I’m breathless with laughter as Adam’s pure joy zips into my body and combines with my own. I’ve never felt this from him before. He gets amused, yeah, but this kind of carefree happiness is new. I’m completely intoxicated by it and I shove him harder, as if it will release more of the bright light of joy like hitting an old cushion releases dust. I clearly shove too hard because Adam starts to fall backward and he automatically grabs the lapels of the hideous blue tux jacket, nearly pulling me down with him. My arms windmill for a fraction of a second before landing on either side of him, holding us both up.

What happens next is … weird. The light of joy doesn’t go out but it kind of stutters and bursts. He’s still happy but there’s an added layer of fluttering anxiety that begins to cut through. The pulse of his nerves is out of sync with my heart, which right now feels like it’s going to spring from my chest. The battling rhythms make my skin tingle and my forehead break out in a sweat. All of a sudden, I’m a boy made of nerve endings alone.

Dr. Bright tells me that, when I get overwhelmed by someone’s emotions, I should try and focus on what I see—on the concrete things in front of me. I do this now, drinking in Adam’s wide-eyed expression like it’s going to soothe the fire building in my veins. It doesn’t work. His mouth opens slightly like he’s going to say something and my heart lurches at the possibility. But no sound comes. Instead his eyes start moving around my face, like he’s doing the same thing—trying to cling to reality so he doesn’t get dragged under by the wave of emotion that’s moving through the air.

My heartbeat has slowed, or it’s sped up and his has slowed. Or his has sped up and mine has stayed the same—I’m losing track of what’s what and who’s who but all I know is that we’re in sync again and those butterflies have invaded my stomach once more. They’re both welcome and unwelcome—a nice, warm feeling that makes me want to hide. I suddenly become aware of the warmth coming from Adam’s body. My arms aren’t touching him, but I can feel his rib cage expanding as he breathes, like the air between his sides and my forearms is being sucked out with each inhale.

His fingers flex slightly on my lapels and I don’t know if it’s been seconds or hours since he first grabbed them. I should say something. I know I should say something. But, as with so many things, Adam beats me to it.