2
Sunday morning, Esben woke spooning a pillow.
Not an odd thing for him, as more often than not lately he fell asleep doing the same. This morning, however, in his hypnopompic state, he had mistaken the pillow for a young Monica Geller, the Friends character, who visited him in his dreams to clean his house, cook him a meal, and…do other things.
When he opened his eyes, the new day illuminated the harsh reality that was his familiar loneliness. He plopped the pillow behind him and sat up, giving his legs a moment to adjust to the idea of standing. His body was punishing him for not eating a bedtime snack. The hunger made him weak, queasy, and dizzy. He was craving bacon.
Shuffling to his bathroom, he forced himself to step on his digital body fat percentage scale. Still too heavy. Still too fat. His doctor had warned him this could happen, either from having back pain or taking his antidepressant. Together, they ensured weight gain, though the occasional binge eating did not help.
In the mirror, he saw what should not be. And the impossibility of change, the reality of being trapped in an unrecognizable, broken body weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Muffled music rumbled from the adjacent room. He cocooned his body in his bathrobe, plodded down the hall, and knocked on his daughter’s bedroom door.
“Frida?”
“Yeah.”
The music volume lowered as he opened the door. “Go måren.”
“English.”
He stood in the doorway, puzzled.
“Speak English,” she clarified. “I need practice.”
“Du snakke heilt perfekte engelsk.”
She glared at him and mouthed, English.
He exhaled his mild frustration. “Okay, skatt. What do you want for breakfast?”
She growled and slammed her phone onto her bed. “Don’t call me that! Skatt sounds like scat. That’s poo, Dad.”
He dragged his palm down his face. “Okay. Forgive me. Do you want breakfast?”
“I already ate.” Her attention was back on her phone.
Defeated, he turned to leave.
“Door closed,” she called.
He obeyed, closing the door louder than intended. The stereo recommenced its blaring.
On Saturday, he had tried to get Frida interested in hanging out with him and the children, perhaps go on a short hike, but she had spent the entire day in her room. And Solveig had picked the children up last night, intending to give him and Frida a Sunday to themselves.
So much for that.
This morning, he ate his eggs, bacon, and brown bread with cheese in solitude. For his tea, he brewed a blend he had picked out for himself on one of his darker days: an artisanal mix of black and green tea, cloves, and dehydrated apple chunks.
Instead of family conversation, he worked. Answering emails, skimming reports. So far, there was only one graduate student applicant to the field school, a repeat, and nearly thirty undergraduates from around the world, though mostly from North America. He processed two new applications, sent the welcome emails, updated his staff, and again read the drafted email he needed to send to Kate, agonizing over its salutation.
He had rewritten the email seven times.
Professor Roth was overly impartial. Dear Kate was too familiar.
Dear Dr. Roth. Dear Professor Roth. Kate.
Kate…
He edited the salutation yet again, and without allowing himself to deliberate a second longer, he hit send. As the rush of sending the email left him feeling lighter, a different heaviness settled into his gut.
Friends. He would ignore reality with Friends. He opened his browser and leaned back against the large, padded chair, cradling the tea mug between his palms.
A minute into the episode, a knock at the apartment door interrupted his mellowed state. He rarely received visitors, let alone unannounced, and Lina wasn’t due to pick up Frida for hours yet. He attempted a quick, mirrorless preen, adjusted his bathrobe, and checked the peephole.
Lina.
“Jævel,” he spat. “What do you want?” he asked before the door was fully open.
“I need to pick her up now.” Her long brown hair looked freshly coiffed.
“It’s only eight. We just woke up.”
“And I cannot come later. She knew I was coming early.” Lina invited herself in and hollered, “Frida?” Her shiny shoe tapped a staccato rhythm against his hardwood floor.
Frida, dressed and packed, loped to her mother. “Ready,” she announced, yet again in English. Why did she continue to speak English?
“You have your school tablet?” he asked her.
“Yes,” she answered curtly as she exited the apartment.
“And the charger?” he called after her, receiving no response.
