when Luke emerged from the truck.
Luke climbed the porch stairs.
He halted before Ben.
Neither spoke at first. They simply stared at each other. Two lanky eighteen-year-olds, both dark-haired and gray-green-eyed, with matching cheek dimples.
Luke extended a hand.
But not to shake.
He wanted their private handshake. The full forty-five-second version.
Ben studied the offered hand.
Then laughter and tears came together.
He clasped Luke’s hand. They performed every move. Every slap, snap, and elbow bump. For forty-five seconds they stood beneath Dana’s porch light, three parents watching.
