“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.
The sound of his chuckle dances in the night. “Thank you, I guess?”
I walk a bit more and then glance back at him. “You do give to the poor, too, in a way.”
The short walk is silent, and I can feel his eyes on me as I fuss for my key. My movements are clumsy, and it takes a stupidly long time for me to retrieve the key.
“Found it!” I yell in celebration. I undo the lock, pull open the door, and halt. I’m not sure how to say good night. My fatigue and emotional confusion and the leftover effects of alcohol are weighing me down and making it hard to be socially smart. So, I just stand there, with my back to him, and debate what to say.
“Allison?”
Slowly, I turn and lean my weight against the open door. “Yeah?”
Esben is standing with a good distance between us. He really did stay twenty feet away from me as he walked me home. “I’m glad you came by.”
“Okay.”
“I am.” He tucks his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. Light from one of the lampposts casts a glow over him. “I’ll see you Monday?”
“Okay.” I start to turn inside, but then I stop myself. “Esben? I’m glad I came by, too.”
I go downstairs to my room. Steffi is wearing my robe and emerging from the second bedroom, her hair messed up.
“Well, there you are! Did you let him have it?” she asks.
I squint at her. “What are you doing?” Then I look past her and see a blanket tossed on the bed. “Oh my God. Did you have sex next to care-package Jenga?”
She makes a mock shocked face. “How dare you suggest anything of the sort.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, fine, yes!” she squeals and begins jumping up and down. “And it was superfun!”
“And how was it?” I ask with a laugh. “Details, please, my dear.”
“More important than my sexual prowess, though, is what happened with you?”
I stumble in my place a bit, fatigue taking over. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand. I’m crashing hard in more ways than one. “I just want to go to bed. So sorry. Can we just go to bed?”
She comes over and holds my face in her hands while she examines me. “You look wiped. Yes. And you’ll tell me everything tomorrow. But it was okay?” she asks gently.
I nod. “Yeah. It was okay.” A yawn overtakes me, and I feel crazy needy and helpless all of a sudden. “Will you sleep with me like we used to?”
“Of course.”
When Steffi and I lived together, we shared a room, and I used to crawl into her bed. It made me feel safer, less alone. I need that now.
She is part sister, part best friend, part mother, and tonight, when we crawl into bed together, she lets me snuggle into the crook of her arm, as she has done so many nights before.
Steffi smooths out my hair as I begin to drift off. “I’m glad it was okay,” she says quietly. “That’s a good start.”
CHAPTER 11
BRAVERY
We both sleep until after noon, and I’m disoriented when I wake. This is the latest I’ve slept in ages, and I’m surprisingly not very hungover. Even more surprisingly, I seem to have gotten the best sleep I’ve had in ages, and I feel deeply rested. My brain is a scrambled mess from last night, but I’m rested.
Steffi and I spend the day in our pajamas, and while she paints my toenails deep burgundy, I hear details of her evening with plaid-shirt boy that both make me blush and make me happy for her. I ask to hear about her classes and her cramped studio apartment that she loves and about the taco truck that parks on her street every Tuesday, and she answers all of my questions. I give her a lot of credit for giving me space today, because not once does she ask about Esben.