By the time three a.m. rolls around and I’m half-off the bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain with a heavy, thumping heart, I know what I have to do.
It’s not over.
And with that in my head, I finally fall asleep.
* * *
When morning rolls around, the first thing I do, beside rubbing my bleary-eyes and wondering for a moment where the hell I am, is pick up my phone and get on Facebook. I hadn’t even thought to give him my number or ask for his last night, not even any way to stay in touch.
I go onto Everly’s page and scroll through her friends list (how the hell does she have so many?) and when I find Anders, I promptly add him as a friend.
I take a shower and get ready slowly, every two minutes I’m picking up my phone and checking to see if he’s accepted my friend request or not. I know I could send him a message, but it would just go to his “Other” folder on Facebook and I don’t know who remembers to check that. It’s usually full of unwanted sexual advances from men who want you to be their bride in exchange for holding some money for them.
When eleven a.m. rolls around, I know I’m shit out of luck. I have a half an hour to let the guesthouse know if I’m staying another night or I’m charged for it.
At 11:16, Anders accepts my friend request.
I pounce on it like an animal and fire him off a quick message, no time to think:
Hey, you know I was thinking I wouldn’t mind coming to Todalen after all. How do I get there?
His response is almost immediate: Stay right where you are. I’ll be at the hotel in two hours. There’s a coffee shop across the street called Beanz if you need to get out.
Well, I didn’t expect that. I quickly message him back, telling him it’s okay, he doesn’t have to do that for me and I’m happy taking a train if there is one, or a bus. But as I call the front desk from my room phone and inform them that I’ll be checking out early, my message to him goes unread.
Shit. I guess he’s on his way.
I sit down on the bed for a moment, folding up one leg under me and feeling every bit the teenager all over again. I’m even biting my lip. My heart is racing and there’s this curious feeling in my chest, like it’s an endless blue sky, full of promise.
I’m giddy. That’s what it is.
And fearful.
And nervous.
And a million other things.
Shit.
This isn’t good.
I didn’t plan for this.
Now I’m suddenly filled with the impulse to look better than I ever have before. At least better than I did yesterday. I know I have to check out ASAP, but I add a bit more makeup to my face. My skin is paler than normal thanks to that Irish winter, so I up the bronzer and blush, straighten out my bangs and slick a neutral matte lipstick across my lips. It’s reminding me of how crazy I used to go back in the day, trying to impress Anders. I would pour over all the magazines, especially Cosmopolitan, taking all the makeup tips and sex tips to heart, waiting till I could try them out. Most of the makeup tips were for white girls, but I made it work anyway. Funny how I haven’t touched that magazine in years—I don’t even think anyone over twenty-two still reads it.
I eye myself in the mirror and think I look cute. Not exactly sexy, since I’m wearing a Norwegian sweater I picked up in Oslo, jeans and boots, but good enough. When you’ve been traveling for as long as I have and essentially living out of a small duffel bag and a giant backpack, your “sexy” outfits tend to get thrown aside for anything comfortable and easy to wash. I used to be a girly girl back in Brooklyn, but here I’m in stretchy jeans and leggings and cardigans most of the time.
I quickly pack up my bags and head downstairs to the lobby. The hotel owner is very nice and doesn’t mind me sitting around, though after a while (and a million photos of the river view and the brightly colored boathouses across the way later) I’m bored, so I pick up my stuff and head across the street to the coffee shop Anders mentioned.
I feel like I’m waiting for a date to show up. I’m sure if I didn’t have my duffel bag on the floor and my backpack in the chair across from me, I’d look like it too. I keep taking careful sips of my coffee—damn, they drink it so strong here—and glancing out the window. Whenever someone enters the coffee shop, I look up, and when it’s not Anders I feel a curious mix of relief and regret. I wonder which emotion is going to win out in the end.
At least I’m living in the moment now, because I’m feeling absolutely everything. I have to remind myself to relax, to not get carried away. It would probably be for the best if I did everything I could to forget that I ever dated Anders, loved him, lost my virginity to him, had my heart severely torn by him. If I could just pretend that he was someone new strolling into my life, a handsome, hot, rugged as hell stranger who walks into this coffee shop and sweeps me away, if just to a small village for some local flavor.
I bring out my journal to distract me, wondering if Anders still writes in his. The poetry he would scribble down day-in and day-out still sticks with me to this day.
Stop that, I tell myself. There is no past, only now.
The door chime goes off, echoing across the shop.
I look up.
Anders walks in, immediately spotting me, his dark
