Shifting his load, he frees up his right hand and holds it out to me, palm facing upward. I stare at it for a minute, once more thinking about the possibility of his skin being too warm; too clammy with the heat of the day and the humidity on the coast. But then I think of my therapy sessions over the summer, and the way Nate kissed me in the car. I like the way it feels when he touches me—am I really going to miss out on that on the off chance he might be a little sweaty? Inhaling, I slide my hand into his and thread our fingers together. He squeezes my hand and aims a smile my way that feels
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