Page 48 of Forging Chaos

THORA

Odin textsonce a week to apologize and ask to talk. And I have zero time to deal with that nonsense. I’m too busy working double shifts all summer trying to pay him back for his pity portion of that scholarship. I can begrudgingly accept that most of the money came from actual charitable sources. Still, Fern confirmed that Odin donated his endorsement money from some video game to his uncle’s foundation and told them to launder the money until it became a scholarship. For me.

It’s embarrassing to think about the way I thought we were connecting, but he was actually just feeling sorry for the poor girl with formerly-incarcerated parents. God, what must he have been thinking about when I thought our eyes were locking, connecting despite our differences.

He and his savior complex can fuck right off. Which, I guess he did already. I don’t know why I keep hoping he’ll turn up at the bar. It’s not like I’ve given him any hope of connecting. His family is probably vacationing in Ibiza or something glamorous. No, cancel that. They’re probably all up in their mountain palace.

“Thora!” My manager snaps her fingers, and I shake outof my thought spiral. I’ve been on thin ice here at work despite years of dedicated work behind the bar. One little dizzy spell and one call-off…on arguably the busiest night of the year for a college bar…has put me in the doghouse for the whole summer.

I’m making bank right now, though, so I can’t complain. I’m giving a lot of it to my parents and setting aside big chunks to pay Odin back as soon as I can figure out how to get him the money in a way he can’t refuse or sneak back to me somehow. Fern says I’m being stubborn about this.

I’m counting down the days until I can see her again.

At the end of July, I work my last shift and untie my apron for the final time. I take the bus home, and since I’m leaving in the morning, I realize this might be my last time seeing this part of the city for a long time. I’ll be different when I get back here. I press a palm to the window and stare at the streets below the Bloomfield Bridge. I look at the hospitals and university buildings that have defined my view my entire life. Everything that once felt so out of reach is finally within my grasp.

I pack the last of my things into my two new-to-me suitcases, and in the morning, I wake up earlier than I need to in search of my mother.

She’s in the kitchen, wearing her work uniform, crying. “Oh,” she says. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Mom.” I wrap my arms around her slim, tired frame. I hear the familiar gurgle of the coffeemaker and try to imprint that aroma as my main memory of this house, of my childhood. “I wish you could come with me.”

Mom snorts. “Yeah, right. Me travel abroad.”

I pull back and stare at her. “You could visit me. I could help you get your passport. I’d help you.”

She smiles and smooths my hair. “Thora, baby, I’m not cut out for that kind of stress. But it makes me proud knowing you’ll be out there, showing them what Pittsburgh girls can be.”

I lean against her shoulder, thinking how desperately I wish I could help her more, how her circumstances inspire my entire research focus, my fellowship application…everything. I consider that Odin maybe, could have felt similarly. But then I let that thought slip away so I can kiss my mother goodbye and splurge on a car service to the airport.

The flight is long and confusing for me. Am I supposed to tip the flight attendants who bring me free wine and food every few hours? Do people really pay extra for internet access when we have an entire library of free movies to choose from?

I keep my nose down, repeatedly clutch at my passport tucked into my bra, and finally make my way through customs and into the bustle of Heathrow’s airport, which doesn’t feel at all different from the crowded T station in downtown Pittsburgh after a hockey game.

My heart flutters in my chest as I search for Fern, and then I see her holding a giant sign with my name on it. She jumps up and down, hollering, and people stare. But who cares? We can be obnoxious Americans for a minute. “You’re here,” Fern squeals.

“You’re here,” I squeal back. And we dance in a circle around my bags, two scholarship girls from Pittsburgh here in London for graduate school. “This is surreal,” I whisper.

She nods. “Come on.” She grabs one of my bags. “Wyatt sent a car for us.”

I chuckle. “Of course he did. It sucks that he’s away. Iwould have given him a handshake or something to thank him.”

She laughs and guides me toward a black car with a driver in a suit, eager to grab my bags and open our doors. It’s a bit weird getting in a car with the steering wheel on the right, but I’m too tired to focus on it for long.

“You don’t have to thank Wyatt,” Fern says. “This is just something he likes to do to take care of me.”

I run my arms along the leather interior. “Yeah, but you have to admit it’s…maybe weird is the wrong word. But it’s very different from what we’re used to.”

She smiles and closes her eyes, resting her head against the cushy seatback. “I take care of him, too.”

“Gross, Fern.” I swat at her leg, and she laughs.

“Not like that. Seriously. Our relationship is very reciprocal. We have different love languages.” I wish her comment didn’t immediately make me think of Odin, causing my entire body to clench uncomfortably. I’m quiet for a bit, staring out the window as some of the city sights come into view. Fern says, “Hey, Geoffrey, can you make sure we pass The Eye? I want Thora to see it.”

“You got it, guv,” the driver says, winking at us in the rearview mirror. I keep my eyes focused out the window.

“Anyway,” Fern says, “Wyatt is very generous with people he cares about. Which includes you because you’re important to me.”

I sigh. “Thank you. Thank him for me. You’re important to me, too.”

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