Maybe Tomorrow Read online

  Maybe Tomorrow

  a Maybe… novel

  Kim Golden

  Echo Books - Stockholm

  Contents

  Also by Kim Golden

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part 2

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Six Months Later…

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Also by Kim Golden

  Maybe Baby

  Maybe Tonight

  Maybe Forever

  Maybe Baby: Special Edition

  Snowbound

  Choose Me: a novella

  Linger: a short story

  To my noisy muse, you know who you are.

  It’s always you. It’s only you.

  Love is a drug.

  Part I

  Stockholm & Copenhagen

  1

  Eddy: The End

  It ended just as quickly as it began.

  He came home and said he didn’t love me anymore, didn’t think we had any future, not together. And as the words rushed out of his mouth, I stood very still, my arms folded across my chest and waited for the truth to finally come.

  I knew my lips had pulled into a thin, grim line. I was biting in the words I wanted to spit out at him. “Who have you fucked this time?” or “Can’t you keep your cock in your pants?” but I held back and focused on the splotch of red wine on his shirt and told myself this was okay. I didn’t need him to feel complete. I don’t think I’d ever felt complete with him. He was just a boy pretending to be a man. A beautiful boy, but a boy all the same.

  “Say something, Eddy.” Andreas was nervous. He kept standing, pacing, and then throwing himself back into the same armchair. Under the tan, his cheeks and neck burned red.

  “What exactly do you want me to say?”

  “You must have something you want to say. I just told you I don’t love you anymore.”

  “Fine. I think we should sell the apartment.”

  “What?”

  “Actually, it was mostly my money that went into this apartment,” I surmised. “My down payment of…half a million kronor, was it? I was the one who sold her apartment so we could move in together.”

  “You want to talk money?”

  “Well, we’re splitting up, aren’t we?” I sank into the armchair opposite his and crossed my legs. I kept my voice even and light. “Since you don’t love me, and we have no future, why should we still share this apartment?”

  “We bought it together—”

  “How much money did you bring to the table?”

  Andreas licked his lips and shrugged. He mumbled an “I don’t know” but wouldn’t make eye contact with me. We both knew the truth.

  “I hope your new girlfriend has a place you can move into.”

  “What makes you think there is someone else?”

  “With you, there’s always someone else. I recognize the pattern, sweetie.”

  It never changed with him. We’d had a good run these last few months, but I’d sensed he would get restless again. And this time, I wasn’t ready to forgive and forget.

  “Eddy, we can’t just…”

  “Yes, actually, we can. You remember the last time you cheated on me? You said you would move out if it happened again.”

  “But, Eddy, be realistic.”

  “I am being realistic. And that’s exactly what I want you to do. Move. And we’ll sell this place. You put thirty percent into it, and that’s exactly what you’ll get.”

  He shook his head and then launched out of the chair and stormed out of the room.

  The knot in my stomach unraveled slowly. But the bitter taste of another failed relationship…that took even longer to disappear.

  When he left, the apartment seemed to breathe out a long sigh of relief, as if it had been waiting patiently for this very moment. In a few days, it would be Midsummer and the evening sky was still full of light.

  I wandered through every room, making sure he’d taken everything that was his. I didn’t want to wake to another day of being reminded that Andreas and I had shared this apartment.

  I kept telling myself I was okay with this, and I was. I didn’t want to have to grin and bear it again. But there was that nagging little voice that I could just barely hear over the super positive “I am a strong, independent woman” mantra on repeat in my mind—that naggy, snarky little bitch who revelled in reminding me, “This is the third time you’re the one left alone.”

  “Shut up, bitch…” I muttered.

  “Sorry?”

  I’d forgotten about Petra, the real estate agent, who was also going from room to room, casting an eye on all the renovations we’d done as she calculated the apartment’s market value. She flashed a tight little smile at me. It was almost as tight as the skirt and blouse she wore.

  “I’m just talking to myself,” I assured her and then reached for my vibrating iPhone. "I do that sometimes."

  Another call from Andreas. I pressed reject and set my phone back on the windowsill.

  “Well, your apartment will definitely be a hot commodity,” she said. “An apartment this size and in this neighborhood…it’ll fetch a pretty penny.”

  I nodded. I already knew this. It was one of the reasons I’d convinced Andreas that we should move to this part of Kungsholmen. From the living room and dining room, there was a perfect view of Norr Mälarstrand and the glittering waters of Lake Mälaren. We had a balcony that stretched the entire length of the apartment and with all of the plants and flowers in bloom, it would look inviting enough that even the most jaded Stockholmer would want to live here.

  “How much do you think it’s worth?”

  “We’re looking at…ten million kronor at least, and that’s before the bidding would start.”

