by Karina Halle
You’d think I’d be used to this weather since I just spent so much time in Ireland, but there was something about that place that made it all more bearable. I think it was Mumsy, the innkeeper whom I was helping out, and the townsfolk that I got to know. Even Capri would have some dark and quiet days in the fall but, being around friends and keeping busy with work, I never paid it any attention.
Needless to say, it threw me off guard. For all that I’d been looking forward to with Norway, I felt personally offended that the country didn’t bring out the smiles and sunshine just for me. Kind of nuts to think that, I know, but then again I’m tagging along with a British family I don’t know, so what do you expect?
I head down the steps, taking in the fresh scent of the rain and trying to find the positive. I’ve decided to spend another day in Oslo, but then I’m hoping on a train and heading up north, where I really want to go.
My heart starts to thud at the thought, an uneasiness running through me. So far I have plans for the train to take me to Trondheim, then I might go up north to Tromso in the Arctic Circle before heading back down the coast, maybe taking the ferry along the fjords. There’s a million different places to explore in this tall, narrow country, and yet the fact that I’m going to Trondheim puts me a bit on edge.
Trondheim is supposed to be just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Anders Johansen, the reason I became so obsessed with Norway to begin with.
“You up for seeing the royal palace, Shay?” the dad inquiries as I approach them, making the thought of Anders vanish from my mind. “You’re not cold?”
I shake my head and give them all my most placating smile. “Not at all. The palace sounds wonderful.” I smile at Michelle. “I’ve always wanted to see a princess, haven’t you?”
“We’ve seen the Duchess of Cambridge drive past us in their car,” Stuart says, sounding both bored and proud. “She had her finger up her nose.”
“Stuart,” his mom quickly admonishes him, while the dad tries to bite back a laugh. “We don’t talk about Kate Middleton that way.”
“Well,” I say to them, “I’ve read that the princess of Sweden was a commoner when she first met the prince.”
“Like you and me?” Michelle asks. “Ordinary people?”
“That’s right. Which means it’s possible for any girl to become a princess if she wishes.”
“It means you have to live with a boy though,” Stuart says smartly. “That isn’t me. He’d probably be worse than me.”
Michelle draws her lip between her teeth and seems to think it over. “I don’t know. I bet I could find out a way to be a princess without having to live with any boys.”
I grin at her parents. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“Yeah, hope she keeps it that way,” her father says, as we head off out of the park.
The rest of the day goes fairly well. We find our way to the palace, which is perched at the end of Oslo’s most iconic streets, presiding over it like a giant wedding cake, and watch the guards do their serious strutting while Stuart does some pretty funny commentary over it. Seems all Brits are born with the best sense of humor.
Our hotel is near the palace, so we end up parting ways afterward, with me giving the family my email and Instagram name in case they want to keep in touch. Even though it was a bit awkward at times having spent the day with this family—and I’m pretty sure I’ve given them an experience they’ll remember, if not rather forget—as I walk back alone, I’m hit with a pang of sadness. It’s the same feeling that I got last night, after I Facetimed with Amber and texted my sister, the realization that even though I want to be here, everyone I’m close to is a million miles away.
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 flus
h 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.
Me, on the other hand? They scare the living pants off of me—and not in a good way. Plus, you know, there isn’t a single boy at this school that I’d be curious about.
Or there hadn’t been until recently.
Last year, when we were in eleventh grade, I’d had some fantasies about losing my virginity to Elliot Zane, who was a year older. But he’s since graduated and now I’ve got either the boys in my grade or the ones below. Everly says I can’t afford to be picky and she’s probably right, but even so.
“I heard that Jenny Bishop hooked up with him over the weekend,” Everly whispers, her eyes darting around her. It wouldn’t be the first time that we’ve talked about someone to find them standing behind us or within earshot. High school is just one big instance of people overhearing things.
