You and Sunrise

“RGB is a very good overall work mode. Images in RGB mode have full access to all Photoshop commands, including filters and image adjustments. RGB images contain values of 0-255 for each of three colors – red, green, and blue. With 8 bits of color information for each of the three colors, these 24-bit images can reproduce up to 16.7 million colors on-screen. And 48-bit images (16 bits per color) can display even more.”

I sigh and stretch, then fall back onto the soft bed I’ve been sitting on. 16.7 million colors. And even more for 48-bit pictures. It’s an overwhelming, but fantastic thought, and I wonder how many colors there really are, without considering pictures and pixels and computers.

I think back to tonight’s sunset; it was a perfect example. It seemed that with each passing second, the scene was different, and I was amazed at how quickly the colors came and went. One moment the sky was filled with bright pinks and oranges, and in the next the colors had faded to grayish blues and soft purples.

I don’t have to get up and look out the window to tell that it’s now dark. The colors of the sunset are long gone, and they’ve been replaced by a smattering of twinkling stars that are strong enough to compete with the soft glow of city lights. It’s an alright picture, I think, and then I wonder how many colors there are at night when things seem to be gray.

The book that lays open in front of me is one of the more interesting ones I found on the bookshelf in the living room. It’s a book about Photoshop, so I can only assume that it’s Kristján’s. To be honest, I was hoping to find something in Icelandic, or at least one of the Eddas (even if in English or German), but there was nothing on those shelves that had anything to do with home.

My attention drifts now to laughter from down the hall, and I smile a little. Kristján and Anja really are a perfect couple. When I last saw them, they were in the kitchen just hanging out and talking with one another. After I helped Kristján with the dishes from supper, they had invited me to stay and chat (like they usually do), but I had declined (like I usually do). Even though they’ve been nice and mostly welcoming – completely welcoming, in Anja’s case – I can’t shake the feeling that I maybe shouldn’t be here, that I shouldn’t be disrupting their happy little home.

I yawn and then close my eyes. It’s only a little past nine, but I’m already getting sleepy. Today wasn’t a big day, really, but Anja and I did go out to shop a bit and have lunch, which was nice. We sort of wandered around Hamburg, looking in shops and then grabbing a few groceries, and just talked easy nonsense. It was nice – the day was warmish for December – but it was quite a bit of walking, so naturally, my hip was aching by the end of the thing. And unfortunately, even as I’m lying down and not doing anything, it’s still just a tad sore. I sigh, suppose it doesn’t matter.

Just then, there’s a buzz from the nightstand, and I turn to look at the phone that sits there. Its screen is lit up brightly, announcing that I have a new text message, and I almost decide to ignore it out of laziness. But then I remember that it might be my mother texting to ask how I am, and that thought makes me smile, so I reach over and look at the text.

It’s not my mother – it’s an unknown number, and I can feel my smile droop. That rapidly turns into curiosity, however, when I see that it’s a local number, and I quickly read the text.

Hey, I’m going for a drive. Do you want to come?

I stare at the words blankly. Surely it’s a wrong number. But just as I’m about to text back, asking who in the world this person is, another text comes in.

It’s Tom, by the way. :)

The message immediately makes sense, and I can’t help but smile a little as I remember his funny clothes and his braids. I quickly decide that I’m not too tired to go out again and type a text back.

Sure, thanks!

I only have time to close the Photoshop book and move it to the little desk before my phone buzzes a reply.

Cool! I’ll be there in 5.

I take my time pulling a sweater on over my lighter shirt and then I stand around for a minute before bending and refolding a shirt or two in my suitcase. Then I stuff my phone into my pants pocket and leave the guest room, flipping off the light switch as I go. I head down the hall, pausing just before I get to the kitchen, wondering if I should go in. Anja is speaking to Kristján in a low tone and in quick German – too quick for me to figure out entirely, not that I really want to. I can’t help but catch snippets, though – “family,” “complete,” “not even trying.” I quickly continue walking, trying not to remember the words I heard. It’s too late though. The words are burned into my memory and I sigh, knowing they’ll haunt me for the rest of the evening.

There’s not really anything I can do about it, so I head to the front door and open it as quietly as I can, then close it behind myself. I would have told them that I’m leaving if they hadn’t been talking so seriously, and if I hadn’t heard the words that I did. I take in a deep breath of the cold, damp air and look up at the stars I had imagined earlier. They’re just as I thought they’d be – bright and twinkling, though their numbers are few in the city. It doesn’t matter, though, and I quickly lose myself in finding patterns and constellations in the glimmering specks.

