Page 151 of Top Shelf

Mamma places our joined hands together, palm to palm, and winds the ribbon once around our wrists. Heidi watches, and her fingers tighten.

My stomach twists, because I do not want to imagine a ribbon like this around papers on a desk. I only want this memory of ribbon exactly as it is, warming against our skin. I turn my wrist enough to brush my thumb over her pulse, and her eyes lift to mine.

My mother says the blessing in Swedish first, then in English.

“May this bond be chosen freely,” she says in her warm voice. “May it be tended with patience and laughter, honesty and courage. May you stand together when the weather is kind and when it is cruel. And may you remember that love is not a rope to bind with fear, but a ribbon held in trust.”

Heidi’s breath stumbles, and I swallow hard. My mother looks at us as if she knows exactly what she has done. And maybe she does. Next, Pappa steps forward and asks if we have words.

I knew this was coming. My mother told me, and Freja reminded me. Ebba raised her eyebrow at breakfast until I said yes, I had prepared something. I have faced cameras after losses, reporters after injuries, men twice my weight coming at me full speed across the ice. None of that helps.

Heidi looks up at me, and everything quiets around us.

“I was not a good child at sharing,” I say.

My mother makes a soft noise, and Freja mutters, “Still true.”

I ignore them. “I did not like to share this place, even when I was away. I thought of Solvik as something I had to protect.” I look toward the house, then the meadow, then back to Heidi. “But you arrived and saw what I see even before I knew how to explain. You saw the memory in it and why losing any piece of it would hurt.”

Her eyes shine, but I keep going.

“You do this, Heidi,” I say. “You look at things other people pass over, and you find where they still hurt and where they still hope. You make people feel seen without making them feel small.”

Her mouth trembles, and all the words I prepared disappear. Maybe this is better.

“I have always looked at Solvik and remember things that already happened. To keep them close and not share them with many.” My thumb moves against hers beneath the ribbon. “But since you, I keep imagining things that have not happened yet—and you are in every one.”

A watery laugh escapes her, and I look at my wife, with my grandmother’s ring on her hand and our wrists bound together by the type of ribbon she once joked would decorate our ending.

“Jag väljer dig, min älskling.”

I choose you, my love.

The Swedish comes out before I decide to translate it, and I feel the moment the words land around us. Mamma’s hand flies to her mouth, and Pappa looks down. Ebba closes her eyes with a soft smile. And Heidi stares at me.

She has heard min fru so many times that I think she has stopped reacting to it at all. My wife. It is a fact and a tease—part of our contract sharpened into endearment. But this is different, and she knows it is.

Her lips part, and I think she might ask me. I think I might answer. Instead, she looks down at the ribbon around our hands and lets out a shaky breath.

“Well, fuck, Karlsson.”

Freja laughs through what suspiciously sounds like a sniffle, and Heidi wipes quickly beneath her eye with her free hand. “I had some words prepared, but it was much less emotional than that.”

My lips twitch. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” She looks at me again, clearing her throat. “You taught me how to take a shot a few weeks ago. You told me to stop looking at my feet and to look where I wanted to go—which was extremely annoying advice at the time.”

“I was teaching you hockey.”

“Please don’t interrupt my beautiful vows.”

Someone laughs behind us, but Heidi’s eyes never leave mine.

“I think I understand you better now I’ve been here. You notice all the little things that make this place what it is, and you love every one of them because they belong to it.”

My throat tightens as she continues in a soft voice.

“And you do that with people, too. You remember the things they forget they told you, and what makes them quiet, or makes them laugh, and what they need before they ask for it. You see people exactly as they are, Viktor, and somehow you make all those little pieces feel worth knowing.” She glances toward my family, her eyes shining. “And I can see where you learned it. There’s so much love in this place—and you carry all of it with you.”