All morning I couldn't help but hum a giddy tune as I made my bed, smoothing out the covers with a gentle touch. I haven't bothered to make my bed in years, never having a Mom to tell me to. Nevertheless, I was having company over, and I wanted my bedroom to look nice and clean in case he would see it. 

Not like that. I didn't expect us to go that far on the first date.

I'm letting Grayson's visit get to my head. It's not even a date. He's just coming over to help me plant a few flowers. Besides, the fact that I get to spend more time with him is exciting enough. I can't wait to learn about all his interests, his favorite past times, and where he moved from.

There's a strange eagerness building up in my stomach that refuses to subside, like monstrous tsunamis crashing inside me. Today is the first day in a long time that I'll be hanging out with someone. It's difficult to recall a time when people didn't avoid me and whisper about how apathetic I've become. The worst part is, I only have myself to blame. After my mom died, I pushed all my friends away. If anyone tried being nice to me, I shut them up with a callous stare. Every day I regret my rash decision. I didn't want to drag anyone else into the black abyss that I was falling into. Instead, I assured myself I could get through it alone. I wish I could take it back. I wish I had realized sooner that I needed my friends more than anything - that friendship meant you were supposed to be there for each other in the good and the bad.

Maybe Grayson can be the glue in my life, the one to put me back together. I really hope we grow close. We are neighbors, after all. If I could have a friend in my life, just one friend, it would be the greatest gift in the world.

And maybe that friend could become something more.

Right now I need to focus on becoming friends with Grayson. I've hardly spoken to anyone my age in years. Most of the time I hang low in school, traipsing the halls with a hoodie on and earphones in, hoping nobody will try to engage me or get my attention. Even though I don't act like it, I want friends. I really do.

Except I don't think anyone wants to be friends with me.

The doorbell rings and my heart skips a beat. My vision blurs for a moment before I race down the staircase, so eager that I almost slip on the second to last step. I tug at my maroon long-sleeve and black jeans, which both hang loose on my thin and gangly figure.

Sure enough, as soon as I arrive at the door, Grayson is waiting on the other side. He smiles while I gaze up at him, giving me a full view of his dazzling emerald green eyes. I try to stop focusing on them, shifting my gaze to his slim pink lips, which doesn't help me much. Instead, I try to focus on his outfit, which is a nice loose pink tank top and black joggers, similar to the outfit her worse yesterday. It's hard not to look away from his muscular, well-built arms, but my attention is immediately drawn to a gorgeous black and white tattoo of a rose and stem on his left bicep. Behind the petals is a tattoo of an upside-down triangle, which is a dazzling fuchsia, the only splash of color on the tattoo. I'm shocked to see a tattoo on his arm, wondering if he's already out of high school. What shocks me more, however, is that the pink triangle in the tattoo is a symbol of queer identity. I wonder if it means what I think it means, or if he's merely a really supportive ally. Or maybe I'm overthinking all of this and he just got some random tattoo design. 

"I love your tattoo," is the first thing that comes out of my mouth. There I go, saying stuff without thinking first. How are so many people good at interacting with other people? I was one of those people once. Always open to sparking conversation. Now, thinking about what to say terrifies me.

He smiles at me, thanks me for the compliment, and flexes his bicep to show off his tattoo and bulging muscles. That strange feeling is brewing in my abdomen again, weighing me down with this unusual but radiating sensation that shoots through my body like an electric sunrise and makes me feel exhilarating.

"Are you ready to plant some flowers?" He asks with a goofy smile, and I have to use every ounce of self-control to keep myself from planting a kiss on those pink pastel lips.

"Yeah, of course," I respond, trying to come up with something more to say as I make my way out onto the front porch, closing the door behind me.

The two of us are closer now, and he's at least three inches taller than me. I'm 6' 2", which means he is probably around 6' 5", but the difference feels monumental.

Grayson follows me across the front porch like an attached puppy, and I can't help but blush as he asks me what he can do to help. I tell him to grab the big bag of potting soil from the backyard, which I doubt has been touched in years. As he does, I pick up the pink carnations from where they lay on the porch and begin uprooting the droopy old ones planted in the pots on the front steps. I'm kneeling down beside them, humming a lilting tune. Then, I feel a hand lightly tap my neck, sending a breathtaking shiver down my spine.

"I brought the bag of soil over. What else do you need? I'm all yours."

I can't help but let out a soft groan when he says this, unsure how to answer him, drowning in those three words.

"...I'm all yours."

***

It's absolutely intoxicating being around him. He has this contagious smile that makes me warm every time he glances over at me. I've been staring at his tattoo for the past hour, tracing each individual curve of the petals, each line of the triangle. Whoever etched the beautiful ink on his skin is a marvelous artist. I don't think I've ever seen a tattoo done with such delicateness and attention to detail.

I don't know why, but for some reason, being with him makes me feel a little bit like myself again. Not like before, not in the slightest, but enough to open myself to the possibility of going out of the house and taking a sultry Sunday drive with this super sweet and incredibly cute guy - the wind blowing through his wavy blond locks and the sun illuminating his green eyes like a luminous kaleidoscope of beauty.

"When are you going to stop staring at me, Paris?" He teases with a seductive voice that is deep and velvety. I can't handle his shameless teasing! I blush bright red, turning into a fucking tomato as he stares back at me and giggles. He turns back around, carefully planting pink carnations with a steady hand, like that of someone who truly appreciates the art of nature's immense beauty. It's fascinating to watch him work, so much so that I don't even manage to respond to his question. He must have meant it to be rhetorical anyway because he doesn't follow up.

In the past hour, I've learned more about Grayson than I could have ever imagined. For starters, he's loved photography since he was eight. He was born and raised in New York City, and his dad is the new CEO of some business headed in Santa Barbara, which is why they moved here. He's currently seventeen years old, which gives me a large relief, as I was starting to believe he was twenty-two and in college studying to become the next Ansel Adams. He talked about wishing he could be back home for senior year, but I can't help but selfishly smile at the fact that he's here and all mine. For the most part, he goes on about his best friends from back home, Maya and Tommy, who he misses dearly and claims I would adore. I mostly nod as he talks, enjoying the way his soothing low voice runs through my ears like the calming vibrations of a delicate ocean wave.

He then proceeds to ask about me, but I don't tell him much. I manage to mention that I turn seventeen in December, that I'm starting junior year, and that I enjoy writing poetry. He smirks after hearing this, begging me to let him read some of it, pouting with an outstretched pink lip and watery green eyes. I promise to pick some out for him to read next time he comes over, and he gives me this cunning smile, meaning I've certainly said something right. Around Grayson, I feel like I can open my heart and let my emotions pour out into the world. I've turned the faucet on and I never want it to stop flowing.

Once we finish planting the nice blushing carnations, Grayson brushes off his joggers and moves in to give me a tight hug, something I most definitely was not expecting. My heart lurches and I melt into his warm embrace, nestling my head into the crook of his neck. I want Grayson to hold me for infinity, but we break apart within mere seconds.

With one final wave, Grayson crosses the street and opens his front door, greeted by Tessa, his lovely Australian Shepherd. She barks euphorically at the sight of him, jumping up on his hips and uncontrollably licking his hands. I smile, hoping one day I come home and somebody greets me with that same gleaming optimism and radiant excitement.