I soak in it, resting in the joy, the youth, and the giddy feeling of being in a closet with a boy who smells like rain and cloves. “You make me feel young again.” Fletcher’s mouth ticks. “You’re twenty-five.” “Yeah, but you make me feel like it.” “I think the wine has gotten to you.” “I think you’re right, but I stand by my statement.” That boyish smile grows, and there’s the dimple. Hello, old friend. Fletcher’s glasses are drooping low enough to where his eyes meet mine, just above the frames, and I like how they rest. I want to keep them right there.
