This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,36

Then she laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t usually do this, but you look like you need a hug. Can I give you a hug?”

My response is to step out of the booth and open my arms.

In my family, my dad’s always been the hugger. Grace and my mom are queens of the arm’s-length embrace. My dad, on the other hand, learned from the gold standard: my grandma Domenici, whose hugs are like falling into a down pillow of love and safety.

Jocelyn’s hug is fierce. The squeeze of her wiry arms knocks the air I have remaining right out of me. She’s such an outsize personality that as our bodies meet, I’m startled by how the top of her head barely comes to my chin. I can feel every angle and curve of her body, and the heat of her breath against my polo shirt. She smells faintly of mint, and it shouldn’t be a surprise that my jeans start feeling a little tight as my mind registers how curvy her figure is.

I don’t want the hug to end, but I shift a bit and rest my cheek on the top of her head so I can move my waist away from her a little—just enough to prevent any embarrassing escalation. Jocelyn seems to take the movement as me pulling away, though, and she lets go.

As she steps back, I’m acutely aware of a sense of loss. Suddenly the space between us feels like a solid object, heavy and impenetrable. I want to reach out to bring her in close again, but I hear my mother’s voice in my head, scolding me on the impropriety. I hear my friends’ voices, jeering at me for my permanent membership in the Got-No-Game Club. And almost ominously, I hear Mr. Wu’s first admonition to me: “No hanky-panky.”

This Is My Brain on Touch

JOCELYN

It won’t surprise you to find out that my family is not really the hugging type.

My mom likes to show affection with small pecks on the forehead, sending us off to school with a hand on the shoulder and a “Work hard today! Respect your teachers!” My dad basically just grunts and scowls at us. Amah prefers to shower love by pushing food.

If I had never met Priya Venkatram, there is no way I would have asked Will for a hug. But after several years of friendship with Priya, who dispenses hugs like Tic Tacs, I know how amazing it feels to have someone put their arms around you when you’ve just shown them a piece of yourself. I hug Will to thank him for being vulnerable, the way you can’t help but scratch the belly of a dog who rolls over for you.

Hugging Will is nothing like hugging Priya, and I savor it the way I would a new kind of sweet, closing my eyes and pressing my face to his chest with a sigh. It’s a slice of paradise—he’s so warm and tall and muscly(!). I’m really leaning into it, and Will isn’t shying away, circling me with those forearms that feel just as good touching me as they looked.

But then he pulls away from me just a little. Just enough that there’s a sliver of air in between our bodies, enough that I open my eyes and realize that I’m showing PDA in the dining room of my family’s restaurant, with a boy who doesn’t even realize that I like him, and oh my God, what was I thinking?

My dad could walk out of the kitchen any minute.

I let go of him as if I’ve been stung by a spray of hot oil, and my arms flap awkwardly at my side. “Um, I hope that wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

Will doesn’t look unhappy, though. “Not at all.” He lifts his hand up in an abortive gesture, as if he’s not sure what to do with his appendages, either, and ends up sticking it in his pocket. He shrugs and gives a little grin. “I fully consented to the hug. I won’t file any complaints with HR.”

It’s a relief to turn back to work and dial things down a little. For the next hour, I try to keep my eyes on my computer screen, even as a tiny voice in my head keeps whispering, “Look at him, look at how cute he is! He’s right there!”

Will and I tag team our social media sites—I respond to our Twitter mentions, and he curates our Instagram account for the college students and our