Soon, a trail of light draws my attention away from the sky, and I look down to see Tom’s flashy sports car pulling up in front of me. I head toward it, pause as I walk by its front to look at the two rows of decorative LED lights that adorn it. They’re sort of like the stars, I think as I bend to open the car’s door and then slide in.

“Hey,” I say, settling myself into the low, but comfortable seat. He returns the greeting with a ‘hey’ of his own as I go about closing the door behind me and buckling myself in. When that’s accomplished, I look up to see his gaze trained on me, an amused smile in place on his lips.

“What?” I ask, smiling as well.

“Oh nothing, nothing. You really like the headlights,” he says, his voice dripping with the same amusement that saturates his smile.

“Well yes,” I say, “they sparkle! They’re sort of like the fairy lights people hang up for Christmas.”

He laughs a little, his eyes crinkling up as he does. “Huh… I never thought of it that way!” He lets his words hang in the silence for another moment as he thinks, then he shifts his car into gear and pulls out into the street. “So how are you?”

As I usually do, I think a little about the question before answering. “I’m pretty good, I think. Today was nice. Anja and I went shopping and had lunch together, and then dinner was lighthearted, mostly.”

“But?” he asks, and I’m sort of surprised at how well he reads my tone. He flips on the right turn signal, and the car feels like it wants to jump out from under us when he accelerates to turn. Still, though, he keeps it in perfect control, and I can’t help being intrigued by the now calm power of the machine. “Lára?”

“Oh! Right,” I say, turning my attention back to his question. I pause again, though, wondering whether or not I should tell him. It’s really nothing I should be worrying about… It wasn’t anything they wanted me to hear anyway, so there shouldn’t have been any harm done. Still, though, I feel the need to get it off my chest.

“Well, after dinner, Kristján and Anja usually just stand around in the kitchen, talking while they do the dishes and then after that too. But since I’ve been here, I like to help them clean up, and then I usually go to my room so they can talk together.” I pause, thinking about how to phrase my next few words. “Tonight when I was leaving, I passed the kitchen and heard Anja talking to Kristján something about ‘family’ and also ‘not even trying.’”

“Do you think they were talking about you?” he asks, and streetlights highlight the furrow in his brow.

“Well… I guess so? I’m family, and I am staying with them in their house.” I shrug.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I just left as quietly as I could.”

“Wait, they don’t know you have left?” he asks, glancing at me with something like nervousness.

I hesitate before answering, unsure. “No? I mean… I don’t think so. They will know when they see I’m not in my room.”

“Well what if I’m a kidnapper?”

“A what?”

He looks at me once again, now with a bit of bewilderment evident on his face. “A kidnapper! A person who goes and steals people.”

“Oh. You’re not one of those, are you?” I ask him, and he shakes his head.

“No, I’m not…”

“Well that’s good,” I say, stretching my legs forward and closing my eyes. Then I fidget until I find a comfortable position for the bones in my hip.

“So what about you? How have you been? Was Christmas nice?” I ask, not really wanting to keep talking about whether or not Anja and Kristján want me in their house.

There’s a small pause before he answers. “Well yeah, it was nice. I went down to visit with the family in Magdeburg, so it was great seeing everyone. And how I’ve been… I guess you know about Bill. That’s making things…” Another pause here. “I’ve been better.”

I make a short humming sound. “Maybe things like these just take time. Kristján also is…” I don’t even know. “So time, I hope.”

He doesn’t speak for a few seconds, and I have to wonder if he even understood what I was trying to say. Half of the time, I don’t understand myself, so I wouldn’t blame him the least bit.

When he does speak, though, his voice holds a bit more cheer than it did before. “So what about you? Was your Christmas okay?”

I can’t help but grin. “I brought Anja a lopi my grandmother knitted for her… it turns out she’s allergic to wool.”

“Oh god, that’s awful…” he says, then laughs a little. “What is a lopi though?”

“It’s a lopapeysa. A sweater knitted out of Icelandic sheep wool. It has a special pattern that… it like… circles the neck? Oh, I guess I’m wearing one.” Then I laugh, open my eyes to take the hem of the sweater and stretch it a bit so he can see.

“Oh, okay! Did your grandmother make that one also?” he asks, stopping the car and then turning into a roundabout.

“Yes, she did. She’s quite a knitter!”

