No matter how many times a boy grabs my hand, I can never get used to the touch and how I feel when he decides to join his palm with mine.

There’s this boy at home who I have sort of a thing with. He went to high school with me, but we never talked until second semester of senior year, around April. We only knew each others’ names. I knew he played tennis. He knew I sang. But somehow we ended up going to the same concert together in July and he came and sat with me there. We only saw each other one other day over the summer and then he left for college farther down the coast of California, but that day it was clear… we naturally just hit it off with each other. We have never had more than three legitimate interactions, but suddenly The Boy is my best friend. An eternal optimist, he feels things much less heavily than I do. I tell him about some of my frustrations and he always tries to turn them into beams of sunshine. That irritates me. I like that about him. The Boy loves a lot and is the kindest person I know. If he doesn’t like someone he won’t say it. Until he tells me. And from what I know, he only ever tells me and no one else. I like that about him. I like that he sometimes calls me beautiful without meaning to. I like that I secretly know he likes it when I smile. I like that he doesn’t know that I think about him a lot. I like his face and the color of his skin. Golden.

The Boy asked me the other day if I was coming home for Thanksgiving. I am. I was going to ask him the same thing at some point.

But he asked me first. 

Now whenever I think of The Boy I touch something at the same time. It’s either the oversized hooded sweatshirt I know he will be wearing when I see him (because its a hand-me-down from his brother and The Boy hates shopping and loves his brother more than anything) or I touch his hair (which I know will be freshly buzzed) or his face (freckled) or his hand.

If I touch his hand, I don’t know what I’ll do. Because here it is…

I think when a boy touches my hand, its like he’s trying to touch his heart to mine. In one movement he says “being next to you is not enough.” The little pulses of our fingers, the little hearts in each of my five fingertips touch his and our hearts beat together. My romantic soul stops for a millisecond. It can’t deal with that kind of intense connection. And then it breathes to itself and I come back and my hand is still beating with a twin heart and time moves on.

I’m pretty sure The Boy is going to hold my hand. Writing this, I am preparing my easily stirred soul. I am also preparing to wear a lot of coconut hand lotion in the days preceding vacation. Just in case The Boy decides to give the Romantic in me a start and place in his palm in mine. I’m nervous as it is, the last thing I need is to feel uneasy about whether my hands feel like rose petals or sandpaper.

Deep down though the wonderful thing is that I know The Boy won’t care. He’ll just be happy to be with me.

And I can’t wait to be with him. He doesn’t know it, but I really like his oversized hooded sweatshirt. It’s soft to the touch when my five tiny hearts beat against it.