This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,44
upon me the importance of my words. “Remember, Will, your words have weight, and the capacity to harm.” Like I said in my interview at A-Plus, though, being thoughtful can be a double-edged sword.
Simple questions like, “What do you want to do?” stump me. I think about what I actually want to do, of course, but then I worry about whether the person who asked the question really cares about what my desires are, or whether they are just being polite. If that sounds exhausting, it’s because it is.
All this is to say that I am not known for speaking before I think. Which is why it’s so amazing for me to realize that with Jocelyn, it’s the best thing I’ve done all night.
“You took so long to say anything, I was sure you were going to tell me I was barking up the wrong tree,” she says, laughing through her tears. Tears of relief, I realize.
“Nope, the rightest tree in the forest,” I say, which doesn’t make any sense, but I’m feeling kind of giddy, like my heart is beating so fast and so inefficiently that it can’t get blood to my brain. My lungs can’t seem to pull enough air, and I don’t know where to look, or what to do with my hands. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that I was starting to have a panic attack. I finally decide to stare at Jocelyn, even though it kind of hurts my brain to, as if I’m a circuit that’s overloading. There’s something I need to tell her: “I’m sorry it took me so long to get my act together and tell you how I feel.”
“No, it’s okay,” she says, grabbing a tissue and swiping at her eyes.
“I mean, there shouldn’t be a double standard,” Jocelyn continues. “It shouldn’t always be the boy making the first move. I could’ve told you.” She squeezes the tissue in her fist, and her voice is kind of nasal when she says, “I really like you, too.”
My chest tightens, then it swells. All the emotions from the past hour, from the past week, month—from my lifetime, really—seem to surge through my body at once. And I understand why Jocelyn was crying.
JOCELYN
So, my vision of my reaction when a boy finally (FINALLY) said that he liked me did not include actual tears. But Will doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve turned into a snot factory. In fact, his eyes are kind of glistening in the streetlights, too, which quite possibly means that we are made for each other.
I feel like I’ve been lugging around this crush for so long, trekking through deserts and scaling mountains of feeling, so much feeling. And now I feel almost weightless.
Here’s another metaphor: I’ve been holding back my affection for Will for weeks now, but it’s been building up day by day like water beating up against a dam. And now there’s nothing keeping my feelings back anymore.
Will holds his palm out to me again, and I shiver at the tingle that goes down my back when our fingers touch. This time he puts his other hand over mine, and I’ve never felt so safe, so protected, and then he curves his wrists open, leans down, and I swear to God he kisses my palm tenderly (that’s the only word to describe it) like we’re characters in an Austen movie.
As my cold, angry heart melts, I realize: I am so gone for this nerd.
If my life were a CW show, this is the point where a croony song by Ariana Grande would start playing. If it were an arthouse flick, it would maybe break into an animated riff where line drawings of Will and me would take flight to blandly inspirational piano music.
But my life is barely Instagram-worthy, let alone Hollywood-ready, so instead Will and I just sit holding hands like the chickens we apparently are for what seems like eons. In my peripheral vision I see a jogger run by the parking lot with a running stroller, and a car pulls in to dump some books into the after-hours return box. When the stillness becomes unbearable I move my thumb so it brushes over one of his fingers in the briefest caress, and I hear Will’s breath catch, see his lips widen. His hand spasms as if he’s been shocked, but he doesn’t move. I don’t move. It’s as if we’re both afraid the moment will shatter if we try anything else.