180 Seconds

  “You don’t have to apologize at all. It’s not like I don’t know that people can grow up with nice families.”

  “It was still dumb of me.”

  “Hey.” I move to stand in front of him and get him to look at me. “I’m glad you had all that. Really. And I like hearing about it. Don’t . . . look, Esben, you have to tell me about good stuff like this. If you don’t, then it would mean you pity me or you’re protecting me, and I don’t want that. I don’t need protection from your past. I need protection from mine.”

  He thinks on this. “Fair enough.”

  “Stop looking like you just ran over my dog.” I grab his arm and pull him ahead. “So, let’s go pick apples. And if you’ve inherited carving skills from your mother, then we may need a few pumpkins.”

  “I make some fierce triangle eyes . . .”

  I laugh. “Good enough.”

  We begin walking. It’s quite beautiful here, the rows and rows of trees spotted with red and green apples, the light smattering between leaves, and the smell of autumn rich in the air. I’ve never been apple picking before, and Esben seems to find how much fun I’m having amusing. We work our way up and down rows, and he soon stops picking any himself and just watches me as I peer through branches to find perfect apples.

  “You’re very selective,” he notices. “Especially for a first timer.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m selective. I want to do this right. What if we come home with wormy, bruised apples? You’ll thank me later.” I’m eyeing a really big apple that I’m dying to get, but it’s out of reach. “Can you get that one?”

  “How about I help you get it?” He squats down a little. “Hop on. We’ll piggyback you up to it.”

  If Esben wants me to plaster my body against his, I’m not about to refuse. As he stands, I tighten my legs around him and raise my hand. I’m at the perfect height, and I pluck the apple from the tree.

  He starts to lower me, and I clutch on, stopping him. “Esben?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to get all weird and feel bad for me.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “This is my first piggyback ride.”

  He hikes me up higher, secures my legs in his arms, and starts walking. “Then I won’t put you down yet.”

  We leave our apple bag under the tree, and for a while, Esben walks me through the orchard. I rest my head on my arm and watch the trees go by; then I pull my fingers through his loose curls and see how the rays of sun pick up colors and highlights that I haven’t noticed before. I am more relaxed and at peace in this moment than I could have imagined.

  “You must be getting tired.” I lean around a little. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime. You ready for pumpkins?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “If you tell me you’ve never carved a pumpkin . . .”

  I slide down his body. “Technically, no.” I’m not sure why I find this funny, but I do, even though Esben clearly does not. This poor guy has no idea how many firsts I have never achieved.

  He throws up his hands. “What? I’m going to make it my mission for you to do all the stuff you haven’t. And why are you laughing?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe because you’re so outraged over this. It’s cute. I’ve helped scoop out the disgusting pumpkin guts. Does that count?”

  “Nooooo! It does not count. Simon doesn’t allow pumpkins at his house?”

  “I’m not really . . . into holidays much. They were always a mixed bag growing up. Even when they were fun, that fun never lasted. I’d have, you know, a great Halloween, and then be out of that house before Thanksgiving. I kind of learned not to get invested. I’m sure Simon would like it if I were a huge Christmas fan or whatever, but . . . I don’t know.” Esben’s face makes me laugh again. “It’s not a big deal!”

  “Come on. We’re buying you a pumpkin. Or twenty.”

  While I was fussy about apples, it takes Esben thirty minutes to find a pumpkin that suits his carving needs. They all look the same to me, but I enjoy walking alongside him as he stops and starts, occasionally bending down to roll a pumpkin around.

  At one point, he picks up what looks to me like a perfectly nice one and says sadly, “I’m so sorry. You are beautiful and perfectly round, but you do not have a stem, and, therefore, you are unfit for becoming a jack-o’-lantern. There are standards that have to be met. You can be a pie. Or bread.”

  “Or pumpkin bars? Those are really good. Simon makes them. Chocolate ganache, a layer of pumpkin cream, crushed cookies . . .”

  “I like everything I’ve heard about this Simon fellow. He’s a good dad, huh?”

  “He is.”

  “But you don’t call him Dad?”

  “Oh.” We walk down the path while Esben keeps looking. “I don’t. I guess because he adopted me when I was so old.”

