He latched his smallest finger around mine.And here was the hilarious bit:
I didn't even like him anymore. Not that way. If I thought about it too hard, I almost exploded with laughter.
We were nothing alike, not in the way we used to be. Not when I could recommend books and know he'd love them, not when I watched every movie he said he was watching. When we could talk for hours and never get bored of each others' company.
Before the blowup, things were great. In six months, we'd come full circle.
I was different now:
I liked Stephen King novels, and painted my nails instead of bit them. I had a car and a license and hung out with my sister and my best friend and her sister.
I liked the new me; he liked the new me.
And he was exactly the same. He still played soccer and hated math and wanted to become a German teacher. He was awkward with girls that weren't me, and his favorite book was The Catcher in the Rye. There had been absolutely no growth.
And now that we were different, as polar as Palin and Clinton--it was now that he loved me.
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