My best date with Leo was like six weeks ago. Normally our “dates” are just hanging out at his place, but this time we actually went somewhere together. There’s a boardwalk in Santa Cruz with amusement park rides and a long stretch of beach. We spent the first couple hours playing mini golf, of all things, at this indoor pirate-themed golf course. Leo was good at golf. I sucked, but I enjoyed Leo trying to console me every time I missed a shot, a little kiss, a hug, a touch. And I blamed him, of course, for keeping me so distracted.

“I just wanted you to feel good about yourself,” I told him as we scarfed down some pizza for lunch later. “I had to lose so you could feel like you were winning.”

“Is that right?” His honey-brown eyes were full of light and humor. He reached across the table and took my pizza-grease-stained hand in his. He has large hands, like big blocks on the ends of his arms. An artist’s eye is trained to recognize shapes, and to mine, Leo’s hand is made of solid squares and rectangles. But gentle.

“That’s right.”

“In that case, thank you,” he said, and actually lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “You’re my good-luck charm, I guess.”

But it was me who felt like I was winning.

He made me feel brave. Like if a guy like Leo liked me, I must be doing something right. And that made me feel like I could do anything. Be anything. Strong. Fearless. Attractive. Cool. The way I always saw Afton, but me this time. Me.

So then I went on the boardwalk rides with Leo, even though I don’t like rides. I got tossed into the air, screaming in a fun way. I was whisked and whipped by a roller coaster, swung by one ride, spun by another, and I didn’t barf, not once.

Leo played some of the carnival games, and because he’s good at everything, he won more often than he lost. I was his good-luck charm.

But the best part was at the end: when we walked along the beach, holding cotton-candy-sticky hands. We didn’t talk much. We took off our shoes and rolled up our pant legs and made a set of footprints in the sand, side by side. We played for a while—like kids, I guess—a kind of tag with the water, back and forth, laughing when it almost caught us. Then we let it catch us, and stood kissing while the waves rolled past our legs. Salt on Leo’s lips. Golden glints in his tawny hair. The water shining as the sun began to set.