehow looking just a tad out of tune with the image she had of him. someone fierce whose passion prompted his movements, someone vibrant — it looked like the colors were just mixing a little too erratically today. not that it was a bad look — there was something about him she found absurdly intriguing, the way a book might have been, urging her to read on and on and yet never truly knowing why. as he headed to the kitchen, ada leaned back in her chair and sipped at the wine, savoring the vague note of fruit lingering over her tongue. lingering, always — everything around her, always lingering, never truly staying. the old, familiar sadness lingered still: the empty plate made her sad. soon enough her lunch would be over, she’d have to find an excuse to drag herself home, face the emptiness of her halls and ask herself if she was okay with that. with all her life had come to. her smiles fading, gaze heavy with thoughts that pulled her down — scratching the corner of her thumb, she hooked her fingers to a hangnail and ripped it off.

the sting making her flinch, instinctively bringing her thumb to her lips — and then, as ivan returned, her hand quickly disappearing beneath the table: a thirty-three year old woman who’d still feel red-handed, imagining her mother and the cutting glances she’d offer. “sorry”, a nervous chuckle. “bad habit”. the smile lost none of its nervousness, upon hearing his question. if anything, it turned duller instead: a shade of (would you look at that) gray tinting her gaze, a smirk offered to disguise it. “ah, same old. he’s been working a lot. i’ve just —” been doing absolutely nothing, except for spending most of her days in a movie theatre, letting them pour her full of stories much more intriguing than her own life. ada shrugged, a vague motion of her hand meaning to wave those thoughts away. “— been keeping myself busy”.

her gaze, the usual brightness dimmed by thoughts that were plain boring at best, returned to ivan with added curiosity. as if she’d paid her due by offering facts, harmless small talk about herself, she was much more interested in what he had to offer instead: a curious look, chin resting over her hand. “how’ve you been?” though it came with a smile, she soon lowered her voice, a more serious look in her eyes (yet somewhat playful — conspiratory, maybe, in the sense that it was something a regular customer wouldn’t want to ask, though she’d like to believe their dynamic was one of genuine friendship by now, disrupting the borders of a simple business relationship). “ivan, can i ask you something?” leaning over just slightly, ada made up for the serious tone with a smile. “you seem a bit nervous today. is everything okay?”

--

What he noticed the most over the past, not even months but years, was that more and more, Ada wanted to steer away from conversation about Gray -- maybe it was that she spent so much time with him (or did she? He saw them often, shopping together, eating together -- here, drinking at Violet, but there were days where he often saw her alone and he wondered then what Gray had been up to...business, maybe) and she wanted a change, wanted to know what else the world had going for it, outside of her life with him. But there something in Ivan that hoped...hoped that maybe it was that picture perfect Ada and Gray weren’t so picture perfect anymore -- maybe the glass that framed them had been cracking.

But then she hit him with a question he wasn’t expecting. Shit, was she good. “Me?” He swallowed, taking a sip of his wine, several sips. “I’m great, yeah, good,” the words came out rushed, fuck. “I’m just, tired, you know? I haven’t been sleeping well the past few days so, I’m high on caffeine all the time. That and weed, obviously. You need balance, you know.” He cleared his throat again -- a really shit, nervous habit -- and he took another sip of wine. “Anyway,” he sighed, “I’ve been good. I mean, I’ve been okay,” -- as okay as one could be after a break-up; a break-up Ada knew about, a break-up Ivan felt weird thinking about in front of her -- “just a lot of work, you know, the usual. But I’ve got a few days off now -- two whole days ---- pretty wild.”

—

conversation came easy — uncharacteristically effortless, as if a weight was suddenly lifted from her: not needing to filter each word leaving her lips, not required to weave each sentence in order to craft the perfect persona to project, the one that wouldn’t turn people’s looks into a tight scowl of disappointment. she enjoyed her conversation with ivan — far more than she’d be able to see for herself. sure it had added to the charm of his place, why she’d inevitably gravitate towards his restaurant even when purposefully trying to choose different venues for her lunches. and it added to her enjoyment, too: her smile reaching a new degree of dim, yet genuine brightness, as he gave in and took his place across from her.

while a hearty laugh echoed out of her lips, it was soon replaced by a fake, playful expression of puzzled disappointment. “aw, shoot —” a cartoonish fist pressed against the edge of the table: “here i was, just in the mood for mayhem and destruction”. she had no brakes holding back her blatant appreciation for his company, although — what was that, the way he cleared his throat? something seemed just slightly off: like perhaps asking him to join her had forced him to step a little too far out of his comfort zone. ada could feel the sudden touch of doubt, a hint of regret: growing quieter for a second, eyes observing him with curious wariness. perhaps she’d have to apologize — two hesitant fingers tapped against the edge of the table, gaze drifting away from him for a second.

and rising back again as he spoke: she could see a burning passion in the way he spoke, warmth pouring over the way he talked about food — like a lover, like something as close to the essence of life as she’d ever seen. unconsciously, she leaned closer: chin against her hand, attentive, eagerly listening to each word he poured onto them. laughter then, following his last hiccup — ada pulled back, a hand raised. “sure hope they don’t taste like grandma”, and then, right away: flushing, embarrassment flooding her as the consequences of an unfiltered self made themselves know. nervous, she avoided his gaze for a second — then cracked a smile. “alright, that was a bad one, sorry”. chuckling again, her elbow returning to the table, leaning close: like the pleasure of his company had to be appreciated from a short distance. “alright, i’m in — but you’re gonna have to order, ‘cause i don’t know how to pronounce the half of that”.