Lina shot him a smirk, then strutted out the door.
No goodbyes. No parting glances as his family disappeared into the stairwell. He stared into the desolate hallway, then returned to the kitchen table and sat on his chair, gaze settling on the laptop’s spacebar. Emotions wove together in a tangled static, angry thoughts indistinguishable from the sad. He hadn’t realized he was crying until jolted by the memory that he had made himself tea.
Deciding to immerse himself in his favorite video game, Hero & Harrow, he logged on to his main character—a human warrior named Esben, who owned a vast plot of land on which he cultivated flowers and raised chickens—then queued for a random duel.
Esben the Warrior resembled Esben the Man, with his bright blue eyes, long ginger hair, and bushy beard. Their proportions were different, though—Esben the Man used to look more like Esben the Warrior years ago, before Esben the Man ruined his back. Before he ruined everything. Like most games, however, H&H didn’t have a fat avatar option.
Not half a minute after logging in, guildmates greeted Esben the Warrior, who returned the sentiments. Esben the Warrior was happy, after all. He was appreciated. He belonged. And he crafted the finest armor on the server.
But after losing duels repeatedly, Esben the Warrior grew disenchanted, bid his guildmates farewell, and retired for the day.
At 10:48 am, Esben the Man finished his cold tea, shed his bathrobe, and crawled back into bed.
Halfway into a Saturday night viewing of The Princess Bride in the Barcol-Gonzalez’s living room, Kate’s phone chimed a three-note tune that signaled the arrival of a work email. She side-eyed the phone, then defiantly flipped it over.
“You know,” Kate said with a mouth full of popcorn, “I’ve never felt that.”
“Felt what?” Clara asked.
“What Wesley and Buttercup have. That to-die-for, hurts to spend one moment apart, more-than-sex soulmate love. I don’t even know if I believe it exists.”
“Maybe you’re aromantic,” Felicity said.
“Hmm, no. I don’t think so. I’ve loved before. But it was never…”
“True love?” Clara gushed.
“Ha, I guess. Yeah. We need two different words for it: love and lllove.” Kate swirled the velvety cabernet in her glass. “Maybe Nikki sensed that about me. About us. She never asked me, and I never talked to anyone about it, but maybe she just…knew. And Steve, too. Maybe that’s why he sent me to Boulder with his blessing.”
Clara sipped her wine. “Maybe so.”
“Please,” Felicity begged as she stood. “No what iffing about Glasgow Steve tonight.”
Felicity left to go to the bathroom, and quietly, Kate asked Clara, “Do you feel that with Felicity? Butterflies and soul bursts and special tingles?”
Clara’s smile was glorious. “Yep. Even after eighteen years. What can I say? I’m smitten.”
Kate shook her head. “Damn.”
Nikki left because I didn’t love her enough.
Needing a distraction from her distractions, Kate flipped her phone back over and peeked at the notification. Subject: Summer field school. Sender: Esben Veholt.
Kate gasped.
“Something good?” Clara asked.
“Dunno.” Kate opened the email.
Kate breathed out, “Oh, shit.”
“Uh-oh. Is it her?”
“No.” Kate eyed Clara. “It’s Ben.”
In the flickering light of their makeshift cinema, Kate watched Clara’s eyes slowly widen. “Wait, Ben Ben?”
“I’ve only ever known one Ben.”
“Ben,” Clara repeated. “Viking Cowboy Ben.”
“Viking. Cowboy. Ben.”
“Shit.”
“Shit…”
“Well, what does he want?”
“He’s invited me to work at his field school this summer.”
“No shit! Where?”
“Newfoundland.”
Clara’s smile fell so quickly Kate couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well,” Clara said, “at least it’s probably a mild summer up there. Might be cold at night. Need someone to warm you.” She winked. “See, this is why I believe in fate.”
Kate laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“Your girl left you, and for the first time in however long, Viking Cowboy Ben emails you.”
“With a collaboration proposition related to my research interests.”
“Still a proposition. The man could’ve asked anyone. Why you, of all people? No offense.”