I want to make a remark about Jenny Bishop hooking up with everyone, but decide it makes me look jealous and petty. This is something I’ve kept from Everly, even though she’s my best friend, but I’ve always been jealous of the girls who get around. The idea of sex just has me so uptight and nervous, I wish I could just sleep with whomever I wanted. But being naked, that intimate, with someone…I’m already feeling flushed, my hands clammy, just thinking about it.
And it’s not just the sex thing. I kind of wish people gossiped about me the way that Everly and I gossip about everyone else. Sounds stupid, I know—who in their right mind would want to be a part of the rumor mill? But sometimes I think I’m not in my right mind.
“Oh my god, there he is,” Everly says in a hush.
“Jeremy?” I ask, following her gaze to the entrance to the library.
But it’s not Jeremy at all.
It’s Anders. Anders Johansen, the foreign exchange student from Norway.
And my current obsession.
I try not to stare. It’s hard not to.
Anders just moved here a few weeks ago, making him now the second tallest guy in our grade (after Nick “Smu” Rodham, who plays on the basketball team). He’s got longish dark hair that curls a little at the nape of his neck, dark grey-blue eyes, and the facial hair that most guys our age would only dream about growing. Plus, he’s got the sexiest accent and tattoos. He’s the quintessential brooding bad boy, like Heathcliff was transported from the Wuthering Heights book we had to read last year and plunked down in our school, wandering the halls instead of the moors.
“He’s so hot,” Everly says dreamily. “Though also a little scary.”
“Scary?” I ask, watching as Anders stops in the middle of the library and looks around, one thumb hooked under the strap of his backpack, looking effortlessly cool. “Why, just because he wears all black?”
“Yeah,” she says breathlessly. “But it’s a good kind of scary.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.” Everly may want to see everyone’s dick, but hearing her talk about Anders that way really gets my hackles raised.
I mean, I know I lay no claim to him. He talked to me in the halls one day and I was a goner after that. He has a way of staring at you so intensely that it makes you want to do the same to him. When he’s not looking of course. Over the last few weeks I’ve become really good at looking at him when he doesn’t know it.
Now, though, I’m failing.
Because he just looked our way.
And met my eyes.
Shit.
“Oh no!” I cry out, trying to hide behind the Sprite. “He just looked at me!”
“And now he’s walking over here,” Everly says, way too gleefully.
“What?!” My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. “No!” I look up and, fuck, yup, there he is, walking our way, a faint smirk on his lips. Shit, shit, shit!
“Hey Anders,” Everly says to him, smiling, and I’m wondering if I can hide under the table. What if I pretend I’ve dropped something and I’m looking for it? That could work. Maybe he’ll go away. Worth a shot.
I lean over, my hands on the dirty carpet, hoping he can’t see me.
“Hey Everly,” he says in his sexy accent, and I see his black Doc Martens stop right beside the table. “Is Shay around?”
Oh my god, he’s asking for me! He remembers my name!
And then my face goes beet red when I realize my back is probably still showing and he can very plainly see me. Well now what?
“Oh, Shay is around,” Everly says, and I feel her eyes on me. “She seems to be busy at the moment though.”
“That’s fine. I was wondering if you could pass on a message for me.”
Oh my god.
“Of course,” Everly says, and I can tell she’s trying not to laugh.
“I was wondering if she wanted to go out with me Friday night.”
“What?!” I exclaim, straightening up and bumping my head hard on the bottom of the table. Ow, fuck!
But the pain is short-lived because then I’m sticking my head up, my hair in my face, trying to appear as cool as a cucumber in front of him and failing wildly. He couldn’t have just said what I thought he said, could he?
Anders just grins at me. “Ah, there you are. I guess I can ask you myself. Are you free Friday night?”
I frantically brush my hair out of my face, trying to not look stupid and failing.
“Are you…asking me out on a date?” I can’t believe I just said that, but I have to be sure before I lose my shit.
“Sure, a date,” he says. “There’s a movie I want to see, Prometheus. Science fiction. The prequel to Alien. Michael Fassbender is in it, if that helps.”