  “So, we should start with an asking price of ten million?”

  “At least.” Her blond head bobbed up and down excitedly. “Five rooms…a king’s balcony, two walking closets…”

  “Walk-in closets,” I corrected.

  “Sorry?”

  “They’re not called walking closets. The closets don’t have legs. They can’t go anywhere.”

  She clutched her iPad and barked out a nervous laugh. “Of course! Ha-ha! Whoever heard of a closet with feet?”

  I put her out of her misery. “When can we say it’s on the market?”

  “We can list it starting on Monday. Is that too soon?”

  “Couldn’t we make it sooner?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s as soon as we can do it.”

  “Fine,” I conceded. “Monday it is. And…if we get a good enough bid so that I can avoid any open house, that’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I want to sell this as quickly as possible.”

  “What will you do then?”

  Behind her was a framed vintage print of the Empire State Building. Andreas had hated it, but it was the one image in the apartment that reminded me of home. And right now, I wished I was in the gritty, mug
gy, crowded embrace of home.

  I smiled at Petra, the perky real estate agent. “I’m moving back to New York.”

  I signed the paperwork and Petra congratulated me on making the right choice of her real estate agency before she finally left.

  I walked out onto the balcony and breathed in the lavender-scented air before any of the exhaust of passing cars drifted up to me. It was one of the perks of living on the top floor of the building. I would miss this view. I would miss this apartment, but I couldn’t stay here. It was too big for one person and, even if I met someone else, I didn’t want them to walk into a place that had been the scene of so many arguments, of so much disappointment. It would surely taint any attempts I might make at starting over.

  But New York. I could move back. There was nothing holding me in Stockholm anymore. Andreas and I had dissolved our business partnership as swiftly as we’d ended our relationship. I shivered and pulled my sweater closer around me. If Laney were still here, I would have considered staying. But she was in Copenhagen now, and she was so blissfully happy, it was enough to make your teeth ring. I would have been super jealous if I didn’t love her so much.

  For now, though, I needed to focus on my life. I couldn’t begrudge my cousin for her happiness. And maybe, if I were lucky, I’d find my own Happily Ever After, even if I didn’t believe in that bullshit.

  2

  Henrik: Midsummer

  “Are you still at work, Henrik?”

  I frowned at the speakerphone. I should have ignored my ex-fiancée’s personal ringtone. “I’ve got to finish going through a contract. It’s what I’m paid to do, Iben.”

  “Sure you are, but tomorrow’s Sankt Hans aften.” She was laughing at me, teasing me in that way that had always irked me when we were still together. It still annoyed me. I leaned back in my chair. The office was silent, empty. The only other person around was the cleaning woman, and even she looked as though she would soon be ready to leave. “I can’t believe you are still sitting there at your desk like a dutiful little boy when the rest of Denmark is getting ready for summer.”

  “Iben, I’m really busy...” I rubbed my forehead and closed my eyes. My scalp felt tight and hot, tense enough for a headache to erupt if I didn’t get something to eat or drink soon.

  “You’re always busy, Henrik. And you never answer your phone.”

  “Apparently, I do. We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

  “You know what I mean! You never answer your office phone when I call. It’s why I called you on your personal phone.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and massaged away the tension building there. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Can’t I call simply to see how you’re doing?”

  “No, you usually call me because you need my help with something.”

  “Now you make me sound like a user, Henrik.” Iben let out a little huff. I could imagine her sitting in her apartment, pouting and then gesturing at her new fiancé. “We may not be engaged any longer, but I do still care about you. I always have.”

  Chastened, I mumbled an apology, but I knew she was waiting to ask me a favor. Her random phone calls always involved favors.

  “But...I was wondering...”

  “Yes?”

  “The beach house we used to rent—are you going to rent it again this summer?”

  “I already have.” I flicked my iPad screen. A picture of the house appeared. Set amongst the sand dunes with a perfect view of the beach and Nivå Bay, the petrol gray clapboard cottage with white trim and shutters was perfect for me. It had been built in the 1920s and retained a simple elegance that spoke to me. Though the previous owners had fitted it with all the usual modern comforts, they left the old fireplace and whitewashed oak floors intact. It was hard to believe that in a few weeks, it would be mine. No more renting it. By the end of the summer, I would own the house.

  “A-ha! Jonas and I were hoping we could rent it this year.”

  “Sorry, I’ve already signed the contract.”

  “Couldn’t you let us have it for a few weeks?”

  “A few weeks...?”

  “Well, the whole month of July, we were thinking.”

  “I’m on vacation then, and that’s when I am planning to be there.”

  “But—”

  “Iben, there are other houses for rent, and this country has roughly 1700 kilometers of coast you can choose from.”

