180 Seconds

  “Ugh, that’s boring. Who cares? I need to hear what’s up with you. You’re the one with the dramatically fun life.” She does indeed sound exhausted, but I know she’s trying to perk up for me.

  “Um . . . will you walk me through how to curl my hair the way you did the other night? The night I went to Esben’s room.”

  There’s silence for a moment. Then I can hear the satisfaction in her voice as she understands what I’m really telling her. “You were brave, weren’t you? Esben liked your hair, and then you were brave! You took a chance, and it paid off.”

  She begins hurling questions at me, and, because she insists, I walk her through my day, leaving out nothing. By the time we hang up, Steffi knows enough details that even she has run out of things to ask.

  Then on Tuesday night, I am in the midst of studying when there is a knock on my door. “Hey, you. Can I come in?”

  Esben is wearing a dark-green shirt under his leather jacket. He is all the colors of some magical forest that I want to get lost in. “Hi.” I step back and try not to look as mesmerized as I feel.

  “I’m on my way to go meet Kerry, and I’m already late, so I have, like, two minutes. She wants to show me what she’s been working on in her painting class, but I had to come by here first.”

  “You did?” Even these two small words are shaky.

  He nods. “I missed you today. Is that weird? It is, I guess. But it’s true. I had a really good time yesterday, and today has pretty much whoppingly paled in comparison. So, I came to see you.” Esben rocks on his toes a bit. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah. It is.” It’s so beyond okay that I want to start jumping up and down like a lunatic. Instead, I do something else that I really want to do. With less awkwardness than I would have anticipated, I step in and put my arms under his jacket and around his waist. I cannot believe that I’m doing this, and while I am absolutely trembling with nerves and insecurity, I want this intimacy so much.

  Esben puts his arms over my shoulders and draws me close. “This is why I came by. This is what I needed.”

  I relax into his hold, and when he softly kisses the top of my head, I turn and rest my cheek against his chest. We stand as one for a few minutes, until he gives me a quick squeeze and says, “Damn, I gotta go. I wish I didn’t.”

  My hands rub his back briefly. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After he leaves, I inflate the unicorn Simon sent. Maybe it’s because Esben mentioned unicorns yesterday; I don’t know. But I set the pink monstrosity on top of the desk in the spare room.

  On Wednesday, Esben sits next to me in psych class. His arm touches mine the entire time, and I take in probably 10 percent of the professor’s lecture. He walks me to my next class, as though we’re in some old-fashioned era and he’s courting me. I could die over the sweetness and respect of this. We stand outside my classroom, only inches apart, and I’m too giddy to look up at him, so I busy myself, fussing with the zipper on his jacket.

  He whispers in my ear, “So, can I get your cell number?”

  “Yes,” I say too breathily.

  On Thursday evening, Esben blows up my phone with texts.

  He sends a selfie he took wearing a shocking neon-orange bulky-knit sweater his mother just sent him. He’s making an exaggerated frightened face. WTF? he texts. My mother has gone insane.

  After that, he sends a picture of Chewbacca with the note: Because . . . Chewbacca.

  Then a joke about a cow and a pretzel that I don’t understand, and before I can reply, he writes, Yeah, I don’t get it either. Some dude keeps posting it on my FB wall with a million LOLs. Help me! Help me!

  Later, he sends a list of three important things he thinks I should know about him: 1. I often wear mismatched socks. 2. I loathe corn on the cob. I know I’m probably the only person in the world who does. So, I turn the ears on their ends and cut off the kernels, which always makes a huge mess, because they just fly all over the place, and only a few land on my plate. 3. I think you’re incredible, and I’d love to run over to your room right now and tell you that in person and hug you and listen to the sound of your breathing, but I don’t want you to get freaked.

  I stare at number three and smile. Then I take a screenshot of it, because I want to keep this text forever.

  I reply. 1. It’s an interesting fashion choice. Maybe I could teach you how to do laundry. 2. Corn on the cob is annoying, and I support you 100 percent in this. We can research some sort of dome under which one cuts the corn and thereby contains the kernels. 3. I’m not freaked.

