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 wanted 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.”