I poke his shoulder again, and he pokes me back, and then we’re poking back and forth, giggling wildly. I can’t believe this is happening. I’m dating Forrest. I’m.Dating. Forrest.
As quickly as my heart expanded, it contracts. We’re dating. Which means we can break up. And when we break up—
His face, rigid with anger, screaming at me about something, I don’t know what it is but I know I did something bad, and I am bad, and he’s done with me—
“Sidney?”
I snap back to earth. Forrest is watching me, hands in his pockets.
“I ...had a thought,” I say. “Um. An intrusive one. It’s an OCD thing.”
“You looked like you spaced out for a second,” he says.
“Yeah. It’s like a movie that plays in my brain, except instead of something entertaining, it’s a highlight reel of my worst fears.” I give a double thumbs-up.
“That sounds terrible,” he says. “Like anxiety on steroids.”
“Yeah.” The inside of my skull is itching, and I want to ask him to never leave me, never break up with me,we’re OK, right, you don’t hate me, please tell me so the thoughts will stop and I’ll be OK.But I’m not supposed to do that, I don’t think. I have to let the thought exist. All of this could end, and I just have to accept that. I have to live with all the possibilities of us, layered over each other, every branching pathway we could take, and find out where we go.
“Hey.” He holds out a hand, and I take it. His palm is warm, his fingers curling through mine and pulling me closer, until we’re a few inches apart. “I got you.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. His hand in mine is solid. And right now, I know what I want to do. I’m going to open my mouth and ask him what I’ve been wanting to ask him since he called me his partner a few minutes ago.
“Can I kiss you?”
He nods. I let go of his hand and slip my arms around his waist, and he pulls me close, and then we’re kissing.
This is real.
It’s happening.