  Then I think better of it and text him again. Okay, I’m trying not to be freaked.

  A few minutes later, I add, Fine, maybe I’m freaked, but I’m also very happy.

  I’ll take it, he writes back. I’m way behind on writing a paper that’s due on Monday, so I’m going to work tomorrow night (yay me!), but do you want to hang out on Saturday? Please say yes, because that’s the only thing that will get me through writing about The Brothers Karamazov. I hate those brothers.

  I reply, I’d be happy to help you survive Dostoyevsky by accepting. Sure.

  See you in class tomorrow, he texts. Sleep tight, pretty girl.

  I take another screenshot. I’m on the verge of texting the two images to Steffi, but I stop. I want to keep these just for myself.

  And then I do sleep well, better than I can remember.

  On Friday, Esben takes his now-usual seat next to me in class, and midway through, I watch as he slides his hand under mine, entwining our fingers. “Allowed?” he asks softly. I love when he smiles without actually smiling. It’s all in his eyes.

  “More than allowed,” I say. “Wanted.”

  He lifts my hand to his mouth. I am entranced, seeing him lightly touch his lips to my skin, the way he closes his eyes for a moment as he does so, the shape of his mouth, his sweetness . . . it’s enough to make me nearly pass out. My hand stays in his for the rest of class.

  Later, I call Simon.

  “Hi there, peaches. How are you?”

  I am sitting on the edge of my bed, and I begin bouncing up and down. “Simon? I’m calling to tell you something.”

  “Oh. You . . . are? Okay, great.” Simon stumbles a bit, probably because I haven’t exactly been prone to randomly calling to chat. Today, though, is different. “Your roommate ditched the leopard seals and came back?”

  “Better.”

  “The inflatable unicorn I sent is now officially your new roommate?”

  I glance into the spare room and eye the ridiculous pink atrocity that has been sitting on the desk chair for the past few days. “I suppose that’s true. But that’s not it.”

  “Okay, so what’s your news?”

  I sit still, preparing to say this out loud. “I like someone.”

  “Liam Neeson?”

  “No!”

  “Flo from the Progressive commercials?”

  “Simon!”

  “Miley Cyrus? Was she wearing something kooky?”

  “It’s the boy I mentioned before. Here at school.”

  “Ah, okay, then. He’s got your interest?” I can tell Simon is desperately trying to shield me from the surprise in his tone. “Well, wow. What’s he like?”

  “He held my hand and picked up ice cubes, and he has a carful of motivational buttons.”

  “Intriguing. But does he have an inflatable unicorn?”

  I stop bouncing. “It’s actually possible.”

  “Then I like him.”

  I fall onto my back and stare at the ceiling. “I really like him, too, Simon. His name is Esben Baylor. Google him.”

  “I will do that. It’s my job to investigate my kid’s suitors.”

  “You’ve been waiting for this moment for a while, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to be ready. That’s all.” But I hear his keyboard clacking in the background.

  “Okay. I have to get dinner, but I wante
d to tell you this. I’ll call you again soon.”

  I’m about to leave for the cafeteria, when I stop myself and check the student directory for Carmen’s room number. Then, two floors up from mine, I stand outside her door and have an internal debate that ends with me knocking.

  “Allison,” she says with a smile. Carmen has dyed her hair baby pink, and it’s whooshed off her face in a most dramatic manner. “What’s up?”

  “I was heading to the caf to get something to eat. Do you want to come with me?”

  She pulls her student ID from her back pocket. “I was just on my way there. It’s breakfast-for-dinner night, so I’m about to omelet myself silly.”

  “Then I will omelet myself silly, too.”

  She fist-bumps me and smiles.

  We eat omelets, and nothing disastrous happens. She is from Wisconsin and has five brothers, and she’s a biology major who wants to eventually become a conservation scientist. I learn that she has two pet chinchillas at home, won an egg-carrying contest when she was nine, and likes to read biographies about former child stars.

