WHERE WE BELONG
We’re just beginning to talk
We’re just getting to know each other
We seem so close in such a short time
We hold hands and smile
And it feels like this is where we belong.
Is holding hands more of an art or a science? This is the thought running through my mind as River and I walk out of the office building together. I ask myself this question because when he takes my hand, I don’t mean he holds it palm in palm; I mean he laces all his fingers in between mine and holds them tightly in his grip. It feels intimate and conveys the idea that we know each other very well, when in reality, we don’t. Not yet anyway.
Ben is the only guy I’ve ever held hands with. So in trying to figure out the whole art or science question, I attempt to picture other couples I know. I try to remember how their hands intertwine; however I can’t delve into that level of detail in my memory. I only have my hand holding with Ben as a gauge to help with my decision.
Ben and I usually held hands when we were in public. I don’t really know if this was a gesture of closeness or a way for Ben to let others know he was my boyfriend. Either way, when we held hands, we were palm in palm. Our hold was loose enough that if we needed to let go to allow someone by or to stop and look at something the hold was easily dropped. I’d say our handholding was more of a science.
So why does the way that River holds my hand seem so different? His hold is tight, our fingers are laced, and he’s occasionally rubbing circles on the top of my hand with his thumb. These small gestures definitely make handholding seem more like an art. So my conclusion would be that handholding is unique to the two who are doing it.
Wholly absorbed in my thoughts as we walk through the parking garage, I barely notice it’s just as empty as the building. With his guitar slung over his shoulder, he runs his other hand through his hair. He takes the lead as he heads toward what I assume is his car. It’s a vintage Black Porsche. He turns as we walk and I see him crack a genuine smile. He has the cutest dimples. It’s the first full-blown smile I’ve seen from him, and it is adorable.
Arriving at his car, he gently lets go of my hand as he reaches in his front pocket for his keys. He unlocks my door and opens it for me to get in. He clutches my hand to assist me into the very low seat. Once I’m seated, he lifts my hand and kisses it. Instantly, I feel a sense of déjà vu, as if I’m back in the bar that first night I met him so long ago.
He closes my door and walks around to put my things in the trunk. He opens his door and tosses his guitar in the small area behind us before he gets in. Grinning crookedly, he raises an eyebrow and splays both hands out. “So do you like it?”
I bite my lip and raise my eyes as if thinking. “Isn’t this James Dean’s car?” I ask.
He shakes his head and laughs. “Well this one isn’t his actual ride, obviously, but it’s modeled after his 1955 Little Bastard.”
I giggle at hearing a car referred to by such a nickname, I remember my dad and his love for James Dean. My dad won me over with his constant movie watching and references. We were both avid James Dean fans so much so that we must have watched Rebel Without A Cause over a hundred times. I think I knew all the lines by heart. I probably still do.
He looks over at me curiously and says, “Can I ask what you’re thinking about?”
Sighing at the memory, I lock the thoughts of my dad away. “Dream as if you will live forever, live as if you will die today.”
He places both hands on the steering wheel and glances over at me. The intensity of his powerful green eyes captures my full attention. “I love that movie, and that's definitely one of my favorite lines.”