“No, it’s okay. I’m having a good time.”
People around him are having a good time as well. They’re having a good time because he’s here. He makes every single one of them feel seen. He gives them his time and attention. He puts his hands on them when they talk to him, so they can feel his good intentions.
I don’t know why he touches others so much when he never touches me. I also don’t know why it’s so hard for me to touch him when he’s right next to me. I’m not talking about touching him in a sexual way. I mean in a casual way, as a friend. He probably wouldn’t even notice if I did it. Everyone touches him like that. Literally every single person who’s greeted him tonight has touched him in some way. Hugs and high fives. Fist bumps and back slaps.
I don’t know why it has to be such a big deal for me to do it. We’re friends now, and friends hug and shit like that. It’s normal. I hugged Tank and Georgie when I saw them tonight, for fuck’s sake, and that wasn’t weird at all.
Why can’t I hug Connor?
When our drinks are almost empty, Connor goes to the bar, insisting it’s his turn to get a round. I watch as he threads through a sea of inebriated people. They snare him before he reaches his destination, wrapping their tentacles around him to slow him, to entice him, to keep him with them for as long as possible. He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t struggle. He lets the current take him. Lying back in choppy water, floating and happy, as others splash and scrap around him.
He’s fifteen, maybe twenty feet away from me. It’s farther than he usually is when we’re at home, and closer than he is when I watch him from the shadows.
It’s strange to see him there, in the middle distance.
I can see all of him from here. All the good things. His hair and the outline of his body. Eyelashes and smile lines. Shoelaces and a profusion of freckles. I can see the stitching on his jeans and the way his waistband hangs low on his hips. I can see the gentle slope between his pecs, and a hint of a silvery scar peeking out of the V of his T-shirt.
Behind him, others blur. Moving, heaving in time with the music.
Connor lets it flow through him. The music, the people. Like everything life throws at him, he doesn’t waste energy resisting or fighting. He lets the mournful whine of an electric guitar enter his bones through his shoulders, and the loud, steady beat of a drum through his hips and spine.
He moves with the music. Not dancing exactly, but something like it. Something spiritual and good. Something that makes his eyes slide to half-mast and his lips turn up at the corners as he mouths the lyrics of the song that’s playing. As he does it, people mill past him, reaching out and touching him. A hand on his arm. A pat on his back.
He smiles when it happens, a gentle acknowledgment more than active encouragement.
The people around him fade. The music fades too.
The space between us aches.
I find myself on my feet, gravitating toward him more than actively deciding to do so. I circle him, skirting the perimeter of the room. Finding the shadows I know so well and cloaking myself in them.
I’m in front of him, then I’m circling him, and finally, I’m behind him.
I’m five feet away now, not fifteen or twenty.
I can see the hair on the back of his neck and the whorl of hair on his crown. The melody of the song that’s playing whispers his name and his body sways to greet it.
A girl puts her hand on his cheek, and he smiles. I can tell he hardly noticed her touch though. It didn’t offend him or move him in any way. It didn’t bother him. It washed off him, and now that she’s moved her hand, he probably won’t think of it again.
It’ll be the same if I touch him,I tell myself.He’ll smile and keep swaying. The music will keep having its way with him, and tomorrow, he probably won’t remember that it happened.
It’ll mean nothing.
I’m behind him. He can’t see me.
He might not even notice if I do it. He might not even know I’m the one touching him.
I slink closer to him, stepping out of the shadows and into his orbit. It’s warm here. His T-shirt looks soft, and he smells nothing like laundry detergent. Nothing like chemicals or lavender. He smells like himself. Like kind eyes and a throaty chuckle. Like understanding and humor and sex rolled into one.
His T-shirt is slightly bunched, the fabric rumpled at his side. If I touch him there, he probably won’t feel it.
I’m almost positive he won’t feel it.
I extend my hand.
The room spins.
My heart pounds.