--

He noticed it immediately, the way she leaned in, listened, and nerves getting the better of him (as they’d been doing lately any time she was around), he parted his lips, let out a soft, silent breath before inhaling, in hopes that the simple act of breathing would ease him into the moment. He gulped when her eyes landed against his, inwardly cursing at himself for acting like such an idiot. What was this? Fucking high school all over again? She’s a grown woman, he’s a grown man and she was engaged -- let this go, he thought, let her go.

He could see the blush in her cheeks after the comment made about his grandmother. Beautiful. He laughed -- humor, a distraction, thank god. “Yeah, no problem, let me go and place that and I’ll be right back.” Standing, he fled to the kitchen, walking smoothly through the crowds and tables, evident experience in cleaning up the place after every shift. Sometimes he didn’t get home until after one, only to arrive to his apartment with too much energy to sleep where he’d then escape, off to the lake; the only lake in Red Ridge that most summers was dried out -- not this summer though, luckily. Ivan missed water -- missed the sea and canoeing along ocean rivers between giant faces of mountains, fjord walls on either side. 

When he returned after placing the orders (“make sure these dishes are your best, I’m eating them, so don’t fuck them up”), he sat and picked up his glass of wine, took a few sips, then he rubbed the palm of his hands along his thighs and spoke: “So, uh, yeah,” -- a smile -- “how’ve you been? How’s Gray and everything else?”

—

     “alright, listen — the last thing i need right now is to picture jay at some party snorting coke off a stripper’s tits, so like — shut it”. fingers bridging to meet her thumb in a mock bird’s beak, one single glare thrown his way, and the exaggerated outrage to mask the fact that a part of her would latch onto any seed of doubt to question the shadows she’d began spotting in their relationship. and if it had been a shelter, if it had been the epitome of peace from the beginning: now it felt like the ground beneath her feet was shifting, and as devotedly as she still adored him, sometimes he just looked like a ghost to her.

     perhaps she should’ve been concerned by his last statement — she wasn’t oblivious to the fact that ivan had a lot going on, that there were hauntings going on in his mind, too. she wanted to ask more, let him get all of it out: but knew that she was in much the same situation, and what she wanted to do was, rather, get something else in. alcohol poisoning, most likely. 

     “alright, man”. with a tired huff, fred took her place on her chair again, raising the glass he’d offered. right before she brought it to her lips, fred leaned over, eyes sternly into his: “i know you got shit going on. if you wanna talk about it, i’ll listen. but if you’d rather just drink yourself stupid with me —”, a shrug, then freddie downed her shot in one go and slammed the glass back down on the table. “— then pour another”.

--

Sure, yeah, he had shit going on, maybe he wanted to talk about it. The thing with Ivan was that he always wanted to talk about it -- but he always felt that people either just didn’t give a shit enough or deep, deep down...some place he couldn’t even see himself -- he’d be judged or mocked, ridiculed for allowing himself the freedom of feeling. Ivan’s eyes flickered across the surface of the table when she leaned in, her eyes boring into him. Then he poured them both another shot, before leaning back and throwing her a shrug.

“Not a lot going on, to be honest,” -- liar. He sighed, shooting the bourbon back before chasing it with a few gulps of Stockholm. “I don’t know, I mean, not the kinda shit you’re going through, at least. Mine is more, you know -- breaking up with your fiance only to fall for someone else’s.” Then a quick, breathy laugh later and he poured and threw back yet another shot.

—

     odd, how over time this place had started feeling more like home than her house ever could. it wasn’t just the warmth — the rich texture of something with a history, that could maintain an identity even when surrounded by steel, glass, looks of pristine modernity. she came here, in a way, because it felt like existing: like the way her senses could adapt themselves to the scents and tastes of steinbord was proof that she was real, she existed, that she wasn’t just a half faded hallucination out of the mind of someone with a poor imagination. she remembered gray, the first time they’d eaten at ivan’s restaurant, complaining that it wasn’t his style — too many flavors, too far out of his strictly new york-based palate. maybe that had played into her affection for the place. maybe it was just how easy it was to consider it her place.

       she’d picked her favorite table by her third lunch at steinbord. to the side, a little further from the others — where she could see the other customers, the kitchen, observe the tides of people coming and going and finding some strange enjoyment in spying on their lives. she’d come to anticipate grayson’s trips out of red ridge, or the days where work would request his constant presence, so that she could enjoy herself at steinbord, instead — a luxurious whim at first, and it had quickly turned to a private ritual.

       spotting ivan across the hall, she’d greeted him enthusiastically — that was part of the ritual too. she’d come to enjoy his company far more than anyone else’s (far more than gray would care about, too: he’d commented, back when he’d tried steinbord the first time, about how unprofessional that chef had looked. she’d laughed to herself, on the way home; she’d thought his character vibrant, instead — a stark contrast agains gray). setting the menu down, her back straightening ever slightly to meet his gaze: as if a certain form of  preparation was required from her, upon meeting him.