“That’s cool… my grandmother doesn’t knit at all, but she really can cook,” he says, then turns the car out of the circle onto a road labeled ‘24.’ “So how is it with the beard guy?”

“The beard guy… Oh, Kjartan? I don’t know… better, I guess. He stopped hovering quite so much, but we haven’t seen much of one another since the end of the little tour, so…”

“Well it’s not perfect, but it... is like progress,” he says, and it’s right about then that I notice the low growl of the car’s engine and the force that pushes me back against the seat as he accelerates.

“Whoa,” I breathe, pushing myself up in the seat.

“Just wait until we go to the free zones,” he says, a boyish smile on his face that makes me half nervous and half excited.

I’m not exactly sure what to say to that, so I just smile back at him and then turn my attention to all of the lights that are passing by. Strings and strands of little colored bulbs decorate the lines of buildings, making for a cheerful – maybe magical – sight that sort of reminds me of Reykjavík.

“You’re quiet,” Tom says after a few moments, and I look over at him. The streetlights are playing with the shadows on his face, and I feel mostly okay about staring a little because he’s concentrating on the road.

“Is that a bad thing?”

For a moment, he looks like he’s honestly thinking it over. “No, it’s not. It’s actually a sort of… relief. Calm.”

I smile. “Yes. Sometimes silence is okay,” I agree.

He only nods, an easy, quiet smile on his face as he drives, and I guess that he’s letting the stillness run its course. Even though there is the noise of the car and the road, it’s nice to know that we can just sit together and be. Oddly enough, that’s not something Anja or even Kristján and I can do comfortably (at least not anymore, in Kristjáns case) – with them, there must always be filler noise, or we get nervous and trip over our words when we try too hard. With Tom, it comes so effortlessly, and I’m suddenly very, very glad that I have a friend here to help keep me sane (whether he knows he does or not).

We’re silent for another five or so minutes while he concentrates on navigating the bit of traffic that has collected on the autobahn, and during that time, I sit back and close my eyes once again. Then, as I drift in and out of a light sleep, I’m vaguely aware that I should be making a better attempt at politeness – but it’s just so warm and cozy, and the gentle vibration of the car is better than a lullaby.

“Lára?” he says sometime later, an unmistakable excitement evident in his voice. “Lára, look!”

My eyes flutter open, and I look to him, then look to where he’s pointing.

“See that sign? The white circle?” he asks, and I nod as it passes. It was a little white circle with three black lines running diagonally through it.

“What is it?” I ask him, and the grin he gives after I do reminds me of the look Heiðar gets when he sees one of the really modded out jeeps that come through Höfn after driving out on Vatnajökull.

“It means there’s no speed limit.”

The way he says it sends a thrill down my spine, and I see him glance over, grinning – briefly gauging my reaction before he turns and concentrates on the road. Then, I feel the acceleration – it’s a light feeling of being pressed back into my seat, but it’s getting stronger, and goose bumps fizz their way down my arms. If the engine was a growl or a purr before, it’s now a steady roar from behind us as it launches us down the road. He continues to increase the speed, even as the lights from the semi trucks in the right lane and some of the middle lane cars start to blur backwards.

I feel the familiar zing of adrenaline when I glance over at the speedometer, see that he’s pushing 230 kilometers per hour. I’ve never gone this fast in a car before – driving at speeds this high is considered insane in Iceland. Still, even though my body is telling me I should be, I’m not afraid – rather, I’m a strange sort of excited. My heart is pounding, but I couldn’t pry the smile off of my lips if I wanted to; the way the red and white car lights are blurring together sort of makes me want to cry. The roads are veins and trails of stars, and we’re a comet that’s hurtling silently through space – but roaring down the road, here where there’s air and sound.

Though I didn’t think it would be possible, I feel him push the car faster, and I have to look over at him. He’s fully focused on the road ahead, with a firm grip on the steering wheel and a maybe devilish smile plastered on his face, and I bite my lip to keep from giggling. He looks so right here – a city boy with a fast car and weird, fancy clothes – and I sort of wonder how I stumbled into his world.

“How fast did it get?” I ask him when he slows the vehicle a few minutes later.

“Got up to 270 kilometers per hour. I’ve gone faster before, but it’s dark out and it’s good to not crash when I have you here,” he says jokingly, but not, and I laugh a little.

“That’s crazy… no one goes that fast in Iceland,” I say.

He glances at me, curiosity evident on his face once again. “What are the roads like there? I know here is… The Autobahn is really good. In America it isn’t so great… How is it in Iceland?”

