Page 182 of Top Shelf

I can’t be seen as your wife before I’m allowed to be seen as myself.

“She built it,” I say. “If you want to know about the studio, ask her.”

Then I keep walking. Maren catches me around the corner, with a spring in her step.

“We’ve had four requests today wanting a follow-up angle,” she says. “We could probably turn this into something useful if—”

“No.” She frowns, and I continue. “No studio questions through me, no quotes about Return To Play. No features about Heidi through Storm PR.”

“Viktor—”

“Send everything to Heidi and Zoe or whoever Heidi tells you handles media.” I adjust the strap of my bag. “Do not use my name to promote it.”

Maren studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay.”

I leave before she can say anything else. That evening, an email from my lawyer waits at the top of my inbox.

Subject: September 30 — Agreement and Housing

I stare at it before opening. The message is short, stating what I already know about the contractual term ending on September thirtieth. The temporary lease follows shortly afterward. He needs instructions regarding whether we intend to amend, extend or allow the agreement to conclude. The three words sit on the screen, taunting me.

Amend. Extend. Conclude.

Heidi told me she is not leaving me. I believe her. But loving me and choosing to remain married to me when there is no contract requiring it are not necessarily the same thing. The apartment is temporary, and the inheritance condition is satisfied. Her studio is opening. Everything that created the reason for us to marry is disappearing at once.

For the first time, I let myself look at the life on the other side if Heidi decides she does not want this anymore.

I could let her go. There is a version of my life where that is easier. Heidi opens her studio and I play hockey. Maybe I get traded, maybe I don’t. We keep moving forward on separate tracks until enough distance collects that we’d permanently fork away, and this would start to feel like it happened to other people.

Over time, I could think about her without reaching for my phone. I would learn to sleep in the middle of the bed again and this might start to hurt less. I would survive it, and that is the fucking problem. Because it is the saddest version of our story I have ever let myself imagine.

And there’s no forgetting Heidi Grant. There is only getting used to missing her.

My phone starts ringing, and for a second I think it might be Heidi. It is Ebba.

“Hej, mormor.”

“You sound terrible,” she replies in Swedish.

I rub a hand over my face. “Hello to you too.”

“I am old. I do not have time for polite lies.”

I lean back against the couch, letting myself be absorbed into the sound and comfort of my grandmother’s voice. She asks about the weather. I answer. She asks about training. I answer.

She asks about Heidi, and I am quiet too long.

“Ah,” Ebba says.

“She has asked for some space.”

“And you are giving it?”

“Yes. But my lawyer wants to know what we are doing with the contract.” This time, Ebba is quiet. “And I do not know what Heidi wants.”

There is a pause. “Have you asked her?”

“She is busy opening the studio.”