180 Seconds

  The quiet goes on for longer than socially appropriate, yet it doesn’t feel as strange as it should. He’s just waiting. The way Simon waits for me, I realize.

  “I have some questions,” I blurt out. Gin is making me annoyingly direct. I can’t face him, so I stare down at my hands.

  “Okay.”

  “Do you ever wear your hair in a man bun?”

  He laughs. “I do not. It’s not long enough, but I highly doubt I would even if I could.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Next question.”

  “Why don’t you have a poster of a kitty hanging from a tree limb, with some hideous font that says, ‘Just hang in there’? Or a poster of Gandhi and some sort of freakishly smart quote? Instead you have a black-and-white print of Lenny Kravitz.”

  “I’m allergic to cats, and Gandhi was less photogenic than Lenny Kravitz.”

  “Funny,” I say in a monotone. At last I raise my head. “Why did you do it? Why did you do that to me?”

  “I don’t understand,” he says softly.

  “Why did you put me on the Internet? Why did you make me a part of that whole thing? What did I ever do to you?” My voice is rising. “I was, you know, doing just fine, and then yoooooou made it so everyone was bugging me and asking about me and”—I drunkenly wave my hand in the air—“tweeting things and commenting about stuff and all that. I didn’t ask for any of that.”

  “Allison, I’m so sorry,” he says gently, but with an air of surprise. “I . . . I . . . you signed the waiver. You . . . I assumed you knew who I was.”

  “Ohhhh, well, don’t we think highly of ourselves!”

  He laughs lightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just . . . I do a lot of these social experiments and such, and it’s a relatively small campus . . .”

  “So, then you should have known that I like to be left the hell alone! That I don’t want people seeing me act like, like . . .” I don’t even know how to say what I mean. “No one should have seen that. Because it shouldn’t have happened. You did something,” I say too accusatorially. “I don’t know what, but you did something. Why? Did you need someone to be your big finale, so you had your sister grab the most introverted person you could find to see if you could . . . I don’t know. Break me?”

  Esben actually looks hurt, and I feel a hard pang of guilt. He shakes his head over and over. “No, no. God, no . . .” He glances to the side as if searching for what to say.

  “What happened that day? You have to tell me,” I plead. “Because I don’t get it, so you must. Why did we . . .” I can’t bring myself to say it. “Go on. Tell me everything, Mr. Esben Baylor. Maybe you think everyone knows you, but I do not know anything about you except that you’re a big jerk.” I hiccup, and he politely does not comment. “So, you start talking right now!” I am so crazy and not nice right now, but it’s impossible to stop the words that spill out.

  “Okay.” He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “I never know who will be involved in any of my projects. Really. Even though there were a lot of people there last week, we were having trouble getting volunteers. I think people get nervous when they’ve been watching me for a while. Besides, it’s usually more interesting with people who haven’t had a lot of time to think about what they’re doing beforehand. Kerry said she just grabbed you from the crowd. It wasn’t planned. Honest.” Esben looks at the floor and rubs the legs of his jeans anxiously.

  “It still happened, though.” My voice is gentler than I’d planned. More scared, too, maybe. “It still happened, and I didn’t want it to.”

  “If I’d had any idea that you didn’t want to be there . . . I didn’t know anything about you except that you spilled coffee one day.” A half smile peeks out. “I wanted to do that social experiment because I thought it would be a great way to see how two strangers can communicate and feel and maybe even find common ground, all without talking. How prejudgments about others sort of get washed away in the process, how a relationship of sorts happens in that short time. I didn’t know how anything would play out. How could I?” His sincerity is undeniable. “I included the video section of us because something very unique happened. Something that affected me that I was totally unprepared for. You want me to explain it? I don’t know that I can. I just . . .” He’s getting uncomfortable now. “Something about you reeled me in fast. I’m not sure I’ve ever been that hyperfocused on anyone. It’s like you were totally in my head, hearing me, questioning me, comforting me, reaching for me.” Esben laughs with a disbelief that I understand, and he runs a hand through his hair and shifts in his chair.