“Well… It’s… There’s our one main road that makes a circle around the island – we call that the Ring Road. It’s two lanes mostly, and it gets cleared in the winter… You don’t drive fast on it; I think the speed limit is 90 kilometers per hour.” Tom makes a little sound of disapproval here, and I laugh again, giddy from the excitement of the high speed we were just traveling at. “Well no, it has hills and curves sometimes… and many of the bridges only have room for one car.”

“So no fast roads at all?”

“Nope. Other than the Ring Road, the other roads are just normal like here – streets with houses and stuff.”

He gives a critical sounding hum. “I don’t know if I could do that… America is bad enough with the… all of the limits everywhere! There is no place where you can let go and really… go!”

“Well there’s that in Iceland! Sometimes it’s just not with fast cars,” I tell him, and he looks over at me strangely, like he can’t comprehend how anything else could be so exhilarating.

“So what is Iceland like?” he asks then, not seeming to want to go further down the line of conversation I introduced. “I know it’s green, right? And Greenland is ice.”

I can’t help but cringe just a little. It’s one of those things that tend to follow my country around in conversation, and it gets to be a little bit old. More than once, I’ve overheard tourists saying it on their phones, and once one boy even had the guts to walk over and make sure I knew that particular fact.

“Hey, did you know that Iceland is green, and Greenland is icy?” he had asked me, the sort of grin boys get when they’re deliberately doing something stupid plastered on his face.

I had just muttered ‘I don’t speak English,’ and walked away – it was the easiest thing to do at the time (and it still is, on occasion), and I had had better things to do with my life than put up with the more obnoxious of the passers-by.

Now, though, I just nod a little. “Yeah, it’s pretty green in the summer. Um… there are mountains and glaciers… and volcanoes.”

“Oh, that’s right! You have that one that erupted last year and closed down all of the airports! How do you say it?” he asks, and I grin.

“Eyjafjallajökull,” I say slowly, and there’s a hesitation from his side of the car.

“Uh… Ehja-fja…” he trails off here, and I giggle. He’s off to a decent start compared to some other people, but it’s still not exactly right. “Well hey, wait. Before I master that word, how did you say you pronounce your second name?”

I’m mostly just relieved he’s putting in some effort. “Sævarsdóttir. It’s sort of like… ‘diver,’ but not. And then just tack ‘dóttir’ on the end of it.”

“Okay… Sævars-dóttir.” He says it slowly and in two parts, and he doesn’t really get the ‘r’ right, but other than that, he does a pretty good job of pronouncing it.

“Yeah! That’s pretty alright. While we’re at it… I’m sorry, but I sort of forgot your surname…” I blush, slightly embarrassed.

This doesn’t seem to bother him, however. In fact, after he gets the shocked expression off of his face (apparently, this is unusual?) a grin takes its place. “Kaulitz. Tom Kaulitz.”

“Kaulitz,” I repeat absently, digging my phone out of my pocket and going about adding the number from his earlier text message to my contact list.

“Are you a Mac person?” he asks.

“Hm?”

“That’s an iPhone, right? Do you like other Mac things?”

“Oh! Well I guess, I don’t know. Jónsi persuaded me to get this before the tour… apparently it was better than my phone. He said I probably wouldn’t be able to use the other one in America because… something about not being able to get the right frequency,” I say.

“Yeah, it has to be quad-band if Iceland is on the European system,” he agrees, flipping on a turn signal and changing lanes.

I’m silent for a bit, thinking. Then I laugh. “He keeps pushing me to get a Macbook Pro. He’s really in love with his.”

“Oh no, you don’t have one? It’s the best thing ever for music people! It’s fast, it doesn’t break easily… so much better than a PC.”

“Kristján always says that! He’s a graphic design guy, and he swears that Apple is the best at everything,” I laugh, and Tom glances over at me with a smile. “He was always so passionate about that… whenever my friend Sigrún would come around, they’d always argue about it. She’s the really logical arithmetic person out of all of us, so she thinks the PC is more functional and versatile since you can go in and change how it works. So then Kristján would come back with… ‘Well, you don’t need to change anything in the Mac; everything is already good the way it is!’”

Then Tom laughs with me, his eyes crinkling at the sides again. “Ah, yeah! That was… For the longest time, Bill and I actually shared this beat up old laptop. It was a PC, running… Windows 95 or something, and every time David, our manager, would see us using it, he would shake his head and tell us he couldn’t wait until the band brought in enough money for us to get new computers. And then, yeah, once it did, he insisted that we get Macs. When we saw the prices, we nearly died.”

