Page 20 of All Our Almosts

Both our heads snap up. To our right, there’s an entire group of elderly women glaring. “This is a museum,” one of them hisses, and I swear if I could melt my body into the floor by sheer will it would be happening.

“Oh my god,” I whisper towards them, “I am so—” but I don’t have time to finish before Andy grabs my hand and makes a run for it. He darts us through well-behaved museumgoers like we’re in Mario Kart.

When we reach the far corner, he stops short and I barrel into him, laughing and breathless. His arms wrap around me—double seatbelt—and there’s a warm rumble of laughter in his chest as he says, “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“Are they still looking at us?” I ask, face buried into his shirt.

“They’re pretending not to.”

“Godddddddd,” I whine.

“One of them was the artist.”

“No! What? You can’t know that—”

I twist away to look back at the group, but he catches my arm and pulls me back against him. There’s a smile in his voice as he says, “I’m joking.”

I’m more than willing to hide my embarrassment behind his tall frame again, with my arms trapped between our bodies so I can’t get into any more trouble.

“Just a few more seconds, please,” I mumble. “I can’t show my face yet.”

And he’s the best, so he says, “Okay, Soph,” and doesn’t budge, just rubs a comforting line up and down my back with one of his big hands.

I hate that I’m like this. I’m such a panicker and I really do blush, which is humiliating. But Andy is calm and warm, and it’s getting easier to focus on the rise and fall of his chest instead of the group of old biddies who just made me their nemesis.

One by one I pluck the thoughts out of my head until the only thing left is the feeling of Andy’s palm as it moves along my spine. My pulse starts to slow, and his hand slows too, and suddenly I’m singularly focused on the exact place each of his fingers is touching me.

I’m tipsy. I know I am. And I know we’ve probably skipped right over the legal limit for how long friends are supposed to hug in public. But I’ve had a rough week and the wine is making my skin buzz and it just feels good, being held by him.

Being held in general—I mean. Not specifically by him.

My arms move from where they’ve been trapped between our bodies, wrapping around his torso. He’s solid and warm but also somehow all elbows and edges, and he adjusts us a bit until I’m tucked comfortably against him. One of his hands comes to rest at the base of my skull, fingertips just barely stretching up into my hair, and you know what? I would stay here all night if given the chance.

But I’m not given the chance. We’re only there for a moment before Andy steps back, and every point of contact he breaks feels like a rush of cold water.

“Okay,” he says, clearing his throat. “I still have to show you what I picked.”

“Oh, right, yes.” I clap once, shaken by the transition but hopefully acting normal. “Take me there. Confess your deep emotions, Walsh.”

He nods his head sideways and I follow him. We end up at the piece he was standing in front of when Chic Bob Girl asked him out. It’s an earth-toned canvas that from up close just looks like swaths of green and brown, but from a few steps back it suggests a patch of long, thin birch trees.

I look to Andy, waiting for his explanation, then look back to the painting because I know he doesn’t like to feel put on the spot.

A few more seconds pass and still, nothing from my left. So I ask, “Does it remind you of somewhere specific?”

“Not exactly,” is his only response, but I’m not letting him get off that easy. I start counting down from ten in my head, and by the time I get to two he continues, “I guess it reminds me of a specific feeling more than a specific place.”

Now here’s where the fine art of interacting with Andy Walsh comes into play. I can’t act excited that he just showed emotion, because then he’ll turtle right back into his shell. The key is to stay cool and collected, like you didn’t even notice he shared a piece of himself. So I keep my eyes straight ahead on the canvas as I ask, “What feeling is that?”

And look, even experts make mistakes, okay? Because evidently that was too much too soon. He doesn’t respond, just keeps looking straight ahead.

And can I just say that I am fascinated by his ability to straight up not respond. Can you imagine? Someone asks you a question or remarks something to you and you just don’t respond? Meanwhile I’m the court jester over here, throwing pies in my own face at the slightest suggestion that it might please the gentry.

So as the court jester, I keep talking.

“I think for me… it makes me feel tense. Like I’m looking at the forest and I know I’m about to go in alone or something.”

One more beat of silence passes before Andy says, “Not just alone. It’s lonely.” Then, quieter, “I hate feeling lonely.”