James and I have been best friends since third grade. We’ve been through skinned knees, braces, bad grades, and even survived the “awkward” phase boys and girls go through at about age 13. You know what I’m talking about: boys on one side of the dance floor and girls on the other side. As if there were a giant abyss gaping between them. During parties, we’d usually be somewhere in the middle, laughing at the puffed-up posturing of the boys and the silliness of the giggling girls. Braving the abyss.

Flash forward 10 years.

We lay on his bed watching TV. He lazily draped his leg over mine, as he’d done a million times before. Only now it somehow made me nervous. Suddenly, he reached for the remote just as I was sitting up. Our faces collided head-on, his cheekbone crashing into my ear. My lips grazing his mouth. I remember being surprised to find flecks of gold in his brown eyes, suddenly so miraculously close. Surprised when he began kissing me, really kissing me. Even more surprised when I kissed him back.