I laugh. “No, I missed that.”
“Insane! I’ll show you. And that boy’s got some moves, by the way. Just so you know.”
For the rest of the night, we eat way too much food, Steffi drinks way too much tequila, though I only have a few shots, and we cruise the Internet and read about Esben Baylor and his various social projects. At two in the morning, when both of us are overtired and simply cannot stay awake, we get into bed.
I stir at six in the morning. Steffi is sitting next to me, her hand on my arm.
“You ready to go?” I murmur.
She nods and squeezes my arm. “Yeah.”
My eyes adjust to the dark. “Text me when you land in LA, okay?”
“Of course.” Then she leans over and puts her arms around me, hugging me tightly.
“I love you, Steff.”
“I love you, too, Allison.” She holds me more tightly. “Be brave. With yourself, with Esben, with everything. Okay? Tell me you will.”
“Okay . . .”
“No, tell me that from now on, you will be brave. Take more risks. And mean it. It’s time. You can’t live in this room and never go out. You’re going to miss too much. So tell me.”
My thoughts are still foggy in the early morning, but I know this is important to her, so I agree. I promise. “I’ll be brave, Steffi. From now on, I’ll be brave.”
CHAPTER 12
BEAR
Monday morning arrives both too quickly and not fast enough. I jolt awake at five in the morning, unable to fall back asleep. This is a pivotal day for me. It’s a day when I will either crawl back into my hole or make massive changes in my life. Both options ripple terror through me, but I am truly more scared to retreat than I am to advance. I promised Steffi that I would be brave, and I need to do that, but not just for her. The ache for more, the ache that I have been pushing away for so long now, has become too strong to ignore. It was already growing, but I’m finally admitting to myself that those one hundred and eighty seconds with Esben somehow threw me into a whirlwind.
Either I get slammed to the ground by that force or I soar. What I’m going through is not Esben’s fault, and I’m not angry with him anymore. Esben caught me on a vulnerable afternoon. He couldn’t have known that I’d be so fragile and fearful.
Of him, of everything.
Hurt, rejection, and emptiness made up my childhood, and they have controlled me for so long now that I don’t know if I can stop them.
But, God, I want to. I don’t want to live like this.
I throw my arm over my eyes to dam the tears that threaten to come.
I am so ashamed of how cold I am. That I have only one friend. That I live in a bubble of my own creation.
I am brave. I am brave. I am brave.
But I cannot stop the tears. “I don’t want to live like this,” I say out loud over and over through my sobbing. I cry for who I have been, who I am, and who I could be. However, I also cry with an iota of relief, because a change is about to happen. I know this. A change that has the possibility of lifting me from the wreckage. What it will look like is very unclear, but I have to take a chance.
I am going to hope again.
I am brave. I am brave. I am brave.
Much later, when my tears subside, a degree of calm takes over. I crawl from my bed and take the coffeepot that Simon sent and start a very strong brew. I leave the box and packing material on the floor in an intentional effort to ease up on my strict sense of order. I head to the shower, and the hard waterfall against my skin refreshes me some, but my eyes are horribly puffy, so when I return to my room, I run an ice cube over them while I sip coffee from one of the red cups. I dry my hair and then attempt to replicate the curls that Steffi gave me the other night. I put on a sleeveless white mock turtleneck and a camel-beige open cardigan and pair those with jeans and brown boots. Then I put on some makeup. It’s less than Steffi would suggest but more than I usually do. I want to feel pretty today, because I need any boost I can get.
I open another one of Simon’s care packages. In this one, I find a fabric-covered journal, three kinds of new tea and a squeeze bottle of honey, microwave popcorn, two bars of dark chocolate, and—God bless him—a caffeine eye cream for reducing bags. I smear some on, say a little prayer, and then fish out the last item in the box.
I may start crying again.
Simon has sent a teddy bear. A floppy, long-limbed, chestnut-brown teddy bear with a polka-dot bow around its neck. I hug it close and shut my eyes. No one has ever given me a stuffed animal, and I am struck by what a devastating realization that is. How unforgivable and insurmountable it feels. Honestly, I don’t think it occurred to any of my foster families that I wouldn’t have a stuffed animal. I used to fall asleep hugging pillows, and today I have a teddy bear. The smile on my face when I take a selfie of me with the bear is genuine, and I text it to Simon. He replies almost immediately: Every kid should have a teddy bear. You’re too old for this, and you were too old when we met, but . . . a father has to give his daughter a teddy bear, so better late than never.
I close my eyes and hold the bear close. And I breathe. Better late than never, indeed.
Thirty minutes later, I am at the door to my Social Psych class. Stepping across the threshold feels like a monumental moment, but I remain calm as I take my usual seat and set my bag onto the seat next to mine. Intentionally, I am the first student to arrive, and I keep my eyes glued to the doorway, waiting for him. I do not put in my earbuds, and I do not bury myself in reading or pretend note taking.
Today, I just wait for him.
The room is nearly three-quarters full when he arrives.
I sit up taller in my seat.
Esben acts as if he cannot decide whether to look around the room or not, and I pray he’ll look my way. He starts up the stairs to my right, and just when I think he’s going to move into a row in front of me, he stops and very slowly raises his head. He’s apprehensive, presumably waiting to see what I’ll do.
I feel for him. I haven’t exactly been predictable.
I give him a small smile, and his face relaxes. Other students are trickling in, and I’m sure we are being watched, but I don’t mind. I take my bag from the seat beside mine and tip my head, asking him to sit with me. There’s an adorable bounce in his walk as he makes his way up, while other students brush past him to get seats. Today, he doesn’t respond when a few people greet him, and he has no reaction when his name is called from a few rows up. He just walks to me as if there is no one else in the room.
When he lowers himself into the seat beside mine, his arm grazes against me. “Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi.”
“How was the rest of your weekend?” he asks with a glint in his eye.
“Less drunk,” I reply.