Luca slept in my bed a lot in college. It started the night we met. I saw him at a theatre party, leaning against the wall. He looked as overwhelmed as I felt. I leaned next to him. “Do you want pretzels?” I asked, holding out a red Solo cup I’d filled in the kitchen. It was a brave act for me. I wasn’t usually so bold, but something about him felt safe.
“Sure,” he said quietly, color coming to his cheeks as he grabbed a pretzel from the cup. Just one. Quick smile. The shy thing was surprising coming from someone like him. He was pretty. Heart-shaped face, even brow, a deep bow to his pink lips. The sparkle in his dark brown eyes was warm, pleading. A look that said, Be careful with me. I couldn’t believe I was the only one swooning. I think maybe there’s a bell curve to beautiful and people can’t handle beauty too far past the arch.
We ate pretzels together, backs pressed to the wall, watching people. Some girl in a cape started dancing, and Luca nudged me gently, so we’d both be watching the same action. It reminded me of being a little kid at the playground, how another kid could show up and use your shovel in the sandbox, and suddenly you were playing together. I shared my snack, and now we were friends.
When we finished the pretzels, he took the cup from me and went into the kitchen. “Someone spilled beer in the pretzel bag,” he said when he came back with potato chips.
“Thanks,” I said, flashing a smile. The top button of his gray Henley was loose, hanging on the thread. I wanted to fix it for him.
We resumed our leaning and watching, not talking, but not necessarily avoiding talking. It was more connection than I’d had through half a semester of chitchat and icebreakers. I worried it was an illusion of the night—the Brigadoon of feeling—and the next time I saw him, he’d ask me what my major was, and it would feel like every other human interaction.
As the party was winding down, he said, “Can I walk you home?” I said yes, and hoped he was asking because he didn’t want the connection to end either.
When we got back to my dorm, after a long walk of shuffling feet and “Look at the moon!” and breathing hard into the cold air to see whose breath made more fog, I said, “Do you want to watch a movie?” Because my roommate was never home anyway. It was so late that most of the lights were off on my floor. I hated that feeling of being the last person awake. In my sleepy head, it always translated to being the last person alive, like the rapture happened and I was the only one left. By morning, it felt silly, but at night, the hollow dark left me panicked. It happened often. I fought sleep, then I was up too late and I couldn’t keep the panic away. In comparison, inviting this boy I just met up to my room seemed sane. Smart, even. In case of the rapture, or any other disaster my mind could conjure, there’d be two of us.
We sat very still on the floor of my room and watched Roman Holiday. One of my favorites, and he’d never seen it. I stifled yawns. I didn’t want to give him an excuse to leave. And then it was so late it was almost morning, and I was certain we were the last people awake in my dorm.
“You could stay,” I said, which didn’t feel bold. It felt comfortable to suggest to this boy I’d just met and had barely talked to. He was already important to me.
We cuddled in my bed. He rested his head in the crook of my neck, and I almost cried. It felt like breathing after holding my breath for too long. I slept soundly for the first time since my father died.
After that, lying in bed, holding each other, was just a thing we did. Night after night, until he felt like another limb.