“Mhmm.”
“Seriously. I wonder if he knows. Does he follow you online?”
“He used to, but I think he deleted his profiles.”
How long had it been since Ben’s photos and funny memes stopped showing up on her timeline? A year ago, at least.
“Anyway,” Kate said, “I’m not listed as single. Not listed as anything anymore.”
Clara eyed Kate as she sipped her wine.
“He has a partner,” Kate insisted. “A really pretty one. They have a daughter together.”
“Okay, okay. I’m just sayin’, the timing is nothing short of miraculous.”
“What’s miraculous?” Felicity asked as she returned, now sporting her trans pride hoodie.
“Kate’s future husband just propositioned her.”
Felicity’s face twisted in confusion, and Kate groaned and buried her face in her palms.
Clara cackled. “Ah, well. I guess this means your summer road trip is a bust.”
“What? I don’t know if I’m going to say yes.”
Felicity threw a hand up in the air. “Okay, hold on. I missed something.”
“Kate’s been invited to Newfoundland for ‘work’”—Clara used air quotes—“this summer.”
“Newfoundland?” Felicity sipped her water, having forgone the wine Kate and Clara were swimming in. “You should go. It’s nice there in the summer.”
“Hell, let’s all go.” Clara raised her glass. “I need to approve of Kate’s betrothed.”
“Clara…”
“Sweetie, listen to me.” She snuggled up to Kate on the sofa. “I can appreciate that you want to have an independent summer, drive off into the sunset with yourself, whatever. But I know you. If you don’t take this opportunity, one that may never come again if you decline now, you’re gonna wallow in regret for the rest of your existence.” She turned to her wife. “Am I right?”
Felicity’s brows knotted to match her sympathetic smile. “You do have a tendency to wallow. What were you planning to see on your road trip? Can it wait?”
Can it wait?
Kate sunk into the sofa. Hadn’t her life been on pause long enough? Two years, six… She wanted, needed a reset. A jumpstart into the future. A journey of self-discovery, leaving behind all thoughts of partners potential or previous. A summer of Kate, and nature, and her camera. That’s all. Leaving the option open, of course, for brief hookups only, zero strings. That’s what she’d promised herself.
But…Ben. And bones. And students. In a new land. Thousands of miles away from the vortex that was Nikki’s dark, vacant house. The prospect was enticing. Maybe she could compromise: Newfoundland might have some road trip-worthy destinations.
“Yeah,” Kate sighed. “Glacial potholes can wait. I should spend my spare time house hunting anyway.”
“There.” Clara tapped Kate’s shoulder. “It’s settled. If you desperately need to get away, take yourself to Rocky Mountain Park. And as far as house hunting…” She looked at Felicity, who nodded. “If you’re going away this summer, leave your things here until you get back. Rent free. All I ask in return is that you clean up after yourself while you’re here and go to Canada. Besides…” Clara grinned. “International collaborations? Might look good on your tenure advancement application.”
“Shit,” Kate muttered. “You’re right. It would.”
Clara whispered to her wife, “I love being right all the time.”
Felicity smiled and asked, “How do you know this guy? What’s his name?”
“Ben. Esben. We met at an archaeo field school twenty-some years ago in Norway.”
Summer archaeological field school—the rite of passage for all would-be archaeologists. Where everyone was equalized by sweat and dirt and port-a-potties (or holes in the ground). Where beer was a staple food group, the sharing of hard liquor around the campfire was commonplace, and nonsmokers puffed away. Where one made friends and colleagues for life, or at the very least got laid.
That was Kate’s experience, anyway.
“She gave Ben up for Tonia,” Clara said.
Kate groaned. “Tonia…”
The golden Norwegian girl with perfect arms and heart-shaped lips had shown up in Kate’s tent one night—on Ben’s twentieth birthday, in fact—and for the rest of the field school, they were inseparable. But once Kate left Norwegian soil, Tonia’s promises of reunions and road trips across America disintegrated.
