“Like you have a problem with your ego.”
He shot me a sharp smile. “Like you do, either.”
I flinched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “You’reShira Barbanel.”
I flushed. “Excuse me?”
“Rich, pretty Shira Barbanel,” he said lightly. “The world’s at your fingertips.”
“It’s not ‘at my fingertips.’ ”
“Really? What do you want that you don’t have?”
What did I want? Isaac. Being with him would make things so much easier. I’d never have to go to a party alone, never skip a dance for fear of feeling awkward, never be lonely on the weekends. And more than Isaac, I wanted to be comfortable in my own skin, to know whoIwanted to be instead of letting everyone’s expectations mold me into their own platonic ideal of me: daughter, pianist, skater, student, Barbanel. “I just want... I want to be more comfortable. In flirting but also, I don’t know, in everything.”
He studied me with a strangely piercing expression, and I swallowed hard.
“Okay, then.” He placed his hand back on the couch arm between us. “Let’s figure out what we need to do to get you comfortable.” When I gingerly placed my hand back in his, he squeezed it. “First: eye contact.”
Iknewit. All of a sudden, I couldn’t meet his eyes. I forced myself to for one second, then quickly refocused out the window, on the snow lying in glistening mounds, on the sharp blue sky, the afternoon sun. “Uh-huh.”
“Come on. Back at me. Actually—sit on the couch.”
“What?”
He rolled his eyes. “Shira. You’re the one who asked for my help.”
Swallowing deeply—not oxygen and nitrogen but fear and pride—I resettled on the couch next to him, our hands resting between us. Reluctantly, I met his gaze. I’d thought of his eyesas a cool blue, but really they were warmer, like friendly water instead of far-off sky. His lashes were a shade darker than his hair, like honey, and longer than I would have expected.
“Not so hard, see? Angle toward the person you like. Don’t look away or aim your body in another direction. Lean in.” He did so, his free arm stretching along the back of the couch behind me, coming perilously close to my body.
I, on the other hand, sat perpendicular to him, my knees pointed straight out, only my face turned toward him. Slowly, with excruciating awkwardness, I angled the rest of myself toward him.
He watched with obvious amusement. “You’re not dead yet, right?”
“Yet.”
“It’s almost refreshing, how freaked out you are. People usuallywantto be close to me. This is like a whole new world.”
“Thanks a lot.” I tried to yank my hand out of his. He held on to it, and I scowled and stopped fighting. “I feel like I’m going to throw up.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Sorry. Not because of you.”
“Breathe, okay?”
“Okay.”
We sat there, hand in hand, angled toward each other, and breathed. I breathed in Tyler’s cologne and the scent of hisconditioner, and I looked at his face. And slowly, slowly, my body acclimated to being so very close to his. I could still feel my heart thudding away at my rib cage, but I wasn’t so hot I wanted to rip my skin off.
“Out of curiosity,” Tyler eventually said, after a minute or an hour, “when you were super into me, what did you want to happen? Because this obviously makes you uncomfortable.”
Valid question. My daydreams had never contained the same awkwardness as in real life—the exact opposite, actually, I’d imagined being swept away by passion. I flushed, remembering the extraordinarily vivid daydreams I’d had about Tyler for years. “I liked you then. It wouldn’t have made me uncomfortable if I knew you liked me back.” Right? Or was I only comfortable in dreams, not reality?
Would I be uncomfortable holding Isaac’s hand? God, I hoped not. All I wanted was to curl up next to Isaac, blissfully happy, cuddling on the couch and smiling at each other. Surely I’d be comfortable if he initiated it, at least. CouldIinitiate? A terrifying thought.