Then I watch as he gets lost in a memory, stares out through the glass of the windshield. Then his eyes lock on a passing road sign and he gives a surprised “oh,” and then checks his mirrors and changes lanes again.

I yawn and rub my eyes a little.

“Hey! You can’t be getting tired yet, we have the whole ride back!” he tells me and I make a little groaning sound.

“The ride back from where?” I ask.

“Hm… I can’t tell you.”

“’Kidnapper?’” I say, and he gives a loud “ha!”

“Wow, you really just… No, I’m not going to tell you yet!”

I give an unconcerned hum. “Well can’t I just sleep on the way back?”

He seems to consider it as he steers the car onto an exit. “Well, sure, you can if you want to.”

“Alright,” I say, but I don’t really intend to. “Where are we?”

“We’re near Lubeck,” he tells me, and I don’t know why I asked – I won’t really know where anything is anyway. After a glance over at me, he adds, “It’s up north more.”

“Oh,” I say, and then I’m silent as I look out the dark window at what I can see of fields and houses passing by. The road we’re on is all gentle curves and darkness, and I wonder how far away from Hamburg we are to be in farmland like we are now.

In not too long there are buildings lining the road, and moments later he’s pulling the car into a drive and parking in front of what appears to be nothing. There’s a building way off to our right and two smaller ones to our left, but nothing in front of us, and I look at him skeptically as he cuts the engine.

He returns my look with an amused look of his own. “What, you can’t see over the dashboard?”

I glare at him, and he chuckles before opening his door and getting out of the car. I follow, and as soon as I’m out of the car, I’m met with chilly air and the so familiar sound of waves crashing softly against seashore

Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s the slight sent of salt in the air. Either way, when I close my eyes, for a moment, I’m home. And even though I know there’s the danger that the cold air will chill me to the bone, I breathe in deep gulps of the sea-filled wintery air.

I can’t help but daydream as I stand here, eyes closed, breathing in salt. I’m not on the peninsula that is Höfn – the waves don’t roll there like they do here. There, they just barely lap at the shore; most places are far too shallow to hold any kind of serious waves like there are out beyond Suðurfjörur and Austurfjörur – the long, narrow spits that protect us from the open ocean. No, I’m not in Höfn. I’m just north of the lagoon, on a beach of black sand and rock, with the base of the mountain Vesturhorn sloping up behind me, and the sea in front of me.

But as soon as the feeling really solidifies, it leaves, and my eyes flutter open. It’s almost painful to return to the darkness.

When I turn to look at Tom, he’s just standing there like he was before, looking at me. He gives a maybe feeble little smile, and I manage a smile back, although I suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“Well, come on; I brought blankets. We don’t have to stay long if it’s too cold… or we don’t have to stay at all if you don’t want,” he says, ducking back into the car and pulling several fluffy looking blankets out of the space behind the driver’s seat.

“No, we can stay. I’m used to cold,” I say, wondering if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

So I gently close the pretty car’s door and follow him through the dark to the beach. When we get nearer to the water, but still on dry sand, Tom spreads one blanket out on the ground and hands me another, keeping one for himself. I quietly thank him and bundle myself up in the blanket before slipping off my shoes and sitting down. He does the same, and for a few seconds we sit in silence, just listening to the waves and watching the stars.

“I guess this is probably um… weird, but I kind of thought this would remind you of home a little… since I read somewhere that there are a lot of sea-towns in Iceland. You really seem like you want to be home,” he says, sounding sort of unsure and picking at a thread that is hanging off of his blanket.

I bite my lip to keep tears from welling up in my eyes. He has no idea how right on he is with his words. I don’t speak until he looks over at me, and even when I do, I’m still not sure if I can talk without starting to cry.

“Yeah, my town is a sea-town. It’s the little port called Höfn, so… you really got… got it right,” I say, then clear my throat. Thankfully, I don’t burst into tears, but I do flounder with the English a bit.

“It’s… it’s a pretty little town compared to what you must be used to. Just a couple thousand people. It’s a peninsula out into this shallow area that is protected from open sea by sand bars, and sometimes when you look out, it looks like glass, it’s so still.”

“So not quite like this?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“Well, no. But there are beaches with waves nearby. They’re almost the same, except it rises right into mountains, there aren’t any houses around like here, and the sand is black.”

“So, not really the same,” he says, giving a small smile, and I have to laugh a little.

