Three days later, on a Monday, I find myself back in the basement of the science building at 9:00pm playing foosball with Joshua.

We don't acknowledge the hand-holding that took place the last time we participated in this activity together, nor the long hug in Tryon. In fact, Joshua's communication style gives me no indication whatsoever that he is romantically interested in me. My mind flashes to several different guys (aside from Joshua) who had their hands and eyes on me at some point during Friday night's dance, but the difference was that all of them had been drinking, and none of that was real.

"So how's your week going so far?" he asks me as we locate the tiny white ball tucked into the pocket of the table. I genuinely love our mundane conversations.

"Great!" I say. "I started playing intramural volleyball last night. How's your new job going?"

He tells me about the internship he recently began in downtown Portland—something related to politics, and that is as much as my brain absorbs. I don't want to ask too many questions, because I worry I'll find out something about his political beliefs that will disappoint me.

After Joshua beats me in the first game of foosball, I throw off my sweatshirt. I have my favorite pair of jeans on, and I can't help but notice his eyes flicker over me for an instant before he looks away. Removing my phone from my back pocket and dropping it over the sweatshirt, I notice I have a notification from Canvas and snatch it right back up.

"Hang on!" I exclaim to Joshua, revved up and uninhibited from the combination of exercise and the confidence boost at having caught him checking me out. "I think this is my history essay grade. I've gotta see this..."

Clicking into the gradebook, I discover I have received an A on the paper and a very complimentary comment about the organization of ideas and quality of writing.

"Hmph," I mutter, tossing my phone down after a brief scan over Professor Ezzo's comments.

"Good news or bad news?" Joshua asks, eyebrows raised.

"Good news," I reply smugly. "The professor was so condescending when I shared my outline with him. It was obvious he thought I had no idea what I was doing, but I did." I smile at Joshua, allowing contentment to sparkle from my eyes into his.

"That's weak sauce!" he exclaims. His expressions are so funny. "It's lame when professors try to knock down our confidence just because they can. That's pretty much the status quo in the Poli-Sci department."

"Seriously?" I ask. "That's so unnecessary. People perform better when treated with respect and care."

"Maybe," he offers. "Although some people need a little kick in the pants."

"Eh, I don't know," I ponder. "Maybe it depends on personality."

I think back to Brett from my Inventing America seminar and how I was glad to see his confidence knocked down a peg after our first exam. "Everyone is just insecure though, and the most arrogant people are the most insecure, so is cutting down their confidence really helpful, ultimately?"

Joshua shrugs, and I laugh.

"Anyway, we're getting deep here," I remark with sarcasm. "Let's play again! I need revenge."

"No way!" he shoots back.

Normally I am very competitive in games, but tonight I feel giddy and unfocused; my brain fails to fire the correct messages to my hands to slide the rod in the accurate directions. We both become animated, trash talking each other in good humor. It's amazing to let loose with another person, especially being so far away from my family for the first time in my life.

"Yes, that's game!" Joshua shouts with enthusiasm after a fierce shot zooms by my players and into the goal with a decisive clang.

I hop up and down in humorous frustration and ball up my fists.

"Gah, why can I not beat you?" I groan.

"You're definitely not on your game tonight," Joshua mocks, moving to my side of the table, a wide smile spreading across his face.

"When did you get so good? I think you have been practicing in secret," I tease him. "Every time you tell me you have to rush off to 'study,' you are secretly polishing your foosball skills."

He chuckles and moves in closer on me as my heart rate accelerates, mostly from the uncertainty over what he plans to do.

"I am not a secret foosball player," he defends, poking me close to my armpit, and since I am extremely ticklish, I jolt into the air. "You are just distracted today."

"Stop!" I burst out, giggling, and he does.

"Sorry." He steps back, his expression uncertain.

"No, it's fine. I'm just super ticklish," I reassure him. He seems to relax, gravitating back towards me.

"Want to take a walk?" he suggests.

We both know where this is leading, and within minutes we are seated right back on our wooden bench in the rose garden, the pinks and reds and oranges of the flowers illuminated by a full, off-white moon.

Joshua takes my hand straight away this time, scooting close to me.

"Your hands are dry again," he states, and I am not sure if he's referring to my comment about sweaty hands during our previous visit here or making fun of me for drenching his shirt during Friday night's dance. I cringe and snort softly from my throat, far less embarrassed than I might be.

"Um, yeah, sorry about that."

"What?"

"The giant sweat mark on your shirt when we danced?" I offer with the intonation of a question, breaking into giggles.

"Oh!" he exclaims, realization dawning. He chuckles with me. "I wasn't sure what had happened. It's fine."

"In my defense, your dancing style was... unexpected," I jest, and I barely recognize the sound of my own voice speaking in this way with a boy in the middle of a moonlit garden.

"Unexpected, eh?" he teases back. "I enjoyed dancing with you." Our bodies have gone motionless, both of us postponing the next fated step.

We clear our throat at the same time, and I giggle again at all the awkwardness.

"So it was worth it?" I ask, dipping my chin down shyly, now dying over this conversation.

"The wet patch on my shirt?" he jokes.

I rip my hand away from his to cover my face in both palms, feigning mortification, but I'm actually cracking up.

"Totally worth it," he says in a low tone, and the air between us changes as I realize how close he is, his legs pressed against mine, his face leaning in more with each line exchanged between us.

"Good to know," I hum back, allowing his gravitational pull to draw me in. I like his spikey, floppy hair; I'm afraid to look into his face; I love the smell of his cologne.

It happens so slowly. We each make at least three more unnecessary statements that my brain doesn't even hear, our lips moving a millimeter closer with each comment. At some point, I realize his hand is placed just above my knee, and I register his breath changing. Finally, we are too close and there are no more opportunities to stall the inevitable.

Our lips meet. His are damp and fleshy against mine, saliva gushing into my mouth as we move together. The physical sensation is not exactly pleasant, but my mind is exploding as I feel his whole body tense up and his breaths expelling in long, hot blasts. We break apart for a moment, and I swallow the mouthful of liquid before he again presses his lips against mine with such urgency that my heart swells with an unfamiliar sensation—the power to make another person feel desire.

He moves his hand up my thigh and I worry for a split second that he's not going to stop, but he does. His tongue on mine fails to produce the tingling satisfaction I have imagined a first kiss might, and my mind wanders instead to an incessant curiosity about how it feels to him. Without warning, Joshua's hands are fumbling up the side of my torso in haphazard fashion, and he fondles my breast with such desperate innocence that I don't really mind it.

After a few seconds, all of it stops, and we are silent for a while, the only sound being the gradual slowing of Joshua's heavy breathing. As a bitter wind sweeps over us, causing the massive American flag facing us to ripple fiercely, we glance at each other in shyness at the same time.

"I've never kissed anyone before, so sorry if that was bad," I remark with a shaky voice.

"I haven't either," he admits softly.

"Really?" Even though I sort of knew this, it still takes me by surprise.

"Yeah."

I think there are a lot of other guys I might enjoy kissing more than Joshua, and the possibility of doing so no longer feels unattainable, but I'm glad my first kiss happened like this, with him. I hope the experience of kissing me was special for him, too.