  “Does he mind?”

  “He’s never said if he does.” I kick a stone. I haven’t thought about this before.

  Esben absolutely refuses to let me pay for the pumpkins and apples, even though he already paid for lunch, so I wander to look at display shelves set up with jams, a few baked goods, fudge, and locally made syrups. When I round back to the register, Esben is in a full-blown conversation with the man in line behind him. They’re having a back-and-forth exchange about Maine attractions, and Esben is recommending our lunch spot.

  “Oh, yeah, man! You have to go. We just ate there, and you won’t find better seafood anywhere.”

  “That right? We’ll drive on over then, if I can get my wife to leave the orchard. It’s like she’s never seen a tree before.” He winks. “We’ve been on the road all day. Drove from New York City.”

  “Really?” Esben smiles and hands money to the cashier.

  “Yes. But this was worth those hours in the car.” The man looks around, then back at Esben, and leans in. “Want to know something?” he says a bit nervously. “After years working in the boring business world, we’re going to do something fun and quirky. Finally. I’ve been a milk-shake addict all my life,” he confesses with a laugh, “so we’re starting a business around it. But not just regular milk shakes. Ones with skewers that stick out of the shake, loaded with extras. Brownie bites, fresh-baked cookies, candy bars. And in the colder months, we’ll also do what we call ‘hot milk shakes.’ Coffee, tea, and cider drinks that’ll come with doughnuts, pumpkin bread, and all that.” He can barely contain his excitement.

  Esben moves aside while the man pays for his pumpkin. “What a completely cool idea.” He pauses, and suddenly I smile, because I know what he’s about to do. He puts out an open hand. “My name is Esben Baylor. Any chance I could take a picture of you and your wife?”

  Ten minutes later, Esben has posted a photo of this man and his wife, standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch, with a caption that tells their story and the hashtag #goforthedream.

  After the car is loaded with apples and pumpkins and the four cornstalks that he’s somehow squished into the backseat, we start the drive. I am glued to my phone, watching in awe as the comments pour in over this picture. I tap between his public Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter pages and his home page. It’s impossible to keep up.

  I drop the phone in my lap and stare at him.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Who are you? I mean . . . you have hundreds of comments in a matter of seconds about milk-shake man and his wife.”

  “What are people saying?”

  I check again. The numbers are already way up. “Really nice things.” I scroll and hardly know what to read aloud, because the sheer volume of comments is overwhelming. I read, “‘I’ve always wanted to do something like this. Good for them. Hope they rock it out.’ Lots like that. Someone wants to know the name of the store and when they’ll be opening. Another person says . . .” I squint and then giggle. “She says that the milk-shake dude is crazy hot, and she’s single, in case his wife ends up hating milk-
shake life and runs off to Barbados with the ice-cream delivery boy.”

  “Well, that would be a sad ending to an otherwise inspiring story.”

  “How did you start doing all this? I mean, again, who are you?”

  He laughs and pops on a pair of sunglasses. “This? This wasn’t a big deal. But it’s an interesting world, with interesting people. You just have to keep your eyes open.” Suddenly, he pulls the car into the far right lane and takes an exit. “Speaking of ice cream, I totally forgot. There’s a stand here that’s insane.”

  “How do you know about all these places?”

  “I like driving around, checking out little towns. Maine’s got some quirky places. Campus can get a little claustrophobic.”

  I think about how much I love sequestering myself in my room. I may have to give that up.

  Esben takes us to another window-service-only place, and we get in line. “Good. I was worried they’d already closed for the season.” His arm goes over my shoulder again. “It’s soft-serve ice cream, and they only have seven flavors or something, but it’s so good. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you. And not just about the ice cream.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And get the blueberry.”

  So, I do. And it’s freaking outstanding, with bits of fresh berries swirled through the creamy blue ice cream. We sit under an umbrella at a small table, with our giant cones, and I can’t resist checking his comments again. It’s daunting. Then I stumble on more than one that makes me sit bolt upright.

  Esben frowns. “What is it? God, did some jackass say something stupid? I’ll block or ban or delete him. I don’t put up with that stuff. Thank God it doesn’t happen often.”

