He leaned into me, resting his head against my stomach, wrapping his arms around my legs, placing his hands lightly on the backs of my thighs, and I held him. Seconds passed. Long minutes. I rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades in circles, hurting, and aching and wishing. Eventually, he sat upright and sank back into the chair, his cheeks flushed. He refused to look at me, but he nodded, as if to say, “It’s okay. I’m okay.” And so I left.
