At the end of the day, Aria had suggested going to Blue Lagoon, the all-natural salt hot springs the travel magazines couldn’t stop raving about, but Hallbjorn had scoffed and said that was for tourists. He’d taken her to a secret hot spring instead. As they’d soaked in the warm, sulfuric-smelling water—Hallbjorn told her she’d get used to the smell—he’d leaned in close, took her hand, and kissed her. It had been Aria’s first kiss.
They’d dated for four months, going to concerts, art openings, and Icelandic pony shows. Hallbjorn taught Aria how to drive a snowmobile, and she taught him how to knit and use her prized video camera. The whole thing felt like a dream. Aria might have been in Ali’s cool clique in Rosewood, but boys still hadn’t paid attention to her—they only wanted Ali. In Reykjavík, however, there was no Ali to make her feel like second best. More than that, there was no Ali telling her that she was being too kooky, too unapproachable, and too . . . Aria. Aria hadn’t changed a thing about herself in Iceland, even leaving the pink streaks in her hair and the fake ring in her nose, and Hallbjorn had liked her anyway. In fact, he seemed to like her more for her uniqueness.
In February of that year, something horrible happened: Hallbjorn got a scholarship to a special boarding school in Norway for kids who wanted to study architecture. He’d left on Valentine’s Day, and Aria had cried herself to sleep for months. They’d written back and forth at first, but after a while, Hallbjorn’s letters had stopped coming. Aria had dated other Icelandic boys after him, but none of those relationships had been quite as special.
“How did you know my address?” Aria asked now. When her family had left Iceland, Hallbjorn had still been in Norway.
Hallbjorn peeled off his mittens. “When I got back from boarding school this fall, I stopped by to see you, but the new people who were living in your house said you’d moved back to the States. They gave me your address.”
“Who are you visiting in New York?”
Hallbjorn gave Aria a blank look, almost like he hadn’t expected this question. “Uh, some relatives,” he said distractedly, vigorously rubbing his reddened nose. “But like I said, the plane was rerouted because of weather.” He smiled at her sheepishly. “Do you mind if I stay here for two nights? The next plane to New York isn’t until the twenty-sixth. I can pay you.”
“You don’t need to pay me,” Aria scoffed. “I’m happy for the company.”
She led him down the hall and told him to sit on the family-room couch while she made tea for both of them. As she waited for the water to boil, she called out, “So how is Iceland these days? I miss it so much.”
“It’s okay.” Hallbjorn sounded dismissive. “Not too exciting.”
Aria grabbed two mugs from a high shelf. “Do your parents mind that you’re away for Christmas?”
“Uh, I’m not really sure.”
“Is everything okay with them?” Hallbjorn’s parents were two sturdy, athletic Icelanders who dressed alike and ran ultramarathons together. Aria briefly entertained the notion that Hallbjorn’s parents might be going through the same stuff Ella and Byron were, but she just couldn’t imagine it.
“No, no, everything’s fine. I just planned this trip at the last minute.” A bell tinkled from the other room. “Hey!” Hallbjorn exclaimed. “You’ve still got the wind chimes from that shop on Laugavegur!”
Aria carried the mugs of steaming tea into the family room. Hallbjorn was now stretched out on the couch, his long legs propped up on the ottoman. A tingly rush went through her as she settled next to him on the couch.
“So how’s your family?” Hallbjorn asked.
“A little messed up right now,” Aria admitted. She explained that her parents weren’t together anymore. “My dad and brother are celebrating the Winter Solstice upstate. Remember how we used to do that?”
Hallbjorn’s eyes lit up. “You hugged all those trees in the Hallormsstadarskogur! And you did that naked swim in Mr. Stefansson’s pond!”
Aria groaned—she’d blocked out that unfortunate incident. “Yeah, and my dad didn’t ask Mr. Stefansson beforehand. Thank goodness you showed up and explained everything to him.” Hallbjorn’s family lived only a mile away, and when Mr. Stefansson had appeared with a rifle, threatening to shoot the Montgomerys as they cavorted, Solstice-style, in the pond, Aria had quickly called Hallbjorn for help.
Hallbjorn removed the tea bag from his mug. “Remember how your dad tried to get Mr. Stefansson to participate in the Solstice ritual with him?”
“Oh God, yes.” Aria smacked her forehead. “Mr. Stefansson looked at him like he was crazy. My dad was like, ‘but Mr. Stefansson, you believe in huldufólk! Why can’t you believe in the Solstice, too?’”
“He’s very serious about his huldufólk beliefs,” Hallbjorn said. “Remember that shrine he built to them in the rocks?”
Aria giggled. Mr. Stefansson was convinced Icelandic elves lived at the back of his property. “He used to yell at us if we got too close to it.” She smiled at Hallbjorn.
Their eyes met for a long beat, the steam from their untouched mugs of tea swarming around their faces. Then Aria looked down at her lap. “I cried so hard when you went to Norway.”