  For dessert, we have waffle sundaes, and midway through the whipped cream and chocolate mess, I realize how much I like not eating alone. I’m resembling an actual integrated student. It’s strange and wonderful.

  And I like her.

  Then, finally, it is Saturday.

  I’d assumed Esben meant an evening date, but he wants to pick me up at noon. I’m not experienced enough to know if a lunch date shows less romantic intention than an evening date, but it’s a possibility. It’s nearly unbelievable that I’m even using words like “date” and “romantic” and applying them to myself, but the happiness I’ve felt over the past week is like nothing I’ve experienced before, and even I am not stupid enough to push that away.

  That doesn’t, however, mean that I am not feeling wobbly and nervous as I stand on the steps of my dorm, overlooking the tree-lined street. I wait for a bit, then check the time.

  He’s ten minutes late.

  I take a seat. The leaves are in the process of turning red and orange under the October sky, and I look up as a breeze rustles the colors into a rich blur. I adjust the sheer pale-blue scarf around my neck and run my fingers through my bangs. Since I don’t know where we’re going, getting dressed was all the more stressful, but I went with jeans, ankle boots, and a shirt that matches my scarf. I twist the sweater I’m holding and scan the street for Esben’s car.

  I study the gray stone stairs and follow the lines of the cracks. Then I stare at the grassy area and count blades of grass. I get to ninety-eight before I shake myself out of my haze.

  Now he’s twenty minutes late.

  I’m stricken by the possibility that he has stood me up, that this was all some cruel joke. Oh God. I stand and turn to walk up the steps, when I hear brakes squeal and a car door slam.

  “Hey! Hey! Allison! Wait! Wait!”

  With my back to him, I exhale a sound of relief. The patter of his footsteps as he runs up the stairs is practically musical, but I am unable to turn around. I feel his hand on my back as he rounds to my side. “Where are you going? You giving up on me so soon?”

  “I thought maybe . . . I didn’t know . . .” I pivot a bit and smile apologetically.

  “Did you think I was blowing you off?” he says, noticeably upset. “Allison . . .”

  I shrug with embarrassment. “You could’ve changed your mind.”

  “Not a chance. I’m sorry I’m late. My battery died and I had to get a jump.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Come on.” Esben grabs my hand and leads me down to his car. He’s about to open my door, when he stops. “I would never stand you up. One of these days, you’ll trust me.”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s me. And . . . the world. Everything. It’s not you.”

  “Then one of these days, you’ll trust the world and everything.” He opens the door for me, and when I sit down, he leans in and kisses me quickly on the cheek. “But first, we eat. You up for a drive?”

  “Sure. Where are we going?”

  He starts the engine. “We’re in Maine, yes? So what must we eat?”

  “Mexican food.”

  He laughs. “Nooooo.”

  “Sushi? Parsnips? Frozen pizza?”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Nuts? Okay. Pecans, cashews . . .”

  His profile when he laughs again is hard to look away from, so I don’t.

  “You’re not the best guesser,” he teases. “We’re in Maine, girl! We’ve got to get fried clams. Well, unless you’re repulsed by seafood, in which case you and I are going to have to have a very serious talk.”

  “Actually, I love fried clams. All seafood, really. Simon and I go to a place in Boston that’s so good. Down in Faneuil Hall. The Union—”

  “Oyster House!” he finishes. “You do the raw bar?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “God, I knew I liked you.” He lets out what is indisputably a contented sigh and reaches for my hand as he pulls onto the highway. “Get ready, because this place will blow your mind. It’s almost an hour to get there, but I promise it’s worth it. And then, I thought we could go to this great orchard and pick apples and pumpkins. You know, a New England–themed day. Cool?”

  I tighten my hand around his. Esben is not just taking me out for a quick lunch. He wants to spend the day with me. “Cool.”

