The Counting-Downers by A. J. Compton Read Free Book Online Page A

in my family well. Then I’m reminded we’re probably related, something which I’ve conveniently forgotten.
    “Are you…I mean, are we, related?” I ask him, deciding the only way to know for sure is to be blunt.
    My serious question doesn’t have quite the response I was expecting however. He sputters with laughter, choking on air and amusement. “What?”
    “I asked if we were related. Are you a distant cousin or something?”
    At last, he gives me a serious answer once he’s regained his composure. “Um…no.”
    “Oh. I thought you were.”
    “You genuinely thought we were related?”
    “Yeah.” I smile, feeling silly at my assumption. “I thought because you seemed to understand the conversation I had with my grandmother that you must be some sort of distant cousin I’d never met or something.”
    He laughs his contagious laugh again at this, causing me to giggle too.
    “No, Baby Bear, definitely not a cousin,” he tells me. I think he whispers something like, “Fate couldn’t be that cruel,” under his breath, but I can’t be sure.
    My smile is perplexed and the air is a bit awkward for a few seconds before another thought occurs to me. “So how did you understand the conversation I had with my grandmother? We were speaking Norwegian. Did you understand us, or did you just get the gist of what was going on?”
    “No, I understood. My mom was Norwegian, so I speak it fluently. My dad was Jewish-American, so he was always left out of our secret conversations.” The corners of his mouth tilt up as he recalls a distant memory of such a time.
    “Was?” I ask him, realizing that he’d referred to his parents in the past tense.
    “Was.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yeah.”
    I remember my resolution from earlier not to apologize next time I meet a loved one of people who have died. Now seems as good a time as any to practice what I preach, so I say the only thing I can think of.
    “Well that sucks.”
    His laughter booms around the meadow, and his expression is relieved, as if he didn’t think that was what I was going to say and he was bracing himself for an apology that wouldn’t make it past my lips.
    Once he quiets, he stares at me with an intensity and tenderness that shouldn’t belong between strangers.
    “Yeah, it does. Sucks about your dad, too.”
    “It does indeed.”
    We smile small with shared understanding, bonding over the absence of sorrys.
    “So what are the chances of two Norwegian families not only living in the same place but running into each other?”
    He has that same look in his eyes when he says, “One in a million.” And I wonder if we’re talking about the same thing.
    Breaking eye contact, before it becomes uncomfortable, I let my gaze wander without seeing around my childhood treehouse and favorite thinking space.
    “So if you’re not a relative, how do you know my dad? I mean how did you know him?” I correct myself. “Sorry, I’m not used to talking in the past tense yet.”
    “It’s fine; I get it.” His expression tells me he understands more than he says. “I live with my maternal grandfather. We live near the forest where there are several threatened species. We own the land but we’ve kept a distance to allow them to live in peace. It’s a beautiful spot. A few years ago, some developers tried to persuade us to sell, and when that failed, they tried to force us.
    “They wanted to knock down our house and build a luxury resort on the land, which would encroach onto the forest and destroy the habitat of all the animals that live there. Your dad took on the case pro bono to fight them and helped us save it. He helped my grandfather keep the home he’s lived in for over fifty years and saved hundreds of animals. We owe him so much.”
    The familiar surge of pride I experience whenever I hear about my dad and how much he helped people hits me. He was incredible and often worked without charging a fee to help people win cases he believed in. To know that