He sits with his hand between us, palm facing up. I tell myself it’s just the way he’s sitting, but it feels too much like an invitation to ignore. I rest my hand next to his so that all that’s touching is our pinkies. I think I do it to prove to myself that we can be friends. We can touch and it can mean nothing—or well, as much as it means when my hand brushes up against Ruth’s or Adam’s or Saul’s. But instead what I find is that my heart, my whole heart, has made its way to my pinkie along with all the blood that runs through my veins. My heart pounds in that one little finger as it barely
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I love this passage.
