And the one person that I might know here is someone I never wanted to see again.
To quell the loneliness and take advantage of the calm weather, I make my way through fairy-tale like streets with swarming restaurants and boutiques begging to be shopped, taking artsy shot after artsy shot for my Instagram, hoping it will quiet this feeling. I duck into a warm-looking coffee shop, a cup of Joe the only thing remotely affordable in this city, and bring out my Kindle, flipping through to my Lonely Planet guide to Norway. The comforting smells of ground coffee and cardamom-glazed pastries permeate the air and I gather up the courage to book the train to Trondheim.
I drink my coffee slowly as I try and come up with a game plan. I take out my journal from my purse and spread it out on the gnarled wooden table and make a list of places I want to see, things I want to do. I have three months here if I want to use them, but, just in case, I plan for only one month. The country is going to rob my finances faster than I thought and I don’t think it’s easy to get a job without being a citizen.
Then, of course, there’s the question of “what happens after that?” But I don’t want to let myself think that far ahead.
My life beyond this trip is one looming black hole.
The coffee shop is near closing—its grown quiet with only faint singer-songwriter music playing and a barista bent over, sweeping between empty tables—when I think I’ve figured out my travel plan. Since I actually do want to head up north and bask in the nights where the sun doesn’t set, I decide to leave tomorrow to take the train up to the city of Trondheim and figure out the best route to the Arctic Circle. I like Oslo enough, but that’s not why I came here. It’s better to start anew tomorrow.
Feeling better with a plan, I snap the journal shut and, using the free wi-fi, upload an earlier picture of my latte to Instagram, with the caption: Travel planning in an Oslo café. Decided to head up via train to Trondheim tomorrow. So far, Norway is everything I hoped it could be.
Of course, I made it sound like I was having a better time than I am, like I’ve found myself here. I mean, that’s kind of the point of social media sometimes, isn’t it? Burying your reality, post by post.
And even though I’ve tried my hardest not to think about him all day, on the walk back from the coffee shop to the hotel, through the dying light of a nine p.m. sunset, I can’t help it.
Anders creeps through my thoughts, like a ghost. I can still see him, smell him, like eight years ago was yesterday. It’s all emotion. That jolt. Those clammy-hands and speeding pulses and shivers that shake you to the core. It’s the emotions of my first love all wrapped up in one misleading, pathetic little package.
But Anders wasn’t just that first love for me, he was so much more. He was the one person who made me feel like I had a home, even though he was the foreigner in a strange land.
And it’s sad. So damn sad. Because, really, if I should be pining over anyone, it should be Danny. He’s the man I was traveling with, living with in Brooklyn, who stole my heart in college, who made me forget Anders and led me to believe that not all men are born to hurt you, that not all men will screw you over. Naturally, that was a lie. Danny was no better than Anders in the end, maybe a bit more honest, but he still left just the same.
“That’s what men do,” my mother once said. “They leave.” She was right about that and wrong about so much else.
By the time I get back to my hotel, the day has caught up with me and I’m exhausted. I climb into the cushy bed, bringing the covers over me to protect against the incessant air conditioning I can’t figure out how to turn off, and close my eyes to my second day in Norway.
Tomorrow I start again.
2
Shay
Then
“What do you think Jeremy Renshaw’s dick looks like?” Everly whispers.
I nearly spit out the mouthful of Sprite, my hands flying up to my lips. Good thing, because if one of the librarians saw I snuck a soft drink in here, she’d have my head. I don’t know why I’m always their number one target.
When my coughing fit gets under control, I give her a loaded look and whisper right back, “I thought you’d already seen his dick.” I pause, wagging my brows. “And then some.”
Everly rolls her eyes, but there’s that telltale flush on her cheeks. Maybe she hasn’t seen it, but she wants to. I know that much about her. She wants to see everyone’s dick.