Alice does. “I don’t want to talk, Taber,” she says through tears she’s trying to fight.
“It’s Toby,” I whisper, because anything louder seems invasive.
“I don’t want to talk, Toby,” she corrects.
That’s fine, talking isn’t my favorite thing. So, I walk with her.
For blocks and blocks, I walk with her.
I don’t pick the route.
I don’t try to guide.
When she turns right, I turn right.
When she speeds up, I speed up.
I walk beside her until she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to face me. Tears are pooled, swelling along the ledge of her lower lids. Sad Alice is so wrong.
It’s just become my mission to change that. “Will you go somewhere with me? I want to show you something.”
Her affirmative and trusting answer is a hand held out between us for me to take.
I do.
My palm aligns with hers and my fingers and thumb secure her cold skin against mine.
We’ve been walking several blocks when she says, “That feels nice. Thank you.”
It’s thethank youthat snaps me back to reality. Because apparently, holding Alice’s hand makes me lose my mind. Without thinking, I’d wrapped my free hand around hers too and was rubbing the back of it to warm her up. Thethank youmakes me tense and stop immediately.
Ten or twelve steps down the sidewalk Alice counters by readjusting our grip. Her fingers urge the release before slipping between mine and capturing them. The move is confident and graceful. Her easy, gentle way with touch and words, all interaction really, is new to me and it’s disconcerting, but I don’t fight it. Because it also feels so damn good.
I glance down at our hands, fingers interlaced, and watch her thumb sweep across the back of my hand so softly that it feels imagined instead of real. The pattern varies from brushing back and forth, to tracing circles. Easing my constant worry, solidifying friendship by seeing me in ways others don’t, and confirming that Alice makes me feel more than anyone I’ve ever met—all with the pad of her thumb. I know this is completely platonic on her part—it’s just Alice being Alice—but for a loner like me, there’s intimacy in weaving my fingers with someone else’s. It’s a union that feels naked and vulnerable, intrepidly sexy. Which is why I always choose the emotionally boundary based, I’m-not-letting-you-in palm to palm, non-finger-weaving grip.
I decide there are other ways to set boundaries with Alice, because her hand was only made to be held with the full commitment of my fingers between hers. Even if her heart belongs to someone else who deserves it more than I ever could.
She makes the rules.
She defines friendship.
I follow it to the letter.
When we get to our destination, I almost walk past it and add another trip around the block to spend five more minutes touching her, but I don’t because Alice pays attention and will know I’ve done a loop. Opening the door, I guide her in behind me and say, “Welcome.”
A smile blooms when Joy Division stuns her ears, and leading her down the first narrow aisle of vinyl, it only grows.
“Where are we?” she asks loudly to compete with the music pulsing through the overhead speakers.
Releasing her grip, I grasp her wrist and place her hand palm down on top of dozens of records. Once there I let go and watch her stroke her fingers across the top edge of the stack several times like she’s petting a cat. The motion is inquisitive but also reverent like she knows how much this place means to me. She leans her white cane up against the display and picks up the album closest to her, holds it to her nose, and inhales deeply.
“You brought me to a record shop? You have no idea how much I love music.”
“I do,” I whisper too quietly for her to hear. I’m an expert when it comes to eavesdropping.
“Which album is this?” She’s loud again, which normally would make me shy away because I don’t like attention of any kind focused on me, but in this moment I don’t care. She reacted exactly like I hoped she would. She’s in her element and it’s stunning to watch.
I lean in close to answer and her wavy hair tickles my nose and lips. “Iggy Pop’s ‘Lust for Life.’”
