9 Willow Street

By Nell Iris

Heartbroken after the death of his beloved Nana, Hannes, the family outsider, finally allows himself to grieve. The legal battle over Nana's quirky old house -- the only place he's ever felt accepted and loved -- is over, and he moves in and finds a sense of peace.
... And a rabbit.
An adorable bunny with a huge personality moves in, too, and refuses to leave. Hannes instantly falls in love with the sweet animal who helps heal his heart. But one morning, Hannes' view of the world changes when the rabbit transforms into a man. A man named Mattis. 
After the initial shock, Hannes and Mattis discover a connection between them that runs deeper than it seems. Will their newfound feelings survive unraveling secrets and meddling families, and grow into something real? Something deep and everlasting?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Jul 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781634869577

Nell Iris

Nell is a forty-something bisexual Swedish woman, married to the love of her life, and a proud mama of a grown daughter. She left the Scandinavian cold and darkness for warmer and sunnier Malaysia a few years ago, and now spends her days writing, surfing the Internet, enjoying the heat, and eating good food. One day she decided to chase her lifelong dream of being a writer, sat down in front of her laptop, and wrote a story about two men falling in love. Nell writes gay romance, prefers sweet over angst, and wants to write diverse and different characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

When I open the pink wooden gate with the sunburst pattern—it squeaks a little and needs to be oiled—and step into the garden of 9 Willow Street, I burst into tears for the first time since Nana Ellen died. I couldn’t even cry on the one-year anniversary of her death last month, but here, in her garden, I finally let go.

Nana’s beautiful garden, her pride and joy, is terribly overgrown and neglected, and if she saw it, she’d be so angry. My darling, spitfire great grandmother, who’d passed away peacefully and unexpectedly in her sleep three days after her hundred-and-ninth birthday, did not approve of neglect in any way shape or form, especially not for the things in life she valued the most, like me or her garden.

She had a temper until the day she died, and as I look around with tears streaming down my face, assessing the damage, I can almost hear her spitting and hissing. I knew you fools would contest the will of a poor, old woman, but the least you could have done while my lawyer kicked your behinds was make sure my garden was taken care of.

The grass is so tall, it looks more like a meadow than a lawn. The flower beds and the gorgeous flower-shaped pebble mosaic pathways she’d spent hours and hours keeping in check are taken over by weeds and barely visible. The bushes are screaming for a trim, and the early apples have already started falling from the trees and are littering the lawn.

I don’t even want to go around to the back of the house and look at the herb and vegetable garden, where I spent so much time with Nana, learning everything about plants and their medicinal properties. My heart hurts just trying to imagine the state of it, and I can’t do it just yet.

Instead, I make my way to the porch and sink onto the top step, curl myself into a little ball, and let my tears fall freely, allowing myself to grieve properly, finally able to let go of the stoic mask onto which I’ve clung the last year.

Thirteen months ago, when my father had called and told me Nana was dead, I thought he’d lied to me at first. I’d spoken to her on her birthday, sad and heartbroken that I couldn’t visit her, bake her a cake, and give her the present I’d already bought. All the flights had been canceled because of a terrible storm and I’d had no way of getting to her.

But she wasn’t upset. Pish-posh, my dearest Hannes. You’ll be here when you can, I know it. Just text me a picture of your lovely face and I’ll be happy.

So I did. I took a selfie with my hands shaped like a heart, and before I texted it to her, I wrote Nana And Hannes Forever on it. That’s what she always used to say whenever I was upset over being misunderstood by my family, or other teenaged woes.

Nana sent me back a picture of herself with her head tilted back, her hand pressed against her forehead in a dramatic fake swoon, and the ever-present twinkle clearly visible in her eyes. I promptly set the picture as a background on my phone.

So was it really so weird I didn’t believe Father when he told me she had passed away?

Are you sure? I’d asked, thinking it couldn’t be true, considering the last time she’d even had a common cold was fifteen years earlier when she was ninety-four.

"I am a real doctor…unlike some people, Father replied. Obviously I know what I’m talking about."

Great. Even when he called me with terrible news, when his own grandmother had died, he still found the time to mock my career choice and remind me of my status as the family outsider. The herbalist quack—as though we were offering to cure cancer with herbs!—in a family of real doctors. My father’s a surgeon, my mother an oncologist, and my three older sisters and brothers are all doctors, too. Then there’s me. The black sheep. The heathen among scientists.

When we’d hung up, I called Nana’s phone, only to be met by Father’s tired voice. I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it, Hannes. He was less condescending than usual; I had expected that put-upon sigh at which everyone in my family excels when talking to me.

I wish he would grow up sometime. Is he happy now? my mother added in the background.

My father gasped, then exclaimed, Malin.

I hung up without saying goodbye, unable to listen to them anymore.

Is he happy now?

What kind of thing is that to say about someone who’s just gotten the most dreadful news of his life? Mom was never very fond of Nana—except for when it came to her money and the house—but this was low even for her. At least Father seemed to agree.

Nana and Hannes forever.

Not anymore.

Now, my tears keep rolling down my cheeks, wetting my sweater. My heart is like an open wound, infested with puss and sorrow, and sitting here at Nana’s house—my house now, I guess, after thirteen months of fighting for it—I feel like it’ll never heal again.

With a stuttering breath, I wipe my eyes on my sleeve. I get to my feet, square my shoulders, and walk around to the back.

It’s not as bad as I’d feared, yet at the same time, it’s worse. Nana died before she had time to harvest last year, and it shows. The biannuals and the perennials have self-seeded, and not in orderly, organized rows. Whatever annual plants she’d planted last year had died, leaving behind brown dead flowers and vegetables.

The herbs growing in the raised beds have fared reasonably well; the mint has loved to be left unsupervised and is trying its best to make its way out of the contained area and down onto the grass.

But everything else…

I sigh, fall to my knees, and randomly start pulling weeds. There’s no method to my weeding, but I need to do something with my hands. I work and I cry and I work and I cry until my eyes are so puffy I can hardly see what I’m doing anymore. I sit on my heels and dry my face with the back of my hand, not caring if I leave behind traces of dirt. Oh, Nana, I sigh. Why did you have to leave me?

I pull a carrot out of the ground and wipe off the dirt on the grass before I take a bite. My parents would faint with apoplexy and probably pop a vein or two in their brains if they saw me now—do you know how much bacteria there are in soil, Hannes?—but I don’t care.

When I was little, Nana always took me out to the garden and harvested tiny, tender carrots for me to eat, even though they still had much growing to do. My parents had lectured her on how unhealthy it was, and she’d promised she’d never do it again, but her eyes twinkled, and I knew she was just saying what they wanted to hear with no intention of obeying their orders. What they don’t see won’t hurt them, Hannes.

The carrot is sweet and tastes of sunshine and the earth and makes me miss Nana even more. When I’ve eaten it all, I throw the haulm on the compost, and fish the house key from my pocket, entering through the back door, leading into the utility room.

The house smells musty, and I leave open the door to let in some fresh air. Except for the odor, everything seems normal. Nana’s rain boots in the garish flower pattern stand neatly in their usual place, waiting for her to shove her tiny feet into them. Her straw hat that made her look like a film star from the fifties hangs on its hook, and in the basket next to the door are the little bits and pieces she’d needed to have nearby when outside, like gloves, kneepads—for my creaky old knees—and the homemade lavender-arnica salve she always used on her hands. I unscrew the lid and inhale. The beeswax and the floral scent bring more tears to my eyes, so I quickly close it again and try to shake off the