But Ove was, well, Ove was Ove. Something the people around her also kept telling Sonja.
He’d been a grumpy old man since he started elementary school, they insisted. And she could have someone so much better.
But to Sonja, Ove was never dour and awkward and sharp-edged.
To her, he was the slightly disheveled pink flowers at their first dinner.
He was his father’s slightly too tight-fitting brown suit across his broad, sad shoulders.
He believed so strongly in things: justice and fair play and hard work and a world where right just had to be right.
Not so one could get a medal or a diploma or a slap on the back for it, but just because that was how it was supposed to be.
Not many men of his kind were made anymore, Sonja had understood. So she was holding on to this one.
Maybe he didn’t write her poems or serenade her with songs or come home with expensive gifts.
But no other boy had gone the wrong way on the train for hours every day just because he liked sitting next to her while she spoke.
And when she took hold of his lower arm, thick as her thigh, and tickled him until that sulky boy’s face opened up in a smile,
it was like a plaster cast cracking around a piece of jewelry,
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