Somewhere Else

Chapter 6: Drifting (ii)

"How's it going with the class?" This a careful question from Aksel. It's the first weekend since I've started going for the class, and I haven't been updating him as much on it. Mostly because I don't like to talk about the class. "Have you made any friends yet?"

I busy myself with peeling the potatoes, letting the silence drag out.

After a moment, I look up and around, across to the counter where Aksel is standing. He's not looking at me. Instead, he's focusing, entirely too hard, on slicing the salmon into cubes.

"Not really," I mumble, turning back to my potatoes. "It's not easy – everyone seems to be in small cliques already. And you know how I am with that."

"Don't be silly. It's not hard for you to make friends."

I snort unceremoniously at his words. "Are you being serious right now?"

His tone is dry. "Remember how quickly you made friends with Kjell and David in Edinburgh?" He's probably remembering the beer-drinking contest that came that night too.

"I just kind of fell into that."

But he's right. I don't know why things are different from how they were in Edinburgh. Was it because I was all alone in a foreign country and felt more of an urgency to find a group to fit in with? Here, I have Aksel, even if I don't have any friends. After class, I have someone to come home to. The others probably go out drinking and hang out at each other's places. Maybe that's why they've gotten so close, so fast.

"You just have to try," Aksel says.

I'm squeezing the potato so hard that some juice leaks out over my fingers. "I am trying," I snap. "I don't need you to preach to me."

But then I grimace. Because I haven't been trying that hard. Just sitting there staring at people, hoping they'll make the first move to initiate conversation. That's not going to work, is it? I need to be more proactive.

"I wasn't trying to preach." I don't have to turn around to know that Aksel's head has snapped up. "I'm just saying... I know you can do it."

As I listen to the methodical clack of the knife blade meeting the chopping board, a surge of guilt rises up in my throat. He is always so supportive. I need to try harder. I need to do more. He must be so tired of my issues. I can't keep putting him through this.

"It takes time," he continues now. "You'll make friends."

"Yeah," I manage, in a choked voice.

Behind me, I hear the chopping stop. Just as I ready myself to turn around to see what Aksel is doing, I feel the weight of his arms land on both of my shoulders. His body is flush against mine, pushing me forward into the counter.

"Sorry," he says, his lips tickling the shell of my ear, "I would hug you properly, but my hands smell of salmon."

I can't help myself. I giggle.

He leans his head further forward to look at me properly. "Are you crying?"

I turn to face him. "No." His face is so close. I kiss him lightly on the cheek. I know he has shaved just this morning, but his skin already feels prickly now. "Don't worry. I'm not crying."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. It's just like you said. It takes time." And then softer, "Stop worrying about me." I look back down at my potatoes, moving to continue my chore, as much as I can with him still wrapped around me. "I feel bad when you worry about me."

He is silent for a while. "Okay," he says finally. He moves away then, and a moment later I hear the chopping resume.

We work wordlessly after that, letting the normal cooking noises fill the silence between us – the whiz of the peeler, the tack-tack of the knife, the quiet clink of the pot being placed on the induction stove. Aksel is already standing by the stove when I whirl around.