I woke up Sunday morning with my body on fire, the fuse lit the night before by the feeling of Hayes’s breath on my neck. I couldn’t get over the sensation of how muscular he was through his tux, and the idea of just how that firm, smooth skin would feel against my body with no clothes between us was making me squirm. I tucked myself under the covers of my bed, a cup of coffee close by, and reenacted every moment, trying to recall the glint in Hayes’s eyes, the occasional hint of his dimples, the warmth of his body. And then on top of all this, Cleo’s words played like a song on repeat: “He’s into you.”

His hand. That’s what I kept circling back to. His hand on my back, the first place I’d ever felt him touch me, in that instant on the subway. He had held it there, still and firm, for most of the time we were dancing. Even through the satin of my dress, I could feel him there, as if we were skin to skin. But there was one instance where he’d started tracing small circles on my back, and it had felt so wildly erotic, like his hand was between my legs and not palming the spot where I’d had a small butterfly tattooed in bright blue ten summers ago.

I clenched my eyes closed and opened them wide, willing myself out of my fantasy. There was a chain of texts from Lola and Cleo sitting unanswered on my phone. Cleo recapped last night—and filled us in on the handsome Columbia PhD student she’d met at an after-party. I sent through a string of thumbs-up and heart emojis, and then tossed my phone aside. There was something else I needed to do.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, I grabbed my computer from the floor and powered it on. It had been weeks now since that note from my half sister had landed in my inbox. I wasn’t sure what it was about last night that had infused me with courage, but I clicked on the Reply box below her message and finally, finally began typing.

My response was short, but it took me almost an hour to write what I wanted to say and hit SEND. I’d expected the feeling of the message going through to offer up some sense of relief, or calm, but instead I felt utterly terrified. What if I was too forward? Too needy? Not friendly enough? What if she decided not to respond? I had finally taken the step to connecting with this person, who would in turn connect me with parts of myself that had always been a mystery. And now I was plagued with worry about rejection, with the thought that I might not actually get to know this side of myself at all.