“No, I guess not.” And then we’re silent for a little while. When I start speaking again, it’s sort of abrupt.

“It’s not that I… really don’t want to be here in Germany,” I explain. “I just…”

I trail off, not really knowing how to say what I want to in English. Tom just waits quietly and watches me as I stare out into space.

“Kristján doesn’t have anything in his home that has anything to do with Iceland. There are books there in German and English, and I think I even saw one in Japanese, but there aren’t any in Icelandic. There aren’t the… the Sagas or the Eddas there, or any Icelandic poetry at all, and… Kristján loved some of those stories. And now, it seems like he doesn’t want anything to remind him of how things were. But,” I pause, my voice sticking in my throat for a moment, “I must remind him. Everything I am just shouts it – the clothes I wear, the way I speak, the way I think, even; the things I know.”

I look back to Tom then. He’s still quiet, still listening, but now it’s him staring off into the darkness, his lower lip sucked into his mouth as he thinks. When he speaks, his voice is softer than before.

“Who really wants to completely erase their family? Unless it was like… unless you have really terrible parents who abuse your or something, why would he really want to cut everything off? I think it would take a really… different person to want that.”

I sigh. “Well he is a sort of different guy, but I really hope you’re right.”

Another small silence punctuates my words, and I take the time to gaze up at the stars. There are more here than there were at Kristján’s house, but the difference is barely noticeable. Either way, they wink and twinkle down at us, and I smile a little, reminded of the days when I thought they lived and breathed and whispered to each other in the sky.

“You don’t need to answer this,” he says, bringing me back from my star thoughts. “But what started it? Why is Kristján so… you know. What happened?”

First I work out what I think he’s asking me in my head. Then, I realize that he’s done an almost good job of pronouncing my brother’s name, and I think that I’d smile if the subject of our conversation weren’t so heavy. I sigh, not really knowing where to start.

“Kristján is an amazing artist. He sits down with a sketchpad and pencil, or a pen and notebook paper, or charcoal or paint or crayons or a tablet and computer, and beautiful things come out of his hands. He never was one to do sports or play in the ocean like the other kids – he liked to draw instead. But our father is a fisherman, and so was his father and his father’s father. So Pabbi always wanted Kristján to keep that going and be a fisherman. Kristján got so bitter about it… and one day, he simply said ‘no, that’s enough,’ and left to go to Reykjavík to be in art school.

“While he was there, he met Anja – who was going to school there, but was from here – and they got together. When she was through with her degree in something businessy, she had to come back here because of her father’s company, and she asked Kristján to come with her. So he basically came home to gather some of his things and give us the news, and my parents did not take it well at all. There was fighting, and in the end, Kristján just told us we weren’t his family.”

“And now you’re trying to fix things,” Tom says, somehow in a calming way that makes me feel like everything will work out.

“Yes,” I say, and then there’s more silence. It doesn’t feel like silence, though… it feels like we’re just sitting and existing and listening to the waves as they break and tumble onto the sand. It’s more relaxing and almost more entertaining than a television ever was.

But after that Tom doesn’t say anything for the longest time. And when I look over at him, there is this intense expression on his face, like he’s sitting there with a mountain of worry on top of his head.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “Bill again.”

“Still just worried, or are there new, um… developments?” I ask.

He purses his lips for a moment, and then sighs.

“I guess a little bit of both, but mostly it’s new. This morning, he was just… really off. Said some really shitty things, and was generally mean… but I could also tell that he was pretty… uhm… troubled about something – he wouldn’t talk to me about it though. That, and when we were at my mom’s house yesterday, she brought me away from Bill and my stepdad, and she asked what was going on with him – with Bill,” he says, and I nod as I watch him speak. “And then before I could answer her, she told me I didn’t have to say… that she understood the twin thing. She asked me to tell her how he is doing now and then.”

The words jumble in my head, and then slowly untangle themselves, and for a moment I almost wish English or German was my first language – almost.

“She’s worried, and it hurts me! And I’m worried too, but also, I’m angry! What business does Bill have making our mother worry like that?”

“None, I guess? But children are meant to worry their parents – and the parents will always worry anyway because they love us,” I say, unsure if my answer will help or make things worse. Apparently it helps, because Tom takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, looking like he’s trying to calm his mind down.

“Yeah, yes. You’re right. It’s.. but it’s…” he says, and it sounds like he’s having trouble with his English. I sort of feel bad for thinking it, but I’m a little glad he has this problem too. Anja’s perfect English makes me feel a bit dumb sometimes.