  “Um, no, actually. But you know how sometimes people comment on one thing but they’re talking about another?”

  “Yeah . . . I hate those. Like, I could put up a post of a chicken, and some dude will be all, ‘Chickens are fine, but I once had a ferret who liked wearing knit hats,’ and then forty-five people pipe in with their own ferret stories—”

  “Esben.” I wish I had a pair of sunglasses to hide behind. “It seems that people are still wondering what happened with us.”

  “Ahhh. Yes. That’s been going on all week.” He leans back. “Do you want to answer them?”

  “Answer them? What do you mean?”

  “You’re not on Twitter or Facebook or anything, right?” he asks.

  I shake my head, and he thinks for a minute.

  “I could introduce you.” His smile takes over.

  “What do you mean?” It turns out that neither of us like eating the cone, so I take both and toss them. “How?”

  “Come here.” He scoots back his chair and pats his lap. “Sit.”

  I go to him and sit with my legs crossing his and my arm draped over his back. “Yes?”

  “First,” he says slowly, “first, though, there should be this.”

  For the second time today, he kisses me on the mouth. This one, though, lasts for way more than a few heartbeats. His mouth is cold, and he tastes like fresh blueberries, but the kiss is definitely hot. How anyone can be so sweet and tender, and also make me want to rip off his shirt right here at this ice-cream place, is beyond me. He’s ignited my virtually forgotten thirst for romance and lust so easily.

  I come up for air before I really do start tearing off his clothes. “I’m pretty sure that your second thing won’t be as good.”

  He kisses me again, just for a few moments. “Probably not.” He holds his phone in front of us, and I see our image reflected back. “What do you think?”

  “We take a selfie?” I ask hesitantly. “And you post it?”

  He nods and lifts his sunglasses. “Only if you want.”

  I lose myself in the amber of his eyes and think. The idea of taking this step is a bit intimidating, but it also feels exciting. I look down at the ground and keep thinking. And then I catch sight of something that makes me smile. Esben has on one blue sock and one white sock. I don’t have to think anymore. “Yes, let’s post a picture.”

  “You do know,” he warns, “that we’ll get some not-so-nice comments.”

  “From girls especially. I know.” I don’t say anything; I simply turn, touch the side of my face to his, and look to the lens.

  Esben posts our picture.

  Allison, meet everyone. Everyone, meet Allison. #thiskissthiskiss #allison #180

  I don’t care about the comments, the reactions. Not right now. All I care about is that I was able to let him—let us—put this out there.

  It’s a damn milestone for me, and I will never forget this day. Or him.

  CHAPTER 16

  GRUDGE

  A few weeks later, Esben, his sister, Kerry, and I are outside the bustling student union. It’s the week before Halloween, and the chilly breeze is making us all shiver under the bleak gray sky. While we all have on thick sweaters or jackets, it feels like this might be the last tolerable day before true bitter temps set in. Northern Maine is not known for its easy winters. Steffi has been texting me sunshine pics for days, which maybe should annoy me, but the plethora of sunglass and cocktail emojis she attaches makes me giggle. I have been trying to get her on the phone for days and keep missing her, but the wacky texts are holding me over okay.

  Esben is busy on his phone, and I’m holding Kerry’s camera while she retrieves a small whiteboard and a bag of dry-erase markers from a bag. “Is this the first one you’ve done with him?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I’m trying hard not to look like a nervous, insecure wreck. I’m not sure if it’s going all that well.

  Esben and Kerry are out here to ask students to share about their best friends, and I only somewhat reluctantly agreed to tag along. Part of me is dying to watch him in action again, and part of me is dying to cover my eyes and block this all out.

  I want to run. I want to stay. I want to do both.

  But I stay.

  Kerry has as warm a smile as her brother. “You seem nervous. Don’t be.” She stands and trades the whiteboard for the camera in my hand. “I’m glad you came. I haven’t seen you since that day.” She doesn’t have to spell it out any more than that. We both know which day she’s talking about. “And you kind of left quickly.”

  “Just a bit,” I agree. “I wasn’t . . . prepared. You must think I’m out of my mind.”