  I scoot back on the bed and help myself to one of his pillows for support. “I may or may not get that,” I admit. “Keep saying things.” I want him to continue talking because the liquor has loosened me up enough that I’m quite enjoying watching how he moves his hands while he speaks, how his voice is a bit husky without being too deep.

  “Just because there isn’t a rational explanation for what went down between us doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate and be grateful for those three minutes. How often are we that moved?” He looks shyly at me. “I did, you know, have other great connections that day. Like the man who must’ve been six and a half feet tall, wearing a bandanna on his head, sporting this studded motorcycle jacket and looking mean as all hell. To be truthful, I was a little scared when he sat down. I’ve got unfair reactions to people, just like anyone. Anyway, I cleared my head as best I could and tried not to assume I was about to be murdered. Then the coolest thing happened. I don’t know why, but at some point, he started giggling. Then so did I. And soon we were both laughing our heads off and having the best time.”

  “And apparently he didn’t kill you.”

  “He did not.”

  I focus on his wrist and the leather and rope bracelets for a while before I move back to that endearing face of his. “And then there was me.”

  He nods and leans forward, resting his arms on his legs.

  “You kicked a chair,” I point out.

  When he smiles, those damn amber eyes of his offer very little to make me angry. “I did. That was out of my control.”

  “And flipped a table.”

  “Also out of my control.”

  “You kissed me.”

  “How could I not?” Esben locks eyes with me. Again. “Was I alone in that? Because I’m pretty sure you kissed me, too.”

  I am counting the seconds in my head. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten . . . I nod. He’s right, but I can’t say that out loud.

  “Wasn’t that kind of beautiful?” he suggests. “It was for me. Maybe not for you, though. I thought it just felt like too much right then, and that’s why you took off. And it’s why I didn’t try to find you after.”

  I glance over at the video camera. “You weren’t in psych class on Monday. Were you hiding out?”

  “I just wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Great. Am I gonna get mono now? Or the bird flu?”

  He laughs. “No. Just some late fall allergies that had me feeling rough.”

  “Oh.” I fidget with my hands, then face him again. “Sorry you weren’t well.” I study his face until I realize that too many seconds have ticked by, and it’s getting weird. “I hope you’re better now?”

  “I’m good.” Esben is calm and steady. “And you weren’t in class on Wednesday. And then you were obviously not happy to see me this morning.” The way he sighs with apology now is totally beyond sweet. “Allison? I am truly sorry that you are upset by all of this. I can take the video down in two seconds.”

  I straighten up and look around the room. Something catches my eye, and I scoot off the bed and snatch a small container of microwaveable macaroni and cheese. It takes some squinting for me to read the instructions. “‘Cook for three minutes.’ How ironic.” I rip back the top and take out the foil package of gooey cheese sauce. “Do you have some water?”

  Esben raises an eyebrow, and I freeze. “Oh God,
I’m sorry.” I glance down at the open container. “Apparently I just got supercrazy hungry when I saw this and grabbed it. How rude of me . . . um, let me just put this back.” I attempt the impossible and try to reseal the mac and cheese.

  He laughs. “It’s all right.” Esben takes a bottle from his small fridge and adds water to the cup.

  I crawl back to my spot on the bed, now decently mortified. Again. My phone dings. Steffi has messaged me from the party. She’s sent a picture of herself and a good-looking guy in a plaid shirt with the message, “I met me a cutie boy!”

  Esben holds out the water bottle. “You might want to have some of this.”

  Oh God. “Sorry. I know I’m a little drunk. Or a lot. Either way.” But I take the bottle from his hand and drink. I rub my lips together and watch him watch me.

  “Your hair . . . it looks very pretty like that. The curls.”

  “Steffi did it.”

  “Is Steffi your roommate?”

