I use my index finger to draw a circle on Connor’s wrist now that he’s given me the play-by-play of Drew’s funeral home elimination. His arms are tan and corded with lean muscle, completely unlike my scarecrow limbs. “I know you’re not allowed to post them, but I could totally see him recording just for fun.” Connor’s lying with his back flush against my family room sofa. His head rests on one of the low, rounded armrests so he’s facing the television. It’s exactly where he relaxes when he and Josh watch movies in here, only this time I’m lying on my back in front of him. One of his arms cushions my head while the other is draped across my stomach. He’s smiling against my right temple as I continue my exploration of his arm. It’s the warmest, safest feeling I’ve ever known, despite the fact I can’t identify what’s happening between us. I suspect Connor doesn’t know, either, or doesn’t want to put a label on it. The kissing part is good—curl-my-toes good—but it’s more than that.