I mean, yes it helps, but I’d be okay with watching Nic Cage too, as long as I was with Anders.
“Oh my god!” I exclaim. “I love sci-fi! And Alien. And movies. And—”
Everly raises her hand. “What she’s trying to say, is yes.”
I shoot her an appreciative glance because I know she saved me from telling Anders that I loved him too. My god, this boy is turning my brain to mush.
“Great,” Anders says, his smile making heart skip two beats at once. “I’ll add you to my Facebook, send you the details before then. This okay with you?”
I nod, way too enthusiastic.
Then he winks. He winks at me! Like he’s fucking James Dean or something, and then he turns and leaves the library.
I immediately collapse into my seat, hand at my chest, managing to look at Everly with wide eyes. “What the fuck just happened?”
Everly looks both shocked and amused, a smile twisting her lips. “I have no idea. But you lucky fucking bitch. He asked you out on a date. I thought you never talked to the guy!”
“Once,” I say, pointing my finger into the air. “I talked to him once. That was it. He’s in my classes but we don’t talk. I just stare at him. That’s all.”
“Well, I guess he wants you to stare at him at a closer distance. Holy shit, Shay. You’re going on a date with Anders.”
I’m going on a date with Anders!
3
Anders
Now
“Are you on Instagram?” Espen asks, peeking over my shoulder at my mobile phone.
I shrug him off, close the app, and slide the phone into my jeans. I give him a casual look. “Who isn’t?”
“Men. Men aren’t on Instagram,” he says, looking me up and down, as if he’s about to revoke my manhood. “Never trust a man who takes selfies.”
I grin at him. “I can get behind that theory,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. I actually don’t use my Instagram account, I just go on the app to watch a few accounts. Some might say “stalk” a few accounts, mainly one account, and I know that’s what Espen would say if I told him, so I leave it at that. He can think I take selfies all day long.
The fact is, when I’m with him, we’re working all day long. When we’re out at sea, we’re up at five a.m., and then settling down for cold cuts, soup and bread at eight p.m. Sometim
es we sleep for only two hours at a time. It depends on the fish. There are no selfies, there is no downtime. It’s just driving the boat while Espen and deckhands put the nets in and haul the nets up. It’s cold, wet, dark, and brutal work.
But the end is always worth it. We’ve just come off a three-week trip in the North Sea and weighed in all the cod. Even though I sometimes (okay, often) wish I hadn’t taken over the family business for my father, it’s the big hauls and the even bigger paychecks that keep me going. That, and the fact that the family farm isn’t doing too well and if it wasn’t for me, my Uncle Per would be floundering even more so.
“Hey, take a selfie of this,” Espen says, holding up his paycheck and giving the thumbs up.
I smack him on his arm, though it does little to move the man. Espen could never be accused of being vain. He’s over six-foot-three with massive shoulders and an equally massive belly. His beard makes mine look like an amateur—it’s bordering on Gandalf—and the man snores and farts like an alcoholic horse.
“Come on,” he says, while we walk down the docks, “I’ll buy you a beer.”
That’s one thing he’s good for—buying enough beers once we reach land and drinking them until we think we’re still at sea. Of course, he’s also the best mate and fisherman one could have when you’re working through the wet and salt that sticks to your eyelashes, in your ears, living in your bones. The other crew come and go, a few of them friends from way back who come around when they need the money. Usually they have drug or gambling problems, or owe people money, but at least when they are on the ship, they get the job done. But Espen is always good for a laugh, always reliable.
Today though, I keep the beer to one. We go to our usual bar in Kristiansand, a run-down place with all the charm of a stray dog. Everyone in there is a fisherman, we all stink like the sea, with calloused hands and salt-crusted skin. The lighting casts dark shadows, the walls a sticky green, the air filled with the smell of spilled beer and the sound of the slot machines in the corner, where too many men are wasting their earnings. Everyone here is harder than month-old bread.