  “No, she’s my friend from California who apparently flew in to badger me because I wouldn’t talk to her about you.”

  “I see.” Esben shuts his eyes for a second. “Again, I’m really sorry if all this has upset you. Some of my projects ask a lot of the participant. You have to be open and . . . willing to give of yourself. Sometimes people aren’t quite ready, or they’re surprised by what happens, but it’s usually in a good way.” He pauses. “Even if they’re resistant at the start, sometimes it’s their transition that is worth it.”

  “Like with me?”

  “Like with us,” he corrects me. Esben gets up and paces as much as he can in the small space his room allows. “Why did you sign the waiver?”

  The condensation on the water bottle is wetting my hand, but the cool feels nice. “I wasn’t paying attention. I’d been in a . . . mood. I didn’t know what I was doing.” I hiccup again. “Walls . . . you said something about people with walls. That’s me.”

  “You don’t like that you let those walls down.”

  “No.”

  He sits again. “Why not?”

  “There’s no way you would understand. You like people. That’s obvious. You’re curious. You want to investigate them, delve into layers of humanity and crap, right?”

  “I suppose that’s a good way to look at it.” Esben suppresses a smile as he spins his chair and retrieves the mac and cheese and a plastic spoon, then trades them out for my water.

  “I’m not like that. I don’t much care for people because they kinda suck.” This microwave meal is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. I point my spoon at him in between bites. “They are unreliable, selfish, and they lie all the time.”

  “That’s a rather negative perspective.”

  “Now you’re feeling me!” I say happily. “So I don’t get what you do. At all. Like, I can’t even watch this eye-contact thing you did. We did.”

  “Wait a second. You haven’t even seen the video?”

  “Just bits and pieces.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “Okay. How about this? You watch it and see what you think. Then I’ll take it down if you want. Say the word. But, Allison? At least watch it.”

  “Fine. Fire ’er up!” I get up and drunkenly wave him out of his seat. He kindly accommodates my gin-laden attitude, but I do notice a well-deserved eye roll.

  “Oh awesome. A giant desktop screen so everything will be huge and even more traumatizing!” I shout.

  “It won’t be traumatizing.” Esben is laughing as he leans over my shoulder and moves the mouse. I am profoundly aware of his proximity, and I don’t know what to make of the fact that there’s an unpreventable flutter in my chest. “So, is Steffi a friend from home?” he asks.

  “I told you. She lives in California. Los Angeles.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “Massachusetts,” I mutter as the video pops up. “Foster care.”

  Esben pauses the video before it even starts. “Yeah? Wow. For how long?” His question is not dripping with fake compassion or asked because he wants grisly details. He is just curious.

  The screen in front of me is frozen on the intro image, and I let it get blurry as I stare too long at it. “Foster care? I was there forever. Well, until I was a junior in high school. Steffi, too. She was sick when she was little, and that probably scared off potential parents. I wasn’t sick, but nobody wanted me either. I guess we were duds. Anyway, we lived together for a bit. She saved me. As much as I can be saved.” I state the truth as easily as I breathe. “My birth mother dropped me off at a hospital in Boston, and that’s all I know about her. Maybe she was young or broke. Or a criminal. Maybe the mistress of a senator who had a secret love child? That’d be kinda cool, huh?”

  “It would certainly add some scandal to your story, I guess,” he answers with amusement.

  I sigh. “That one’s unlikely, I suppose, but it’s the most intriguing of options. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. The point is that I was not wanted by anyone. I lived with seventeen families. That’s a lot, huh?” I burp and clap a hand over my mouth. “Excuse me. Anyway, some of the families were okay. I know what other foster kids have gone through, and I never had it as bad as many. Still, sometimes I never even unpacked my suitcase. Too scared to. There was no point.” The gin is becoming a nuisance, but I can’t fight it.

  “That’s why you have walls,” he says.

  “Yes,” I agree. “It’s why I have walls.”

