Ever After Always (Bergman Brothers Book 3)

by Chloe Liese

  “I feel so loose,” Ziggy says, waving her limbs like Gumby as we walk up to the restaurant.

  Willa laughs.

  “I’m starving,” Frankie says. “I need a burger in me, then bed. I know I got a nap, but kayaking took it out of me.”

  “The sun took it out of me,” I tell them. “I feel radioactive.”

  Ziggy tests her nose. “Yeah. I got sunburned.”

  We went for a kayak and snorkel trip this morning because it was something we were all interested in and wasn’t too hard on Frankie’s body. Then we came back, napped—well, everyone else napped; I read more Persuasion and soaked up the late-afternoon sun—before we packed bags for our evening massages and girls’ night out.

  It was a strategic effort on the siblings’ part to—ahem—give our parents the house to themselves for most of the day. It is their anniversary vacation after all.

  I glance out at the restaurant’s tall copper torches burning in the night, listening to the roar of the ocean. There’s a sensual, unending warmth to the air here. And something about the island—whether the kindness of its people, the abundance of natural beauty, the constant pouring sunshine and breathtaking ocean—makes me feel alive, hopeful.

  And now? Firelight and crashing waves, shadows and warm, sultry air, I can’t deny it’s also incredibly romantic. Of course Aiden and I are here at the low point in our marriage.

  Sigh.

  “So,” Frankie says, setting her cane between her legs and stretching her arms along the back of her chair. “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

  Ziggy peers up from her Kindle. “What elephant?” She glances around. “Oh. Proverbial elephant. Got it. I’m listening.”

  Willa sets her elbows on her knees and tips her head, caramel curls dancing in the sea breeze, eyes tight with concern. Frankie frowns softly, focused on me, too, and nerves tighten my stomach. It’s one thing to have told my best friend, Mai, who knows all my dirt, but it’s another to open up to these women who only know the tough-big-sister, has-all-her-shit-together Freya.

  “Hey,” Willa says gently, setting her hand on mine and squeezing. “No pressure. You tell us when and how is best for you.”

  “How about alcohol?” Frankie says, raising a hand for a server.

  “Not too much,” Ziggy says, eyes back on her Kindle. “After a massage you sweat a lot, so you need to rehydrate. Two glasses of water to one alcoholic beverage.”

  “Ugh,” Frankie says. “Kids these days. So responsible.”

  Ziggy smiles, still reading, and doesn’t say anything else.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I’m going to need a drink for this.”

  Frankie summons service remarkably quickly with one crook of her finger and a magnetic look she gives a helpless server, making sure we get some food ordered, too. Within a few short minutes, we’re clinking mai tais and Ziggy’s lemonade. Settling deeper into our low comfy chairs around a similarly low, circular table, we stretch out our legs and collectively sigh in contentment.

  “All right,” I say after a long drink of mai tai. “Aiden and I are in a pretty rough patch. I’m leaving Mom and Dad out of it for now, so please keep this between us and my brothers. I didn’t want to put a damper on my parents’ celebration.”

  Ziggy glances up. “Are you guys going to be okay?”

  I take another sip of my mai tai. “I don’t know, Ziggy.”

  It was one thing to sense abstractly, over the months, how distracted Aiden was by work. It was another, that night in the kitchen, to viscerally experience being rejected because of it. His emotional absence has been painful. But his thoughtless presence hurt even worse. And that wound keeps festering.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, dabbing my eyes.

  Willa sets her hand on my back. “I don’t have anything to say that will fix what you’re going through. But just know, I think you’re brave and badass. I have so much admiration for the work it takes to sustain long-term partnerships. Since I met you, I’ve looked up to you and your marriage to Aiden, and that hasn’t changed, knowing this. If anything, I admire you even more.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “That ‘work’ of long-term relationships, as you said, I think I’m just wrapping my head around how deep that runs. It’s not just compromising about where you buy a house or how much you spend on takeout. I thought it was surface-level work if you found the right person. Because I grew up seeing my parents’ happiness and assuming it was effortless. Does that make sense? And that held water—being with Aiden felt effortless, or at least like happy work, the good kind, for a long time. Until…until it wasn’t. Now it’s just hard. All of it.”