  “No. Not at all. Those things can shake you up. You . . . were shaken up more than most, but it was . . . I don’t know. I haven’t seen that.” Kerry scrapes her boot across the concrete. “Meaning, I haven’t seen that in him, okay? He’s not usually so affected.”

  “I guess . . . well, I wondered . . .” I am so far outside my comfort zone, but I have minimal defenses left. Esben has torn a lot of them down. “I didn’t know if he was always so . . . reactive.”

  Kerry shakes her head. “That day . . . it was a first. I’ve been filming and photographing all of my brother’s projects from the beginning. I’ve loved it, every minute.” She stops and lets the breeze rush over us. “Esben has been talking about you so much that I feel like I know you. But I don’t. Not yet.” Kerry is as intense as her brother. “I’d like to, though, because it was all so beautiful, and you did something to my brother. You got to him. You crazy got to him.”

  “That day was all a little crazy.”

  “Crazy wonderful,” she stresses. “But I owe you an apology. I just hauled you in without giving you a chance to get out of it. Sometimes I get as hyped up about Esben’s stuff as he does, and I should have been paying more attention to the fact that you weren’t into it. We needed someone else; you were there—”

  I stop her cold. “I’m glad you got me in that chair.” I can’t help peeking over at Esben with affection. “It’s probably the best thing that ever happened to me. So, thank you.”

  A gust of wind blows her honey hair across her face, and she grins when she brushes it back and holds her hand against her head. “You’ve got my brother all f
ired up, you know? But he’s been hiding you away, so I’m happy we get to hang out today.”

  I feel an obligation to explain, to clarify that I’m at fault here. “Esben hasn’t been hiding me. I think it’s just because I’m a little shy, and . . .” This is so embarrassing, but I tell her the truth. “If it weren’t for him, I’d probably still be locked in my dorm room. He’s teaching me to loosen up and be social, I guess.” I shrug. “Very patiently,” I add with a laugh.

  “Esben is certainly patient.” Then she turns in his direction and yells, “And he’s also completely unorganized and slow! Baby Blue, get off your phone! Time to move! It’s not exactly eighty degrees here.”

  Esben looks up. “Sorry, sorry. I’m ready.”

  “Seriously, if it weren’t for me, nothing would ever get done.” Kerry bumps my arm. “Hey, I have an art show next month. Want to come?” she asks. “It’s not that exciting, just a little evening thing over in the art building. Probably some bad hors d’oeuvres and stuff, but they actually have a nice gallery there. Maybe you’ll come with Esben?”

  “I would love to,” I answer. And I mean it.

  “The trick here,” Esben explains as he walks toward us, “is to get the people who are not chomping at the bit to talk to me. See that group over there, watching us? It’s a bunch of girls who want to squeal about the friend they met two weeks ago. I know that sounds mean, but it’s true. So let’s move away.”

  With the whiteboard in his hand, Esben approaches a student walking alone. I avert my eyes, because the idea of approaching a stranger like this is mind-blowingly weird to me, and the guy has a hat pulled halfway over his eyes. He is not exactly screaming to be spoken to.

  “Hey, man. Can you help us out with something?” I hear Esben say.

  I fill my head with rambling thoughts to block out the conversation, but when I finally peek back, I see the student facing Kerry’s video camera. “My name is Chea, and my best friend is Andy.”

  “How did you meet Andy? What makes him so special?” Esben prompts.

  “Well . . .” Chea glances off to the side. “I was born in Cambodia and moved to the States when I was eleven. I didn’t speak any English, and school was really rough. I was in all these ESL classes, but also in the regular classroom, too. Nobody wanted to hang out with me. There weren’t a lot of Cambodians at my school.” He laughs, but it’s a painful laugh. “The teasing was pretty awful. Kids can be vicious. I don’t get why . . . I was alone all the time. I didn’t catch on to English very quickly, and when I screwed up, it just made me not want to try. I missed home. I missed my friends. I hated the food here. Everything.” He stops and stares at the ground. When he looks back up, he runs his sleeve over his nose. “What the hell? I’m getting all emotional, man. I haven’t thought about that in ages.”