  I feel him come closer, his mouth now not so far from my ear. “But you lowered them, even for a little bit. So maybe you want them to crack.”

  Without my usual filter in place, I reply, “Yes. Maybe. It’s very tiring, keeping them standing. I just don’t know what would happen if I let them fall. I haven’t been without them in a very long time,” I murmur. “Maybe ever.”

  “I understand. And I’m honored that you gave me a glimpse behind them, because I’ve never felt anything like that. So, watch.” He hits “Play.” “This is the original. Other sites that picked it up gave it gross clickbait names and whatever. I can’t control that—”

  “Shhhh!”

  Music plays, and I tense but do not turn away. Esben is right. I need to watch this because I need all the information. I must know what is out there about me.

  The title slams out of darkness: It Only Takes 180 Seconds.

  Videos and words wash by. Clips of the first seconds of people who sat with Esben, interspersed with later moments from his other sittings.

  There’s the elderly man that I saw when Steffi first sent me this link. His cane stands next to him, and he smiles peacefully throughout his time with Esben. He exudes a kindness and approachability that touches me. Like a grandfather I will never have.

  The text reads: Some people share their contentment and absolute joy with the world so easily. It’s infectious.

  Then there’s a woman in her business suit, who looks exhausted beyond reason. I watch her focus, the way her face softens, and the way she relaxes into eye contact.

  A mother with four children under the age of five. She works during the day as a manager at a department store, and she never has weekends off. She also works three nights a week as a hostess so that her family can pay their bills. Because her husband works nights, they only see each other for a handful of hours per week. But she says that’s enough because love always wins. Or, rather, she clarifies, she wants it to.

  A firefighter who is still in a sooty uniform appears; his hardened and defeated face is gutting.

  This man just got off a fifteen-hour shift. He rescued three people from a building engulfed in flames. He’s proud, but he’s also upset because he missed his six-year-old’s birthday. He’s worried that she will remember that forever.

  Then there’s a middle-aged woman with beautiful braids and skin the color of coffee. Her face blank, she shows almost no expression in the clips we see, just flashes of watery eyes on occasion.

  This woman lost her h
usband exactly one year ago today. She says this is the first time she’s been able to escape the worst of her grief, even for a few minutes.

  I watch the rest of the clips—including the one with Esben and the guy wearing the motorcycle jacket—both anticipating and dreading my appearance.

  He’s saved me for the end.

  My fingers brush against his when I take the mouse and pause the video. I turn to him. “You mean a lot to these people,” I say, a new understanding coming over me.

  “They mean a lot to me.” Esben looks at me with such warmth and sincerity that I can hardly take him in. “I just gave them a chance to let the world stop spinning. What they did with that was out of my hands.”

  I get what he’s saying. I’ve lived it.

  “Keep watching.” There’s a nervous yet hopeful edge to his whisper.

  Hesitating, delaying this, I cannot get myself to start the video because I fear the world—or my world—might blow up if I do. The computer’s mouse feels hard and threatening against my palm.

  Esben’s hand goes over mine. “It’s okay.”

  Together, we hit “Play.”

  CHAPTER 10

  ROBIN HOOD

  Sometimes, the unexpected happens. Sometimes, someone makes you break your own rules, I read.

  My body is tense when I begin watching, but my intrigue leads me forward. Although I lived these moments, seeing them from this new perspective is fascinating. This is how others experienced my three minutes with Esben. And, I learn quickly, he’s included the entire three minutes, not just clips as with the rest of the participants. I am glued to the video this time, desperately wanting to not miss a second of the replay. There are near head-on shots of my face, Esben’s, our profiles as we face each other, and I see now that there must have been more people shooting footage than just Kerry. It’s more than unpleasant to watch how cold I am during the first few moments I face him, but the way I shed my armor and defenses—the way I eventually allow myself to be with him—is intoxicating. It’s a side of myself that I am terribly unfamiliar with.