Page 49 of Forging Chaos

“Duh,” she says. And then she drops a bomb: “And you’re maybe important to other people in the Stag family, too…”

“Don’t.” I shake my head. “I can’t.” She’s going to bring up Odin, and my heart can’t handle all the conflicted feelings I have about him. He was supposed to be a spring fling, anyway.

“Why?” She pokes my shoulder. “He’s kind of perfect foryou. He gives you shit, and he’s competitive like you. And he’s smitten, Thora. Anyone could see…”

I turn to face her, spying the giant Ferris wheel Fern mentioned all lit up out her side of the car. “Okay, well, he’s also super pushy and lives in a different country and has no life plan beyond living in his parents’ basement.” She bites her lip. I frown at her. “What? What do you know?”

She winces. “He doesn’t live in his parents’ basement.”

“Oh. Okay, so he’s still in a shitty athlete apartment playing video games.”

“You like video games.”

“Ugh!” I flop back in my seat and close my eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Her hand drops to mine and squeezes. I flip my palm over and squeeze back, wrapping our fingers together, enjoying being physically in my best friend’s presence again, even if she’s choosing right now to pester me about my spring fling.

“He’s doing a master’s in sports psychology,” she whispers.

I open my eyes and stare at her in the dark, illuminated by the city lights, remembering what he said about that fledgling idea for his future before he revealed that he saw me as a charity project. “Well,” I spit out. “That’s fucking awesome.” And it’s true, but unexpected. “I love that for him.” This last bit comes out with less vehemence.

The car eases to a stop outside a gorgeous apartment building, brightly lit by streetlights, with little awnings over the windows and flower boxes and a doorman in a red uniform. “You should text him,” Fern says, unbuckling and accepting Geoffrey’s hand as she exits the car.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, and I follow her upstairs to check out her incredible flat.

CHAPTER 36

THORA

All the melatoninin the world couldn’t put me to sleep this week. My body is wrecked with the time change. I eventually gave up trying to sleep at Fern’s house and just stared out her flat windows at the London streets at night. The city isn’t so very different from Pittsburgh…neighborhoods built and bisected by a river…cobblestones and old architecture sprinkled with new bike lanes and modern parks. It makes me feel at home in a way.

In the morning, Fern—well, with Geoffrey—drives me to Oxford and holds my hand while I sign in for the graduate student housing. I’m living in a glorious old building full of wee flats. My place is one room with a bathroom, tiny kitchen, and nook for the bed tucked in the wall where I can stare up at the beautiful wooden ceiling or stare out the window of the sandstone building.

I don’t have much to unpack, and the kitchen comes equipped withverybasic supplies…so Fern gives me a watery-eyed hug and heads back to her own school. The flat has built-in drawers and bookshelves, although I didn’t bring any books to put on them. I fantasize about acquiring some while I’m here…old law texts and reference guides to policies from all the different nations that prioritize social services.

I fall back on the bed, clapping my hands, and pass out in the middle of the afternoon, which isn’t going to do my jet lag any favors.

I wake up groggy in the middle of the night, and by four in the morning, I’m wide awake and ready to face my day. Too bad it doesn’t begin for five more hours. I decide to teach myself about English tea and boil some water in the kettle on my tiny stove. I’m feeling very posh, pouring it into a pot with loose leaves Fern gifted me, but stirring and sipping in silence just leads to thoughts of Odin.

Honestly, I don’t know what to make of the new information I’ve learned and processed. He figured out what he wants to do. He leveraged his family’s wealth to do something nice for me. He told me I’m the only thing he has going right in his life. It’s all too much, too soon, when I need to clear space in my head for this fellowship.

I will call him. Or text him. Eventually, I still intend to give him back his portion of that grant money. I even set it aside in a sub-account in my shiny new international checking account.

After two showers and a long session ironing my first-day outfit, I shoulder my laptop bag, toe on my red flats, and walk to orientation, knowing I look like what I am: a professional young woman starting graduate school.

The sun is shining, which I wasn’t expecting, but I tuck my new raincoat in my bag regardless. I sign in for international student programming and mill around munching an actual crumpet.

“And where are you from?” A guy with a French accent holds a hand out toward me, a hopeful smile on his face.

“Pittsburgh. In the States,” I tell him, shaking his hand and smiling. Look at me mingling. This isn’t terribly different from bartending. Instead of hoping for tips, I’m looking to make professional connections, I remind myself.

“Ah, an American. What brings you to Oxford?” He leans against the mantle of a very ornate fireplace.

I swallow the last bite of crumpet and dab at my mouth with my napkin. “International Policy and Family Studies,” I tell him. “You?”

He talks about microeconomics until my eyes start to glaze, but we’re soon joined by a pair of students from India, here studying the impact of colonialism, and a German dude “reading” English literature.

I lose myself in conversations about relocation, learn that the Indian folks live in my same building, and enter our campus tour buzzing. As we walk across the impressive lawn, I snap a picture to send to my mom. Then I realize it’s three in the morning back home. I sigh.

---