  Frankie says, “Obviously, I haven’t known you or Aiden for long, but Ren told me that when they were at the cabin, he’d never seen Aiden so dejected. As someone whose personal stuff came between them and the person they love, I can speak to the fact that sometimes people do a crap job of showing how much the people they love mean to them. Not an excuse, just a reminder. I think your husband loves you deeply. But I hope he’ll do a better job of showing you. You deserve better.”

  “Thanks, Frankie,” I whisper.

  Ziggy reaches over and hugs me hard. “Hang in there, Frey. I love you.”

  I squeeze her back, swallowing a knot of tears in my throat as we pull away. “Thank you. Love you, too.”

  “These men,” Frankie mutters around her straw. “Making us fall in love with them. Ruining our grand plans for spinsterhood. Troublemakers.”

  It makes me laugh.

  “Good thing he has an amazing dong,” Willa says.

  “Ay!” Ziggy claps her hands over her ears. “Stop it. Yuck.”

  “Party foul,” I groan. Making a face, I suck down a lot more mai tai.

  “My apologies,” Willa says. “Okay, no more boy talk. Now it’s time to get drunk and do karaoke.”

  “What?” My eyes widen. “Karaoke?”

  Frankie tips her head and sips her mai tai. “A little birdie named Aiden told us you adore live karaoke.”

  My heart pinches. “He told you that?”

  “Well, he told Ryder to tell me,” Willa says. “And I told Frankie and Ziggy. And then I strong-armed them into coming here. So, in a roundabout way, yes.”

  I glance over nervously at the band setting up, the microphone, waiting for someone to rip it out of the stand and fill it with their voice. The Freya who’d dash up there and belt anything feels like a ghost from a former life. Realizing that, sadness tugs at the edges of my heart.

  “I haven’t sung in…months. Haven’t karaoked in years.”

  “Well, let’s fix that,” Willa says. “Starting with a round of shots.”

  Ziggy sighs and draws up her knees. “At least I brought my Kindle.”

  When Ryder was little, he was fascinated with wildlife. We’d go to the library, and he’d make me read book after book about monkeys, livestock, butterflies, and birds. I learned about mating patterns and migration, about which animal was the largest this and which was the smallest that. I learned so much, reading to him. But what I remember most vividly was learning about animals’ instincts to move toward safety before humans have the slightest clue that catastrophe is coming.

  There’s no hard science to prove it, but the theory is that animals feel the earth’s vibrations before an earthquake is even underway, that when pressure systems shift and violent storms are coming, they sense it in the air, and so they seek shelter and higher ground. I thought that was incredible—the wisdom of animals to anticipate calamity before dumb old humans have an inkling their world is about to be inverted.

  But tonight, right now, I feel like one of those animals—my senses honed, my perception heightened. Maybe it’s because I’m that perfect level of tipsy, before words get mushed and limbs become lazy. I’m calm yet aware, relaxed but focused. And something in the air shifts as I sip my drink and watch the band finish setting up.

  “Whoa,” Ziggy says, lowering her Kindle. “I did
n’t catch that they had a live band. That’s so much better than those pre-recorded versions.” After a beat, she mutters, “The drummer’s kind of hot.”

  Frankie wiggles her eyebrows. “Into bad boys, are we?”

  Ziggy blushes spectacularly. “I think I like tattoos.”

  “You’re a woman,” Willa says sagely. “Of course you like tattoos. It’s in our DNA.”

  “Huh?” Ziggy wrinkles her nose. “How?”

  “I mean—” Willa sips her mai tai. “Not literally. I’m stretching the truth because Rooney’s not here to give me hell for scientific inaccuracy, but it’s…” She turns pleadingly to Frankie.

  “She means,” Frankie says, “that you’re not the first woman to look at a guy like that and feel hot and bothered. Guys with tatts emit a certain sense of danger and intensity. And there’s an animal part of our brains that likes that. Though, I will say, don’t judge a book by its cover. Often the roughest-looking ones are secretly big softies.” She grins and swirls her cocktail straw. “And the straitlaced good boys are the ones you have to watch out for.”