“I was in love with her for a hot minute,” Kate said. “But I didn’t give Ben up for her—he was never mine. We were friends. We exchanged emails and kept in touch online. If liking photos and memes on each other’s timelines counts as keeping in touch.”
“Oh, it counts,” Clara said with a waggle of her brows. “Did you ‘poke’ each other on Facebook, too? Remember ‘poking’?” Felicity poked Clara’s side, eliciting a giggle. “I bet he wants to ‘poke’ you.”
Felicity laughed. “I apologize for my drunk wife.”
Kate finished her wine and stood. “Alright, ladies, I’m off to bed. Thanks for the advice, and”—she gestured around her—“entertainment.”
“Our pleasure,” Clara said, still giggling.
Kate brushed her teeth, settled into bed, and opened Ben’s email on her phone. The flier he’d sent was nicely designed, with a photo of someone holding a small brush, revealing a human skeleton in what must’ve been the site’s cemetery.
She never did visit Ben’s site in Newfoundland. Not his site—a site he’d worked on for at least the last twelve years. A site that was basically his baby. She’d never had that; rather, she’d hopped from site to site as opportunities and invitations arose. Six different US states, Alberta, Mexico, various sites in England and Scotland, Rome… None of them became a pet project.
On her laptop, she found her photos from her summer at the Helvetes Port Field School. So many photos. Of people, of burials, of archaeological features and artifacts.
An in situ human skeleton, meticulously platformed by the dirt left intact underneath.
Astrid, the site director, lecturing.
Astrid’s husband, Daniel, playing his acoustic guitar by the campfire.
A rusted, barely recognizable axe blade.
Tonia about to bite into an apple, her plump pink lips pressed against the dark red skin, teeth bared.
A group of immortalized strangers, throwing thumbs up and peace signs at the camera, clearly drunk and/or high.
A broken ceramic bowl.
Tonia simpering, her wide-set, velvety blue eyes winking at the camera.
Young men lounging in the sun on lunch break, half of them with their shirts off, glowing from their paleness.
Ben was in that group of young men. Fully clothed, his form-fitting tee the same blue as his eyes was filthy from dirt, sweat, and something purple from his lunch. She recalled wishing for him to take it off, give it a wash, keep it off…
Most photos she had of Ben were candid, his face partially hidden by his cowboy hat, taken without his knowledge. He’d been a strong but beardless boy then, a marked difference from adult Ben.
In one photo, wearing cargo shorts and a dirt-stained tee, he stretched on his belly, arm dipped to the shoulder into a trench. She smiled at the tattoo on his right calf, a Norse-style bear. Ben had a nice butt, and back, and shoulders…
Kate didn’t regret hooking up with Tonia—she might never have admitted she was bisexual otherwise. But she always wondered what might have happened had she hooked up with Ben instead.
Viking Cowboy Ben. He’d always laughed when she called him that.
He didn’t seem to have a social media presence anymore, except a LinkedIn that only included his current job information and lacked a photo.
She closed her laptop, set it aside, and snuggled under the covers. The room was nearly solid black, only a hint of light shining through a gap from under the door, the television in the living room barely audible.
Ben’s timing was indeed miraculous. But the thought that he harbored a personal interest in her was highly presumptuous. He’d never shown any romantic or sexual interest in her the two times they’d met despite her weak attempts at flirting. Though, at that conference in Texas twelve years ago, they’d both been in a relationship.
Lina, with her molasses hair and razor-sharp cheekbones. She and Ben had a daughter, Frida, who must be a teen by now—it was hard to believe Viking Cowboy Ben had a teenaged kid.
Clara was right. If Kate declined, she’d regret it, like she regretted so many other missed opportunities—particularly regarding Ben. It would indeed be nice to see him, work with him. And though her knees and wrists would disapprove, she longed to dig at an archaeological site again.
Maybe a summer in the field in a different country was exactly what she needed. Meet new people and Ben’s colleagues. Sink a trowel into new soil.
Digging at a Viking site with Ben again—the idea made her smile.