I think I might have.

It took me a moment to understand what he wanted. I don’t think I could have been more socially awkward had I tried. When it finally hit me that he was waiting to shake my hand, a good thirty seconds had gone by and I was pretty sure that sound I was hearing was any pride I had left dying a slow and painful death.

He started to pull his hand away and a weird look came over his face, so I shot my hand out to shake his. I missed his hand by at least seven inches and ended up accidentally punching him in the stomach instead.

“Oh, Jesus!” I cried in horror. “I’m sorry!”

“Do you often hit people who save your life?” he asked with a grimace as he clutched his stomach.

“I wasn’t dying!”

“This is why most people tend to mind their own business. They’re afraid of getting assaulted.”

I put my face in my hands and groaned. “I was just trying to shake your hand!”

“So is that why you hit me? I didn’t know you had an aversion to hand shaking. You could have just said so. Is it part of your religion? Or maybe you have mysophobia. That’s a fear of germs. Or maybe it’s actually chirophobia. That’s a fear of hands.” He looked down at his hands. “I have very nice hands. Perfectly manicured and everything. Now I feel extraordinarily insulted. You don’t have to be rude, you know. I did save your life, after all.”

I’d never felt more flustered in my life. “I’m not scared of your hands!” To prove my point, I reached out, grabbed his hand, and held it in my own. “See? And I know what mysophobia is. I am smart.”

He grinned. “Ah! There’s the smugness.”

“It’s not smugness. It’s fact.”

“God, you’re just a handful, aren’t you?”

“Puns are the lowest form of humor.”

“Bad day?”

“You caught me at the wrong time.” Understatement, that. Every time seemed to be a wrong time lately.

“Panic attack?”

I watched him closely to see if he was making fun of me. It didn’t seem like it, so I finally said, “Something like that.”

Corey nodded, and I was sure now he had eyeliner on, at the very least. “I used to have them too. When I was younger.”

“Younger? How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Oh.”

“Legal,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

I almost laughed. “You don’t have them anymore?”

“What?”

“Panic attacks.”

“No.” He didn’t say “anymore,” and I didn’t push. “This is nice,” he said after a time.

“What?”

“Sitting here, in the sun. And look! We’re holding hands! How very romantic this is! I surely am going to write in my diary about this tonight. I’ll probably end up dotting all the I’s with hearts.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I sputtered for a bit. I tried to pull my hand away, but he wouldn’t let go. Eventually, I stopped.