Page 43

Astrid

The good thing about being in L.A. when I run out of Grayson’s hotel room is that I don’t have to book myself a flight out. Instead, I just walked out onto the street, booked a room in the hotel adjacent to his, and slid into the bath, letting my chin slide down to the water.

It takes an hour before my heart stops beating hard enough to make the water ripple around my body. It takes another hour before I muster the energy to pull my body from the water, and another before I’m finally tired enough to fall asleep.

The moment I wake up, seeing the sunshine through the window, I feel horrible.

I pull the blankets around myself and think about everything I told Grayson yesterday—word vomiting the entire story about my parents.

That never should have happened. It was a huge mistake, and I’m not sure what possessed me to think it would be okay.

Rather than sit in bed and stew in my thoughts, I force myself to get up.

My little stint in Milwaukee is done. There’s no way I can go back there—no matter how much I was enjoying it, and no matter how much I enjoyed being near Sloane. I can’t risk being around Grayson, seeing him every day.

Besides, there’s no way I have enough of a case study put together to win a research position. Might as well come back to L.A., find another cookie cutter apartment, and tell Sloane if she wants to hang out, she has to come to California.

As I pack my things into my suitcase, I wonder if I should start applying for grad school, get a degree in something else.

My phone rings right after I check out of the hotel, and before I even reach into my pocket, I know it’s Sloane.

“Astrid?”

“Sloane,” I return, working to keep my voice as level as possible. I hesitate, wondering if I’ll be able to keep this short enough to leave, or if I should wait inside.

“Where did you go? I thought you were coming to the next game?”

“Decided not to.” I keep my voice breezy, but that doesn’t seem to be working. Sloane lowers hers, and I can practically see her looking back and forth, making sure nobody hears her when she speaks again.

“Astrid,” she says, “Grayson looks like shit.”

“Oh, that’s not good.”

“Don’t do this stupid wall thing with me today,” she says, sounding more annoyed than angry. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

“ Wall thing?” I ask, wheeling my suitcase over to the side and taking a seat on one of the chairs.

“Yeah,” she sounds exasperated. “The thing you do where you try to put up walls, keep me out. Then you realize I’ve already broken them down like a million times and you give up.”

I wasn’t aware I did a wall thing with Sloane, but now it makes sense why we’re close. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who hasn’t let me pretend to be someone else around her.

“So, what’s going on?” Sloane asks. “With you and Grayson.”

Lowering my voice, so nobody in the lobby can hear me, I say, “Sloane, he told me that he loves me .”

The words send a strange shiver over my body, a strange weight settling on my shoulders. For a brief moment, I feel worse than I did last night.

Then, my best friend laughs.

“Are you…laughing at me?” I scoff.

“Of course he’s in love with you,” Sloane says. “You’re you , Astrid. I’m surprised there aren’t more people falling in love with you.”

“I…” My voice trails away. I have nothing to say to that.

“And what’s the big deal?” Sloane goes on. “I’ve seen the way you look at him. Maybe you’re doing a good enough job pretending with everyone else, and yourself, but not me.”

“I can’t talk about this, Sloane.”

She sighs, and I picture her pinching her nose, shaking her head. After a moment, she says, “Okay…well, just try to think about it then, okay? Astrid, you are so smart. And you know so much about the way people work. But you never apply it to yourself.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“I just want you to be happy. And I don’t think you’re going to do that by pushing Grayson away because you’re scared.”

I open my mouth to tell her that I’m not scared, but the words die. Maybe because my body doesn’t want to let me lie to my best friend.

After a moment, Sloane adds, “Astrid, I’ve never seen you this happy before. And I’m not just saying that because I want you to stay in Milwaukee.”

“Okay,” I say, biting my lip and taking a breath. “I’ll think about it.”

I’m not even sure what thinking about it includes, but Sloane says she loves me and that she has to go, then hangs up. I picture her in New York right now, with the team, walking into the arena, and feel the strangest pang. The strangest urge to be there with them.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

Startling, I look up to see the receptionist from the front desk smiling down at me. “Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to make sure everything was okay? Were you able to get a ride?”

“Yes, thank you.” I stand up, heat flooding my cheeks, and I turn to go, but stop myself, turning back to her. “Actually, would you be able to hold my luggage for a few hours?”

***

When I set off without a destination, I end up in Santa Monica.

It’s pointless to wander through the city the way I do, but I order ride shares, taking them to every point in L.A. I know will make me cry. I order a hot dog at the place Dad used to love. I walk through the store Mom took me to when we bought my prom dress—the last time I would ever go shopping with her.

And, eventually, I step out of the car and into the bright light of the Santa Monica pier. I make my way through the tourists, past the amusement park, and keep walking until the crowds start to thin and I hit the very end of the boardwalk.

The ocean stretches out in front of me, to my left and right. As I sit on one of the benches, I can practically hear my mother beside me, kicking her feet as she strategically controls a strawberry ice cream cone as we sat together at twilight.

“Over there is Malibu,” she said, tipping her head to the right, where a land mass rises from the water. “That’s where all the celebrities live.”

This was her favorite spot on the pier, even more than the beach.

I run my hands up and down my jeans, take a breath, and stare out into the ocean, a vibrant, almost impossibly cerulean blue.

Grayson’s voice comes back to me.

“Astrid, I had no idea.”

“You don’t have to write off the way you feel, Astrid.”

“I just…I want you to know that you can talk to me.”

“I’m in love with you.”

I don’t realize I’m biting my tongue until I taste blood. What is it about that—about thinking Grayson might love me—that makes me so uncomfortable?

Last night, when I was staring at the ceiling, telling him about my parents, it felt so natural. Easy. Talking about finishing high school without them, and going right to college, then my master’s, then a doctorate.

Anything to keep my mind occupied.

I sit up a little taller on the bench, hands starting to shake as I sit with the realization. Every person I’ve been with since the death of my parents has been just that—a distraction. A way to pass the time. It’s incredibly clichéd, and impossibly obvious, but I’ve been running from intimacy with other people because I’m afraid.

I’m afraid that if I admit I love someone to the universe, it might just take them away from me.