  “Yes, but that area is special to us.”

  “It is to me as well,” I quipped. I didn’t want to be reminded of why it was special to her. It was still a sore spot.

  “But Jonas and I fell in love there.”

  “Sorry, Iben, but the answer is no.”

  She huffed again. I could hear Jonas questioning her. They both probably assumed I’d be accommodating. ‘Henrik is always so reasonable, so rational and easy-going’. No, this time I wasn’t going to be the one who agreed to keep things calm, easy.

  “Could we at least have a week?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’ve got plans for the entire month.” I didn’t, but I refused to have Iben and Jonas sully the house for me the way they’d ruined Sankt Hans aften. The last thing I wanted was for the two of them to christen in every room of the house--which I was pretty certain they’d do if I said yes.

  Not when I was trying to get on with my life without her.

  This is what happens every year on Saint Hans Eve.

  We light bonfires on the beach, we drink too much. Someone fucks someone they shouldn’t have fucked. Someone cries, someone pretends they’ve done nothing wrong. Someone leaves someone.

  Last year, I was the one who left someone. I didn’t have to pretend I’d done nothing wrong. My girlfriend kissed the wrong man. She fucked the wrong man and then told me it was my fault. The logic was flawed, but at least the result was that we were no longer planning our future together. She’d found her future on that beach, even through her drunken fog, she’d realized I was not the man for her and took a chance on someone new.

  I’ll tell you this straight off the bat: I don’t believe in love. Not anymore. Maybe I never did. All I know is I spent four years with Iben, thinking I’d know love when I felt it, but it never happened. I guess it was good that she “fell” on the wrong guy.

  The sky was still not really dark despite the late hour. Summer had arrived in Denmark and with it, the white nights Scandinavia was so famous for. I was too tired to walk, so I headed for the subway and rode it without making eye contact with anyone. My stomach grumbled, reminding me I had yet to give it the food it so desperately desired. By the time I opened the door to my apartment, I was ravenous, but it was too late to make anything complicated. I tossed my keys on the console in the hall and shrugged out of my leather jacket.

  “I’m home,” I said to no one in particular. I didn’t even have a pet to welcome me. Maybe I needed a cat...

  Coming home to an empty apartment still jarred me. When Iben and I lived together, there was always noise in the background. She hated silence. She’d set up wireless speakers in every room of our old apartment so she could stream her favorite music—a bizarre hodgepodge of Bob Dylan and electronica—that eventually became the nerve-wracking soundtrack of the rise and fall of our relationship. When there was no music, she hummed as she knitted or watched the news. Her body was always in motion, feet tapping on the side of our coffee table, fingers drumming on the arms of chairs, her lithe limbs, stretching and flexing. The more she moved, the more noise she made, the quieter I became. Now, the silence I’d always loved disarmed me.

  I ended up making a spinach and mushroom omelet and washing it down with a beer. I was nearly done eating when my phone sounded, this time with the hammer ringtone I’d programmed for my cousin Mads.

  He greeted me with the usual “hej” and then asked me what I was up to. From the whirring and hammering I heard in the background, he was probably still at his workshop.

  “Finishing my dinner,” I
told him and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “I had to work late so...”

  “You and me both,” he said and grunted. “I’ve got a commission to finish, and I kind of fell behind schedule.”

  “Too many distractions?” I teased, knowing he’d only laugh and respond with a vague but very satisfied-sounding “yeah.”

  I didn’t blame him for not really caring about falling behind. Mads had survived a turbulent year. First, Laney went into labor nearly four months too early, and their daughter was born premature. Then little Liv had to remain hospitalized for close to three months. Now that he and Laney had Liv at home with them, they prioritized their family time. When you came so close to losing someone, you wanted to hold on even tighter. I never felt that way with Iben.

  “Listen, Laney invited her cousin Eddy to come down for Sankt Hans aften.”

  “Eddy? The one who was here for Christmas?”

  “Yeah, you met her, right?”

  “I did,” I said and smiled at the memory of her in her sleek running tights and top, pulling her hair into a loose ponytail as she swept her eyes past me. She’d flirted a little with me until my phone rang—Iben calling with one of her “Just calling to see how you are and remind you my life is so much more fulfilled than yours” monologues. “She lives in Stockholm if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s the one. Is it okay if she stays with us at the house? She and Laney haven’t seen each other in a while.”

  “Of course! You guys could take the house, and I could sleep at Farmor’s. Anton and Ingrid could stay with you too–”

  “No way. We’re not going to put you out of your own house,” Mads countered. “There is plenty of space for all of us, isn’t there?”

  “Well, yeah...I just thought you might want to have the place to yourselves.”