  I bite my lip to swallow my emphatic agreement. I don’t want to scar Ziggy. But I vividly remember the first time Aiden and I had sex, how shocked I was as this impeccably polite, not-a-wrinkle-in-his-clothes PhD nerd flipped me over on the mattress, threw my leg over his shoulder, and whispered the filthiest thing I’d ever heard from a lover.

  It was the hardest come of my life so far. After that, there was no looking back.

  Ziggy narrows her eyes. “Is this… Are we talking about…”

  Frankie’s sinister grin deepens.

  “Oh my gosh.” Ziggy sinks lower in her chair and lifts her Kindle. “I’m gonna puke.”

  “Harsh, Frankie,” Willa says.

  “What? I was subtle. You’re the one who said her brother had a big schlong!”

  Ziggy stands and drops the Kindle on her chair. “I’m going to the restroom to splash off my face, which is on fire because you two somehow have less of a filter than me. And when I come back, no further references will be made to my brothers’ anatomy, not anymore.”

  “S-sorry, Ziggy,” Willa says, trying to hold back a laugh.

  Frankie salutes her. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  My awareness of Willa’s and Frankie’s conversation fades as my gaze travels the open restaurant. Nighttime turns the world magical, with glowing lights and copper-domed tiki torches. The air feels warmer, sweeter, full of heat and night-blooming flowers, and when the bassist strikes an experimental chord, a frisson of excitement rolls up my spine.

  It’s loud and the threat of feedback whistles through the speakers briefly before it cuts out. The bassist glances up and smiles apologetically as people startle. “Sorry about that, folks.”

  He looks around the space as he sets down his bass and switches over to a ukulele that he tests, too, before his eyes stop on me. Another jolt of awareness travels my body. An echo of something I haven’t felt directed my way in months—pure, animal interest.

  Hi, he mouths.

  I give him a closed-mouth, polite smile back, before I glance away and focus on my poke bowl.

  “Someone brave enough to come help us check the balance against a voice?” he asks in the mic.

  Willa nails me with her knee. “He’s staring at you. Go on. Go for it.”

  I sip my mai tai. “No.”

  “Why not?” Frankie asks.

  “That guy’s staring at me like I’m dinner. I don’t feel like being the main meal.”

  “Ah, he’s harmless,” Willa says. “You said yourself you haven’t sung or done karaoke in so long. Singing makes you happy, Freya. So, get that joy, ignore the flirt, and open the set!”

  The guy strikes a sultry chord. “No one?” he says. “Not even a pretty blonde in a blood-red sundress?”

  Heat floods my cheeks. I tuck a hand over my forehead like a visor, shielding me. “I told you this dress was a bad idea.”

  Willa wiggles her eyebrows. “And I told you that dress was the best idea. Red is sinful on you.”

  “It’s the neckline. The tatas,” Frankie says, making a chef’s kiss. “Magnifique!”

  “I’m murdering you both after this,” I mutter, before I drop my hand and meet the guy’s eyes again.

  He grins triumphantly, changing his strum to a well-known love song.

  Men. The subtlety of a bull in a china shop.

  “There she is,” he says.

  I stand and sweep up my cocktail, then wend my way to the front.

  When I’m close, the guy steps around the mic and smiles at me. He’s about my height, and closer up, I have to admit he’s handsome. Eyebrow piercing. Sharp hazel eyes. Deep-bronze skin and dark hair spun into a bun at the nape of his neck. Tatts winding up his right arm.

  I set my mai tai on the closest table with my left hand. My ring catches the light, drawing his eye.

  He sighs. “The good ones are always hitched.”

  A smile leaves me, now that I know we’re in more comfortable territory. “Was I badgered up here for my marital status, or did I give you a she’s-got-pipes vibe?”

  He laughs. “I was hopeful on the first count and confident on the second. Name’s Marc.”

  “Hi, Marc. Freya. What’s it going to be?”

  “What do you sing?” he asks, strumming and taking a step back.

  “Anything, really.”

  “Hm.” He bites his lip. “Your voice is smoky. Alto?”

