In the space between waking and sleeping, I let my thoughts float to Leo. Fireworks. Hot mochas. Kisses along my collarbone. My earlobe between his teeth.
Then the memory of only him and me. Two days ago. On Thursday. After my practice and before his. Curled up on my bed. My head on his chest. My breathing calm. My arm across his stomach. Content.
Until he pulled my hand to his. Glued us together palm-to-palm.
“Your hands are bigger than mine,” he said. I knew he didn’t say it to be mean. It was merely an observation. A thought bubble. But it hit me like a kettlebell to my stomach. He tapped his big toe to mine. “Your feet, too.”
I untangled myself from his arms and legs and moved to the edge of the bed. I sat with my back to him. He pulled up, put his hands on my shoulders.
“Hey, what is it? What’d I do?”
I felt the tears forming. I hated that I was crying. I pressed them back with the pads of my thumbs. My too-big thumbs.
One day I will meet someone with bigger hands than mine.
“Ruby, talk to me.”
“It’s nothing. I don’t want it to be anything.”
“But it is something. Is it about your hands? What is it?” He climbed off the bed, kneeled in front of me. Put his elbows on my knees. He looked up at me open and honest and true. His hair mussed. His big eyes shining. Showing me all the things that made me fall for him.
“You didn’t have to say it.”
“What?”
“That my hands are bigger.”
“But they are.” He didn’t understand what the problem was. He was just stating facts. No big deal.
“Yes, but you didn’t have to make a thing of it.”
“I wasn’t making a thing of it. I was only saying—”
“You were saying I have bigger hands than you.”
“You do have bigger hands than me.”
I pulled at my hair. He didn’t get it. He was saying things without thinking. “I know! But I don’t want to!”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .” He pressed his fingertips into my calves, like he needed to have my full attention. “I was just talking. I don’t care if your hands are bigger than mine. It doesn’t bother me.”
“But it bothers me.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know it shouldn’t. We’re all supposed to love every freaking thing about ourselves. We’re never supposed to have a negative thought. But . . . I don’t necessarily like my big hands. Or my big feet. Sometimes I hate being six feet tall. And I know it’s so nothing in the grand scheme of things. There are way worse things to feel bad about. But sometimes I wish I didn’t stand out.”
“But you don’t stand out because of your hands and feet or how tall you are.”
“So you can honestly say that you never notice my head bobbing inches above everyone else’s as I walk down the hallway?”
“Ruby.” His fingertips pressed again. “I wish you could know what I think when I see you walking down the hallway.” His tone flirted.
I pushed away. “You don’t get it.”
“No. You don’t get it.” He pulled me closer to the edge of the bed. Stood us up together. Tapped his forehead to mine because we were the same height. “You’re the only one I see walking down the hall. Because it’s you. And I really like you.” He raised my hand to his mouth. Kissed my knuckles. One by one. “A lot.”
Until my knees went a little weak. And I pulled him in closer.
“I really like you, too,” I said. “But you should probably go now. My mom’ll be home soon.”
“Okay. But you’re not mad, are you?”
“I’m not mad,” I said. And I wasn’t. But I was something. I just didn’t know what exactly.