The video shows him flipping the table, kicking the chair, and how we run to each other as if we need each other in order to breathe. I am less frightened by seeing this than I would have thought. In fact, my emotions swell, and a warmth courses through my body that has nothing to do with all the alcohol I’ve had.
On-screen, Esben’s mouth touches my cheek. I remember that well. It’s just before I lost my mind, and I cringe, knowing what’s coming. But I don’t look away as I see myself lift my mouth to meet his. The kiss goes on and on. Right now, I shudder a bit. Never have I kissed anyone like this. With the few people I have kissed, the kisses never looked like this. They never felt like this either.
I finally understand how the Internet was spellbound.
The most painful part to watch is when I push from him and leave, when my fear and confusion become too strong for me to fight.
I’m disappointed in myself. Ashamed. Anyone else in my shoes wouldn’t have broken that tie.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“Kissed me?”
“No. Backed away.”
“It’s all right,” he tells me.
Incredible sadness and frustration engulf me. “No, it’s really not. It’s not okay that I have never kissed anyone with a fraction of that urgency before. It’s not okay that I’m afraid of people and relationships and interaction. None of it is okay.”
Esben kneels next to me and tries to soothe my growing upset. “Look, I’m not a shrink, but . . . hell, you’ve kind of been through a lot, and if you ask me, it is okay that you’ve been in a shitty place. Just because that’s where you’ve been doesn’t mean you have to stay there if you don’t want to.”
I think for a few minutes.
“Play it again,” I say quietly. “Play it again.”
Three more times, I watch the video, and Esben stays right beside me. After, when I have memorized every second of our airtime, I turn in the chair. Esben is very calm, I notice. Very together.
Steffi was right, I admit. Maybe it’s my gin haze letting me acknowledge this, but he is gorgeous. Slowly, I lift a hand and place my fingertips on his cheek. Esben does not move while my touch grazes down his face, and I trace the line of his firm jaw and trail down to under his chin. The back of my hand moves inch by inch back up, the feel of his skin enough to keep me there forever. “You shaved,” I say.
He cracks a smile. “I did.”
“Esben?”
“Yeah, Allison?”
“Could I have some more macaroni and cheese? I’m still a little drunk and hungry.”
“Of course,” he answers with a laugh.
Just for a heartbeat, his hand goes over mine, and he gives me a little squeeze.
While the microwave hums in the background, I look through comments under the video. The sheer number of them is incomprehensible. There are over ten thousand. I keep scanning lines, scrolling down, reading a few more.
“What is instalove?” I dive into the second mac and cheese, and Esben lies on his side on the bed, his head propped in his hand.
“Oh . . .” An actual blush floods his cheeks, and I suspect this does not often happen. “Um . . . this is sort of awkward—”
“A lot of people are hashtagging us with instalove.” Now I’m the one blushing. “I mean, not hashtagging us. Hashtagging you. Your video.” I take a large bite and unceremoniously talk with my mouth full. “Why are people doing that?”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, it means, you know, instantaneous love. It’s often used as a derogatory phrase to say that two people fell for each other too quickly. That it is fictional and would never happen in real life. But there’s also a lot of cheering about us. About us and instalove. Because some people believe in that. They say they’ve lived it.”
A rush of humiliation tears through me. Again. I should be getting used to the feeling. But I also feel a teeny bit . . . I don’t know. A good kind of embarrassment.
“The kiss,” he tries to explain, “got to viewers. The video captured the . . . the pull between us. There are a lot of people who latched on to the idea that we should be together.”
“Together?”
“Allison,” he says rather bashfully. “They think we fell in love that day.”
I let this sink in. “How could that happen? That’s nonsensical. And why do they care?”
“That’s a good question. They saw something that reminded them of someone. Something they wanted. They projected their own emotion onto us. Or,” he says cautiously, “they saw something real take place.”
“But . . . I walked away.”
“You did. But people want to believe in love. They want to believe that you walked away for a reason. That maybe you’d come back.” Seeing Esben rattled is sort of cute. “Oh, and before you see it yourself, I should probably tell you that there’s another hashtag floating around.” He literally clears his throat, presumably to buy time. “It’s thiskissthiskiss, along with people wishing for thiskissthiskissparttwo.”
I have to control my voice. “Do you believe in this . . . this instalove?”
“Instalove. No, maybe not love. It’s called that, but it’s sort of obnoxious and thoughtless, if you ask me. It discounts that powerful things can happen in a matter of seconds. I’ve seen it over and over. Not quite what . . . um . . . what happened here, but I’ve been pretty stunned by how people’s raw feelings come out in only a few minutes.” He pauses. “It’s what you do after those moments that matters.”
My world seems to spin harder and faster, and I could slam it to a stop, but I don’t. I take a risk. “So, what are you going to do?” I ask.
Esben looks at me thoughtfully. “Wait. I’m going to wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“You.”
“Oh.”
He smiles lightly. “You’ve obviously not been having the best reaction to everything that’s gone down, so I’m just going to wait and see where you land. Or maybe you already know what you’re going to do?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I knew, but then you fed me macaroni and cheese and haven’t been at all the jerk I thought you were.”
