“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.