     “i could never”, ada mused, quick glance going back to the menu, back again to ivan: she did notice the slight uneasiness about him, a vague hue of discomfort — her gaze turned curious then, wanting to ask what that came from, holding herself just right before voicing her question. lips tight in a smile, she let her right cheek rest against her chin, head tilting, looking up at him in some gentle, friendly plea. “will you hate me if i ask your help on your day off? i’m having trouble deciding what i want to eat —”. a glance at the chair right before her: empty. her smile returned, brighter: “you could join me, you know. i’d pay. you could chalk it up to quality control —”

--

Ivan could hardly bear it, her eyes gazing at him with a curiosity that always seemed to be present, curious about his work, his life -- when they spoke, she was always there, never on her phone, never worlds away. His life was always met with shallow celebrities hiring him in for events, birthday bashes, galas for the opulent, dinner parties -- all of them asking him stupid, shallow shit like ‘why’s it called a tarte tartin?’ with a giggle at the end, in which he’d always reply that he didn’t know -- he didn’t even make tarte tartins at his restaurant, hadn’t made one since he lived in Oslo. What a general, boring question. But Ada -- Ada saw him, she listened, understood him, and the way she gazed at him said it all. And it stirred him in ways he wished it didn’t.

Shit. Well, there went his plan to avoid her at all costs. “Oh,” he smiled, lowering himself against the teal-colored seat of his restaurant -- weird, being on this end. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I had planned on causing mass mayhem and destruction, but this works.” Don’t be a fucking idiot, play it cool. Clearing his throat slightly, he tapped the forearm of one of his servers who made their way past and asked them for two glasses of ‘the cheverny’ before turning back to her. 

“I mean if I’m here eating with you, I won’t be charged anyway so don’t worry about that,” a smile in her direction, he paused before taking a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “So it’s seasonal right now, we’ll actually be switching it up next week but my favorite is the kylling i hvit saus and the raspeballer med honning. The chicken is stuffed and seared with a sage and butter white sauce and the raspeballer,” he paused, “I don’t know what they would be in English, actually. Maybe dumplings? They’re round potato dumplings with a honey and juniper berry glaze. It reminds me of grandmother. ---- The dish, I mean,” a breathless laugh, “not the potato dumplings.”

—

her gaze was perhaps a little more scolding than intended, but truth was, freddie was grateful for this. to be able to laugh about it, even if the anxiety would return the second she’d stepped out of the bar, back on the way home. still, for as long as this lasted, she was grateful for the chance to fuck around. that she could at least talk about it with a good friend, and not feel like she was crazy. but his words did draw a more than unamused look from her, an eyebrow raised, a doubtful: “you do know he’s a cop, right?”.

but the talk (a monstrous entity she had to face whenever there were deep things that needed to be addressed) would never fail to make her uneasy, and so, with the excuse of her refilling her glass, freddie got up and shrugged, heading back towards the bar. “listen, it’s just — it’s a shitty situation. it’s gonna be shitty for a while longer. and it’s nobody’s fault, so nobody can do shit about it, it’s just —”, as she poured herself a beer, freddie shrugged one arm raised in a surrendering fashion. “it’s just the way it is and it’s gonna be. so whatever, let’s just fucking drink about it. i mean —”.  conversation shifting again to an easier ground to handle, as she made her way back to the table she pointed one finger at him in a vaguely accusatory way. “it’s your job as my best friend or whatever to get me absolutely wasted tonight. got it?”

--

“Please,” Ivan huffed, taking another swig, placing the glass down against the pre-marked rim of condensation against the old wood of the table, “you really think cops don’t do illegal shit? Cops fuckin’ smoke and snort coke just like the rest of us.” He paused, a smirk tugging the corner of his lips, the buzz coming over him then -- finally. Maybe it’d make him forget -- forget about Lena, about Ada; it could carry him all the way until the next morning and maybe, maybe he’d finally get some fucking sleep.

Ivan leaned back in his chair, watching as Fred rounded the bar and poured herself another beer. In a way, they were similar -- in this way, anyway: talking about uncomfortable truths was no fun so booze and weed it was, but when it came to the people they cared for and their troubles, it was all ears -- hypocrites, the two of them. 

“Sounds like a plan, Fredericke,” he hit the edge of the table with the palm of his hands before pouring them a shot of bourbon each. He lifted his own glass to her -- “skål,” -- took the shot and then poured himself another. “You know I’m always down to get wasted,” -- more than usual, sure, but he hoped she hadn’t noticed...maybe too busy with her own bullshit -- “don’t have to ask me twice.”