There was something in me that twitched when she called me clueless, that feeling of fear that maybe I was misreading things. But then she scrunched up her nose and smiled at me as she stretched out in my direction and leaned back into the couch cushions, the popcorn bowl between us. I tried to turn my attention to the TV as she hit PLAY, but my eyes kept betraying me and focusing on her instead. Every lean toward the popcorn brought us closer and closer together, until she finally moved the bowl to the ground, tucked a pillow under her head, and lay down so her hair grazed my thigh, just so.

Could she feel how tense I was? How every cell in my body was sending signals to that one spot on my leg to play it cool? I was barely holding myself together, contemplating whether I should simply ask, “Is what I think is happening between us actually happening?” or just bend down and press my mouth against hers, no words said. Instead, Franny twisted in place, looking up at me with a smile, and then grabbed my hand from where it rested on the back of her couch, tense and electric, and brought it down to wrap around her, her fingers laced in mine.

I expected this to undo me, but instead my shoulders relaxed. The sensation of my hand against hers soothed me, like the feeling of a cold washcloth pressed against my feverish forehead as a kid. I could breathe again. I traced slow circles on her skin with my thumb. Everything in my body slowed, as if to say This is where you should be. Stay.

And then, to my own shock, I got sucked into the movie unfolding before us. I got why Cher and Nicolas Cage yelling at each other about love was intoxicating. It was loud and passionate and angry, but it was honest and pure too, and watching their back-and-forth made me think of Franny and me. It was messy, but it made complete sense. We made sense. About halfway through the movie, I leaned down to tell Franny, but she was folded into herself and fast asleep.