“It’s hard, I know. But he has you. He has your mother worrying about him, and he has your family, and you’re there for him. Sometimes, that’s the best thing. Sometimes, that’s all they need.” All of the sudden, I feel sick. Sometimes, that’s all they need. At once, I know that was all my brother ever needed – and for one reason or another, I wasn’t there for him.

I shed my blankets and peel off my socks.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s… What are you doing?” Tom asks, a tone of surprise in his words.

“I’m…” My brain spins, though, and I just don’t know. I roll my pants up and stand, walk to the shore.

The water is freezing on my feet. It’s so cold that it hurts, and I gasp in air. But then I breathe and the pain turns to numbness as the little waves rush back and forth around my ankles. I bend and wet my hands, then I bring them up to my face, and I taste salt. I stay there, staring out at the horizon and the stars above for a couple of moments at least. When I turn around again and walk back, Tom has shaken off his blanket too and there’s a glowing orange speck hovering in front of him – I only realize what it is when it follows his hand to his lips and he breathes out smoke a couple of seconds later.

“You alright?” he asks when I sink back down.

“Yes. Yes, I am. Thank you,” I say, and give a halfhearted smile. Then I bundle back up, watching him smoke.

“I’m sorry,” he says a moment later. “I shouldn’t have gone on that story like I did. It was rude to… to put it all on you.”

“What?” I say, not quite getting it. “Oh, your… No, it’s alright! I didn’t… It wasn’t anything you said. I just… got to thinking about Kristján, and I got a little sad. I needed to… clear my mind.”

“Oh,” he says, seeming unsure. Then he brings up his cigarette and inhales deeply. When he exhales a moment later, I watch, fascinated, as the smoke and the steam from his breath goes curling out into the air.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asks after a few seconds, gesturing to the cigarette, and I shake my head.

“No, not at all. It’s interesting, the smoke. It, like…” and I draw a squiggly pattern in the air with my finger.

He laughs a bit. “Well good, I guess, because I smoke a lot. Too much, probably.” Frown.

“Well it’s alright. It’s almost a comfort. All of the guys sometimes gather around and smoke pipes, and Orri smokes cigarettes sometimes too,” I say, grinning, and then yawn.

He smiles softly, and then after a moment, he yawns too. “We should probably be going back soon,” he says, and between his accent and his yawn, I barely understand him.

And then, somehow, we get into a conversation about marijuana and how Tom tried it a few times and thought he was really badass for it, and I tell how Heiðar was a huge pothead a couple of years back. Some of the things he said when he was high were hilarious, but we never said anything about it when he was normal, so he never knew. And then we get to talking about drinking and what drinks we like and how in the world can I stand that crazy strong stuff I was drinking at the bar? Then the conversation turns to more serious drugs and our opinions of them, and it turns out that Tom’s only tried several, and I say “wait, what?” Tom just laughs.

Eventually, though, we both get pretty cold, so we pack up and head back to Tom’s car. And then, as I said I probably would, I drift in and out of sleep during the ride back, waking once to see the speedometer hovering around at 290 kilometers per hour. Somewhere deep in my head, it’s a little disturbing that I only yawn, shift, and slip away once again, not nervous in the slightest.

When I wake up again, Tom is just parking the car in front of Kristján and Anja’s flat.

“Wow, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep all of that time…”

“You were tired,” he says with a shrug and a little smile. “Thanks for coming!”

“No, thank you, Tom. That was thoughtful, and I really appreciate it.” I pause. “It’s really nice to have a friend here.”

He smiles. “No problem at all. Text me if you ever want to talk, okay?”

“Likewise,” I say, smiling. Then we say goodbye, and I head inside, pausing in the doorway to wave as he drives away. I can’t tell if he waves back or not, but that’s alright.

As I tiptoe through the living area to the hallway, I wonder about the conflicting emotions I’m experiencing. On one hand, I’m really happy because I was just with my friend Tom, and we had a really great time hanging out, but on the other hand, I’m sort of sad to be back here where things are sort of lonely. I try not to think of the second emotion.

“Lára?” says a voice, Kristján’s, and I stop in my tracks. “In the kitchen.”

My breath catches in my throat. The Icelandic words fall on my ears like water, and I gravitate toward a shred of home where I least expected it to be. And when I get in there, he’s sitting at the little kitchen table, nothing but his phone in front of him.