His eyes sparkle. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“I’m sorry for being so rude earlier. Tonight and in class. That day . . .” I sigh at myself. “I’m kind of a mess.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I’m not like you, Esben. I’m not social or happy or at ease with myself. With the world.”
He gives me a cocky smile. “Not yet.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But I smile anyway.
I go back to the website and scroll all the way to the top. This page, I realize, is Esben’s home page, where everything he’s done is centralized. I click a past post that’s titled Saving Private Parrot and read for a minute. “You found someone’s parrot?” I ask.
“Yeah. It was pretty cool. Someone who lives a few towns away messaged me and asked if I would help get the word out about his escaped parrot. Cute little thing named Peep. Somehow, he got out of his cage, and his owner was really upset. So, I posted about it, and then someone shared it on Facebook and got a comment about seeing a parrot on a parking meter outside of a tattoo shop. So, I tagged the tattoo shop, and the owner went out to look for him, but before he could catch him, he flew away. However”—Esben is getting more and more animated as he talks—“he did see the bird fly to the top of the building across the street. There’s a dance studio on the third floor, and some ten-year-old ballerina commented that she was at the studio, and she has a pet parrot and knows all about catching them. So, the kid goes up to the roof.” He stops and gives me a reassuring look. “Don’t worry. Flat roof. And, sure as hell, she holds out her arm in some way the parrot must’ve liked, and he flew right to her. The tattoo guy got a picture of it. See?”
I glance back at the computer and scroll down. There she is, tutu and all, holding a parrot.
“And in class the other day?” I
ask. “People were yelling something about a hashtag. Rock yourself? Is that right? It’s something you started, yes? What does that hashtag mean?”
“Yeah, that was fun, and it got a lot of comments. It was about asking people to post pictures of themselves and to say what they were proud of, or what they loved about themselves. Sort of a time to throw out stupid social standards and appreciate who we are. So, I asked followers to celebrate what they loved about themselves with pictures that weren’t overly filtered. Or brag about something cool they’d done for themselves, for a friend, for a stranger . . . whatever made them feel good. Anything, really.” He laughs.
“So, what happened?” I ask. “Give me an example.”
“Oh, um . . . well, one guy posted a picture of himself with his daughter. She’s probably only five or so, and this dad let her put bows in his hair and beard, and he had some feathery boa thing around his neck and a tiara on. He posted the picture from a crowded pancake house and said that he was proud to be a single father who would do anything to make his daughter happy.” He grows serious. “This dad sent me an e-mail. The girl’s mother left when she was six months old. He was inspired by the rock-yourself hashtag, and when his daughter wanted to play dress up, he went with it. When she then wanted to go out for pancakes, he did. And they had a blast. I shared his picture as a separate post, and people loved it. He wrote me again afterward, telling me that because of all the online support and how validated he felt, he and his daughter are going to make every Sunday Glamorous Girls Pancake Day.”
“I love that. You must be proud.” I’m barely comprehending the enormity of what Esben does.
“I don’t know about proud. I just enjoy putting stuff out there. Giving people the opportunity to shine. To feel good about themselves.”
“You give people hope and . . . joy,” I say incredulously, “and comfort in what is usually a crappy world.”
He thinks for a moment. “I wasn’t able to do that for you.”
“You did. I just don’t like that you did,” I say reflexively.
“Why?”
“Because those things are temporary for me.” I rub my eyes, aware now of how utterly exhausted I am, and more so, of how frightened I am to leave this room. To leave Esben. Suddenly, I want Steffi. She will make everything better. “I need to go home.”
He nods. “Okay. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”
“What? God, no. What if someone sees us together? Everyone’ll go all hashtag crazy. I’m fine.”
Esben rises to a stand and shakes his head. “It’s late, and there is no way I’m letting you walk across campus alone.”
“Okay,” I agree as I step tipsily into the hallway and send Steffi a quick text. “But walk twenty feet behind me.”
“So it looks like I’m stalking you?”
“Yes.” I giggle. “I mean, no. Just be casual, and don’t look crazy. Don’t pull out a knife. Or a bow and arrow or whatever.” I start toward the stairwell.
“A bow and arrow?” he asks with a laugh.
“I dunno. Like Robin Hood.” My footsteps echo as I go down the stairs, and then I hear Esben begin the descent.
“Because I steal from the rich and give to the poor?” Esben asks from behind me.
“Because, knowing you, you’d still look good in tights.” I shove open the dorm door. The evening air is chilly, and I cross my arms for warmth.
The sound of his chuckle dances in the night. “Thank you, I guess?”
I walk a bit more and then glance back at him. “You do give to the poor, too, in a way.”
The short walk is silent, and I can feel his eyes on me as I fuss for my key. My movements are clumsy, and it takes a stupidly long time for me to retrieve the key.
“Found it!” I yell in celebration. I undo the lock, pull open the door, and halt. I’m not sure how to say good night. My fatigue and emotional confusion and the leftover effects of alcohol are weighing me down and making it hard to be socially smart. So, I just stand there, with my back to him, and debate what to say.