  CHAPTER 15

  GO FOR THE DREAM

  Esben is right. The drive is worth it, and we haven’t even eaten yet. We’re at a traditional fish shack, complete with window service only and outdoor picnic tables, and I already know I’m going to love it.

  I’m seated on one of the benches while he’s getting our food from the window. Esben is leaning forward against the take-out counter, chatting with the girl at the register and occasionally calling back to the guy frying up our platters. He’s so social and friendly that it’s astounding. I can’t ever recall starting random conversations with strangers. What undeniably has my attention more than Esben’s outgoing nature, though, is his breathtakingly hot backside. I cannot help myself, because his jeans hug his shape with excruciating perfection. I’m starving, but I feel a certain disappointment when he stands up fully and turns to bring our food. Of course, the front of him isn’t too shabby either . . .

  I assumed he’d sit across from me, so my stomach flutters when he straddles the bench I’m on, facing me. Lord, this boy makes me so nervous and so comfortable at the same time, and I can’t take my eyes off him.

  “How’s that look, huh?” he asks.

  “So, so good.” Then I realize that he is talking about the food.

  He totally catches me ogling him, but before I can turn away, he’s got a hand caressing the back of my neck. “It does look good. Best thing I’ve seen in ages.”

  His hand glides over my face, and he delicately moves his thumb across my lips. Esben slides nearer and slowly leans in. His mouth tantalizingly close, he whispers, “Best. Thing. In. Ages.”

  And then I shut my eyes and feel his lips on mine.

  This is a gentle, tender kiss that lasts only a few heartbeats, but it only takes those few heartbeats for me to get blissfully lost.

  Then he quickly kisses my cheek and sits back. “Hungry, gorgeous?”

  Somehow, I am able to reply. “Ravenous.” The smell is heavenly, and my now-grumbling stomach is probably the only thing preventing me from doing something stupid, like jumping into his arms and cramming my tongue down his throat.

  “We’ve got it all here. Fried clams, oysters, scallops, shrimp, calamari, and haddock. Plus about five pounds of fresh French fries. Tartar sauce or ketchup?”

  “Both. And, oh God, fried oysters? Most places don’t have those.”

  Esben picks one up, dunks it in both sauces, and brings it to my mouth. “I’m about to upend your world.”

  I smile. “I think you already have.”

  He kisses my cheek
again. “Eat.”

  I let him feed me the oyster, and while it doesn’t hold a candle to the heated pleasure of his kiss, it’s still damn satisfying. Between this juicy oyster that tastes of the sea and Esben’s alluring presence, this is by far the best meal of my life.

  We work our way through the mountain of seafood and wash it down with a large soda that we share. I don’t ever want to leave this picnic table, but Esben is throwing away our trash and telling me about the orchard that’s nearby as he leads me back to the car. It’s a quick ten-minute drive that ends with a bumpy stretch on a dirt road, and after finding a spot in the packed lot, he bounds from the car excitedly.

  His face lights up as he looks over the orchard. “This totally reminds me of being a kid. My parents used to take Kerry and me apple picking every year, and then my dad would make apple pie and apple coffee cake. I love my mother, but she can’t cook to save her life. She is, though, a gifted pumpkin carver, and she’d spend forever assessing and rating pumpkins before buying any.” He beckons and keeps his arm out, waiting for me. “Come on! This is going to be fun.”

  Very happily, I go to him. As though we have been doing this for years, his arm falls over my shoulder. “What kind of carvings did your mom do?” I ask as we walk.

  “Everything. And not just traditional witches and ghosts and scary faces. Kerry and I would request weird stuff, too. Like, one time Kerry asked for a porcupine, and my mom nailed it. Last year, she texted me a picture of the pumpkin she did in my honor.” He laughs. “It was a hashtag, and she said it took her ten minutes and that’s all I was getting, because the year before she’d spent an unreasonable amount of time on the pair of flamingos I wanted.” He stops short. “Oh God, Allison. I’m sorry.”

  I’m confused. “Sorry for what?”

  “I’m going on and on about my family and childhood outings and stuff, and . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m really sorry.”