“I um… where… where were you?” he says, not having trouble with the language. I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s just really making an effort with his wording.

“I was with a friend I met awhile back,” I say, not at all sure what he wants to know or why or what is going on in his head or anything. I slide slowly into the chair across from him, careful of my hip.

“Who is it?” he asks me, seeming concerned. I’m touched.

“Well, his name is Tom, and he’s got this… baggy clothes thing going on. He’s thoughtful and sincere, and he has a really awesome car. He’s very polite and nice, so he isn’t anyone for you to worry about. He says he’s not a kidnapper,” I say the word in English, “so that’s alright there. But anyway, I met him when we were on tour in February. We stopped at Trotzdem, and he was there and he looked really troubled so I went and talked to him, and we had a pretty good conversation. And then, I saw him again when I went there the other day! And this time, we were able to stay and just talk for a long time. Then he offered me a ride home, and he has this crazy car! The headlights are so pretty and it’s not like any car I’ve seen before! So he asked for my number before he left, and then he text messaged me tonight and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. I said yes, and we drove to the beach! And the car went so fast! When we were past the place with no speed limit, Tom said we went 270 kilometers per hour!”

At this number, Kristján absolutely recoils, and I realize then that everything just sort of gushed out of me. But I don’t even care because I’m elated to be speaking with my brother in our own language – it feels so indescribably amazing, and I can’t get the smile off of my face.

“Wow. Well… so… you’re being careful, yeah? I mean, you’re not… It’s not any of my business, I guess, but you aren’t letting him use you, right?”

I give him a look of disapproval, but he looks genuinely worried, so I don’t mind his words too much. “No, of course not. I told you, he’s polite and laid back and everything. If he were using me, it would be because I’d be going along with it.”

Kristján laughs then, rolls his eyes. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about! You’ve never exactly been cautious about anything.”

“Oh, I’m not that bad!” I say, giving him a look again even though I’m secretly bursting with happiness. I’m having a normal conversation with him. In Icelandic. And even though it’s not really the same as it was before, it’s pleasant, and I’m so glad.

“Yeah, well. I do worry about you; I was worried tonight. If you could give me a call next time, or let me know when you leave, I would really appreciate it,” he says, and it sounds like he’s fighting with himself. He doesn’t want to be like our parents, and he doesn’t want to crowd me, but he does worry.

Still, though, I remember the reason I didn’t tell him I was leaving, and my heart drops a little. “Well you and Anja were talking, so I didn’t want to…”

“What did you hear?” he asks, reading my expression easily.

“Family? Not even trying?” I say, in German, and he looks sort of confused.

“Surely you didn’t think we were saying that about you.”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking away.

“Lára, if I remember that part of the conversation clearly, Anja was reprimanding me. She thinks you’re just the best thing ever, and she told me I need to try harder, and I guess I agree. I didn’t realize I was being quite so distant and cold.” He takes a deep breath then, his expression dimming a little. “It’s just… I don’t want to make an excuse, but it’s hard to have pieces of Iceland so close.”

With those words, my mind is sort of blown. Everything Tom said this evening was right; Kristján didn’t really want to leave forever, and he didn’t want to forget – he just didn’t know what else to do. I can see it in the sadness on his face that he misses home, but feels like he can’t go back, and I feel horrible for him.

“You’re alright. It’s… it’s still there, you know. It will be different, but you can come back any time. Back home, or back to Reykjavík for a bit. I’m sure Jónsi wouldn’t mind having you and Anja for a few days,” I tell him truthfully, but he shakes his head.

“No. Not now,” he says simply, and the expression on his face makes me want to cry.

“But you can. You can come back; we can fix things.”

“No we can’t.” His tone is sharp. “Mamma and Pabbi don’t want me there. We’ve both said too many things to just…” He trails off and purses his lips.

“Lára, just please go to bed – I don’t want to talk about this.” Then he stands and crosses over to a cupboard, takes down a bottle, and pours himself a glass of alcohol. I sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, not sure what else to say.

Deep blue eyes snap to my hazel ones. “Not your fault. It’s just… I don’t like talking about it.”

“Yeah, I know.” But it is partly my fault, and I know it. Maybe I could have made things a little better for him. Maybe I could have stopped things from getting so bad if only I were there for him. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he replies, giving me a little smile. “Dream well.”

It’s a small gesture, the last part. Only three words in Icelandic – dreymi þig vel – but it’s enough to warm my heart. I stand from my chair, smiling brightly; smiling even more when I hear him chuckle as I go.