  “Not trying to brag, but my voice goes where I want. So don’t worry about me.”

  He laughs, throwing his head back. “Shit, I’m in trouble. Okay, Adele,” he says, winking at me as he takes the ukulele into a fast strum. “You ready?”

  “Yep.”

  As he kicks up his volume and repeats the intro, I grab the mic, fill my lungs and hit the first note, warm and rich as sunlight pouring from my throat. Tears prick my eyes as I feel the power in my voice. It’s an earthquake in my chest, a warning that shakes me from the core of my body outward.

  Never forget me like this again.

  How did I let it slip away? How did I become so numb that I buried this need to sing like the need to breathe, the need to feel?

  I know, in some corner of my mind, that I numbed my feelings when I numbed my pain. Because you can’t pick which emotions you feel—you’re in touch with them and you experience them or you’re not and you don’t. And I chose numbness to survive the pain of my marriage.

  Not anymore. My heart—its depth and wildness—isn’t meant to be buried. It’s meant to power my life. To fuel my work, my relationships, my pursuit of joy. And I reclaim that power as each note punches through my lungs and carries through the space around me. I make myself a promise: I won’t abandon myself like this again. I will never again deny a vital part of who I am.

  As Marc ramps up the tempo, then joins me in a harmony, the rest of the band comes in. I close my eyes and belt out the chorus. For the first time in too long, I feel alive.

  Wildly, beautifully alive.

  17

  Freya

  Playlist: “Whole Wide World - Unpeeled,” Cage the Elephant

  Buzzing with adrenaline, I plop back into my chair, breathless and sweaty. I feel like the pilot light inside me is burning once again, hot and incandescent, as I sigh with relief.

  “That was incredible,” Willa says, sliding a fresh cocktail my way.

  I pluck the hibiscus flower from it, licking the stem clean before I nestle it behind my ear. “Thank you. It felt incredible.”

  “You killed it, sis.”

  Recognizing my youngest brother’s voice, I automatically reply, “Thanks, Ollie.” Then I do a double take to the long-limbed blond standing next to me. “Ollie?”

  My head snaps up, my focus widening like a panoramic zoom as I take in two broad figures leaning against the column next to our table. Ryder. Ren.

  I glance behind me. Axel. To my right. Viggo. He grins. “Hiya, sis.”


  “Hi,” I say carefully, peering between all of them. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Oliver leans past me and nabs a bite of smoked pork. “Heard there was live band karaoke.”

  “So we figured we’d pop by,” Viggo says.

  I glance at Ren. Pure of heart, terrible at lying. But he’s in a stare-down with Frankie, whose tongue is doing things to her mai tai straw that make even me blush.

  Ryder’s impossible to read. Axel, too. Dammit.

  “Where’s Aiden?” I ask.

  Ax lifts a hand from his pocket and points toward the karaoke band. “There.”

  My head snaps to the front so fast, something in my neck pops, then burns.

  Holy. Shit.

  Aiden’s taking an electric guitar from Marc, torchlight painting his dark hair with flecks of gold, slipping down his strong profile. Short-sleeved button-ups have never ever looked good on a single soul except for him, and tonight is no exception. It’s a cambric blue, one of my favorites because it makes his vibrant ocean-blue eyes even bluer. Soft and worn, it’s cuffed casually and strains against his arm muscles as he lifts the bass strap and slides it over his shoulder.

  Khaki shorts. Long, tan legs speckled with dark hair. I remember their feel, brushing against mine in bed last night, the zip of longing that shot through me when he turned and sighed in his sleep.

  When his fingers slide down the frets, I cross my legs against the ache between them.

  I’m drunk. That has to be it.

  “I’m seeing things,” I mutter.

  “Why do you say that?” Ryder asks casually. Somewhere in my silent freak-out as I spotted Aiden, Ryder ended up next to Willa on her chair, his finger toying idly with one of her curls.

  “Because Aiden can lecture in front of eleventy thousand people about progressive business practices and microloans, but the last time I tried to drag him up to sing karaoke with me, he practically crawled out of his skin. He’s self-conscious, performing in front of other people.”