“Allison?”
Slowly, I turn and lean my weight against the open door. “Yeah?”
Esben is standing with a good distance between us. He really did stay twenty feet away from me as he walked me home. “I’m glad you came by.”
“Okay.”
“I am.” He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Light from one of the lampposts casts a glow over him. “I’ll see you Monday?”
“Okay.” I start to turn inside, but then I stop myself. “Esben? I’m glad I came by, too.”
I go downstairs to my room. Steffi is wearing my robe and emerging from the second bedroom, her hair messed up.
“Well, there you are! Did you let him have it?” she asks.
I squint at her. “What are you doing?” Then I look past her and see a blanket tossed on the bed. “Oh my God. Did you have sex next to care-package Jenga?”
She makes a mock shocked face. “How dare you suggest anything of the sort.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, fine, yes!” she squeals and begins jumping up and down. “And it was superfun!”
“And how was it?” I ask with a laugh. “Details, please, my dear.”
“More important than my sexual prowess, though, is what happened with you?”
I stumble in my place a bit, fatigue taking over. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand. I’m crashing hard in more ways than one. “I just want to go to bed. So sorry. Can we just go to bed?”
She comes over and holds my face in her hands while she examines me. “You look wiped. Yes. And you’ll tell me everything tomorrow. But it was okay?” she asks gently.
I nod. “Yeah. It was okay.” A yawn overtakes me, and I feel crazy needy and helpless all of a sudden. “Will you sleep with me like we used to?”
“Of course.”
When Steffi and I lived together, we shared a room, and I used to crawl into her bed. It made me feel safer, less alone. I need that now.
She is part sister, part best friend, part mother, and tonight, when we crawl into bed together, she lets me snuggle into the crook of her arm, as she has done so many nights before.
Steffi smooths out my hair as I begin to drift off. “I’m glad it was okay,” she says quietly. “That’s a good start.”
CHAPTER 11
BRAVERY
We both sleep until after noon, and I’m disoriented when I wake. This is the latest I’ve slept in ages, and I’m surprisingly not very hungover. Even more surprisingly, I seem to have gotten the best sleep I’ve had in ages, and I feel deeply rested. My brain is a scrambled mess from last night, but I’m rested.
Steffi and I spend the day in our pajamas, and while she paints my toenails deep burgundy, I hear details of her evening with plaid-shirt boy that both make me blush and make me happy for her. I ask to hear about her classes and her cramped studio apartment that she loves and about the taco truck that parks on her street every Tuesday, and she answers all of my questions. I give her a lot of credit for giving me space today, because not once does she ask about Esben.
When the sky begins to darken, I am finally ready. Casually, I say, “So, it turns out that Esben is not a terrible person.”
“Oh?” Steff is rooting through my closet and trying hard not to frown at my unfashionable clothing.
“I watched the video.”
“Did you?” She takes a red top off the hanger and holds it against her torso and assesses herself in the mirror. “This is actually cute.”
I laugh. “You can stop pretending that you don’t want to know what happened with Esben.”
She flings the top at me playfully. “Well, thank God!” Steff jumps on the bed and crashes down to a sitting position. “Tell me. Tell me!”
So, I do. Every detail that I can remember, although I do leave out the part when I set my hand on his face. And the part when he put his hand on mine . . . I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.
Steffi leans back against the headboard and hugs a pillow while she listens. “So, he’s really not a monster. Who knew?”
I roll my eyes. “You knew!”
“Fine, yes. But you had to see with your own eyes.” She looks at me directly. “Allison? He’s as perfect as they come. He is.”
I don’t know what to say to this.
“Look, I doubt people as much as you do, but Esben is not like most people. Even I can see that.”
I nod.
“You don’t need to keep pushing him away. He’s not a threat.”
“Maybe.”
“Might be nice for you to have a friend.”
“I have you.”
“Allison, of course you have me.” She reaches for her shoes. “But Esben is special. You know how you and I are exceptions? Esben is, too. Just a thought.” She stands and throws on a coat.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask.
“Chinese food. Last night’s fling recommended a place a block away. I’m starving, so I’ll go pick up dinner. We need at least five orders of fried dumplings.”
“I’ll come with you.” I start to get up, but she stops me.
“My dear, I love you, but you need a shower. You reek.”
“Well, thanks. You don’t smell so hot either.”
“I smell like sexy sex. But I’ll shower after dinner. I’ve got an early flight, so I’m going to have to get up at the crack of dawn to drive to Boston. No drinking tonight. Or not much drinking. We’re cutting ourselves off by eleven. Midnight, let’s say midnight.”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m drinking after last night. I don’t need to do anything else idiotic.”
“You need to redefine idiotic.” Steff swings open the door to the hall. “Back soon, smelly girl.”
She is right. I do stink, so I strip down and put on my robe. The women’s bathroom is crowded this evening, with girls primping for Saturday night parties. Carmen is leaning into a mirror and applying lipstick. Here hair is shorter now and colored a light purple that’s very pretty. I walk past her, then think twice and decide to make eye contact in the mirror.