I stretched my arm out and grabbed hold of his T-shirt, made a fist, and pulled closer to him, comfortably adjusting myself on his chest as he lowered his arm and wrapped it around me.

“It is more,” I said as he started stroking my hair.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Marcy

The sidewalk was like glossy caramel, shining under yellow light as we walked along tiny puddles on concrete. For most of the seven blocks, we moved in silence, occasionally catching sight of each other and always having it end in a smile. I tried remembering the last time any of it had happened. Looking as far back as I could, I first attempted to recall a time in which I had felt anything remotely similar to what I could only describe as being seen. I couldn’t, so I then tried to remember something that should’ve been simple enough to do: a time in which I had felt kindness akin to that which seemed to flow so easily from him. Once again, I had no luck. Of course, I could think of moments, random bits of memory that hadn’t yet cracked or dimmed after being confronted with time, ganders of a previous life that seemed to become more distant the longer I tried to anatomize it. But they were there nonetheless. However brief, they had occurred, and even though I was tempted to imagine they failed to match the ones I’d recently experienced, it was ultimately because of them that I was capable of understanding how much the last few hours mattered.

Instead of glimpses, I was given minutes. Whole minutes—oftentimes countless ones—in which I felt as though I was actually there. Were it not for those glimpses I’d innocently held on to for so long as though treasure, I’d never have thought it possible to discern them, realizing something else could, in fact, exist. That, and numerous other thoughts raced through my mind during those seven blocks of utter comfort. Not all of them equated pleasure, but they all shared the same constant.

“Here we are,” my constant said as we stopped in front of my house.

I climbed the first step and turned back to face him. “Look,” I said. “Same height.”

He smiled, taking a step forward. I could see his eyes without looking up a bit, an odd feeling.

“Is this how you see everything?” I asked as he put his arms around my waist. He slid them under the black hoodie with the word “Déchues” written on it in big, bold white letters he’d let me borrow.

“Thank you,” he said and pulled me closer, allowing me to wrap my arms around his neck. “For spending the night.”

“Anytime,” I told him, trying not to kiss him.

“Lunch was awesome. You should do that again, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“Best pasta I ever had,” he said, smiling.