Page 45 of Strange Lad

“This is stupid,” he grumbles, shaking his head.

“Show me that you want more.”

He eyeballs my hand like it’s full of crusty needles and hepatitis. It hurts my ego a little, but not enough to dissuade me. “What is this going to prove?”

“Won’t know until you try,” I tell him, keeping my voice stern but kind.

For long seconds, he stares at it. I honestly don’t think he’s going to do it. He’s going to just stand up and be stubborn. But to my surprise, he slowly places his hand over mine. Our palms connect, and I swallow back a sigh of relief.

“Good,” I praise. “Now, hold it.” His eyes dart to mine, timid and unsure. “Go on.”

It must take him so much courage to do what I ask, because he does. His fingers thread through mine, damn near swallowing my hand whole. As soon as they’re locked in place, I smile at him, keeping my fingers lax.

“Can I hold your hand, now?”

“Yes.”

Applying some pressure, I squeeze his fingers like I would if we were walking or lying in bed. Something small but intimate. Something safe. Because that’s what I want to be for him. A safe place. “Do you want to let go?” I ask.

“No,” he breathes while his thick thumb drags over the veins on my hand. “I don’t want to let go.”

I nearly whimper.Keep it together, Jorge.“You’re doing so good, beautiful,” I praise.

“Is this the game? Holding hands?”

“Round one.” I smile, and his lips twitch. He’s still unsure. “The next one requires a bit more.”

I watch him think it over, deciding after a few moments. “Okay. What is it?”

“We’re going to sit next to each other.Close.”

His whole body shudders. I can’t tell if it’s fear or something else. “Is that okay?” I make sure to ask.

He nods.

“Words, Oli.”

“Yes. Yes.”

I keep our hands glued together and scoot over, blowing his bubble to bits. He watches me carefully, our thighs brushing. Now comes the next test: where to place our conjoined hands? His lap or mine? He decides for me and rests them over his leg.

“This is amazing,” I say in awe. “Are you okay?”

“Oddly, yes. I’m okay. What’s next?” There he is. The light in his eyes is returning, and his features soften.

“You pick this round.”

Like he’s been thinking about it forever, he says, “Can I touch your hair?”

I chuckle, squeezing his hand. “Yes. Go ahead.”

His free hand reaches up and fondles my curls. “I thought they’d be softer,” he admits shyly, and I scoff.

“They are soft! It’s the product I have to keep in there so they don’t frizz.”

“Kind of stiff.” He blushes and keeps running his hands through them, snagging occasionally, but I don’t mind. He can do whatever he wants to me.

“That feels nice,” I admit, and when he digs his fingers to scratch my scalp, my eyes roll in their sockets. “Damn.”

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