When I see Emma, I start counting. She’s in the middle, and I make it to fourteen before the row of girls streaming through the door ends. I count two more times to be sure, then I count my line.

Seventeen.

Three people away.

Our number fourteen is a guy whose pants are rolled up at the bottom. And the dude isn’t wearing socks. He isn’t worthy of Emma. But he notices her. I watched him count. And I watched him clench his fist in a silent yes when he figured it out. There is no way I am letting this asshole swing her around the gym to shitty music for forty-five minutes.

“Dude,” I say, leaning forward, watching to make sure Mr. Crest is still facing the front. “Psssst! Dude!”

Fucker’s ignoring me.

“Come on, man. Hey!” He finally looks my way. He’s wearing a button-down shirt. The collar is wrinkled. “Hey, trade me spots.”

“Fuck off,” he shrugs.

I blink at him, a little stunned that he was so quick to shut me down. Owen would have punched him, or saved this memory for later and made him suffer through ridicule—or he’d just date the guy’s girlfriend. I glance back down to his shoes, and his hairy ankles. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

I look at my row again, making sure I didn’t mess up on my first count. I’m still seventeen. I glance back at sockless dude, and he’s tucking his shirt in and smoothing his hair out on the sides. I can’t believe he’s going to touch Emma’s arm.

Our line moves forward, and couples are pairing off and finding spots on the gym floor marked with tape. When I’m about ten people away, I count again, relieved that at least I have a shy girl who looks just as uncomfortable with this lesson as I do.

The music is mostly fiddle, and there’s a male singer giving directions—spinning, two steps in, two steps out, around the barn and ain’t she pretty. I laugh a little under my breath. It’s my turn to pair off when I glance back up and meet Emma’s eyes. I don’t show my surprise, and I ignore the grunts in protest of the a-hole two people away from me. Dude, socks. If you just wore socks, this wouldn’t have happened.

Maybe it would have, though. Maybe…maybe Emma was counting too.

I guide her to our tape marks in the far corner, and while everyone else has unlinked arms, I keep my hold on hers—our elbows locked together—the soft tickle of her skin along mine is possibly the best thing that has happened in my life to date.

I lean over and whisper in her ear while we wait for the remaining couples to find their spot. “The dude doesn’t wear socks.”

She laughs the most perfect, quiet, careful laugh, then glances over her shoulder as sockless guy walks by with his partner.

“Yeah, thanks for saving me from that,” she giggles.

I nod and smile, but while we sit down in our square formation I also feel a little smug. You had to trade spots with three people, Emma. This wasn’t just about the socks.

We’re both leaning back on our hands now, listening to Mr. Crest read through a packet on basic square-dancing moves. I don’t think anyone is really listening though. The guy across from me has slipped his phone from his pocket, and he’s playing a game, the girl next to him is mouthing something to her friend across the room, and I’m staring at the small fraction of an inch of space between my pinky finger and Emma’s.

With every word Mr. Crest says, I slide it a millimeter more, until finally the tip of my finger is resting against hers. I glance up at her at the feeling of our touch, and she’s still staring at our teachers, listening. She also lets a smirk take over one side of her mouth.

“All right, on your feet. Let’s give this one a try,” Mr. Crest says.

I stand at the same time Emma does, and when I reach for her arm and loop it through mine, she doesn’t flinch. It’s like that’s where her arm belongs.

I spend the next hour noticing things. I notice she wears pink Converse, and they look perfect next to my black ones that are twice the size. I notice her black leggings tuck into her shoes, and her legs are long with perfect curves for every muscle. I memorize where the tip of her hair stops when she brushes it over one shoulder—grazing her shoulder blades in the back and the small swell of her breasts in the front.

When I get to look into her eyes, I memorize everything they hold. The gray is caught somewhere between silver and black, and the longer I look, the more convinced I am she’s the perfect storm and I’m lost at sea.

I spend so much time looking at the details, I’m surprised when the bell rings to signal the end of class. When she unhooks her arm from mine, she lets her fingertips slide along my skin, and I memorize that, too.