Disclaimer: I own no part of the O.C. And I don't own an Oxford English Dictionary either.

Limerence

Lindsay opens her literature book with distaste. She hates doing this part of her homework. Science and math challenge and stimulate her; history she finds fascinating, but literature always makes Lindsay nervous.

It's not that she has no imagination or interest in the lives of other people (fictional or otherwise.) She does. But literature relies on words, elastic, slippery, untrustworthy words that mean one thing in one sentence and transform themselves completely two lines later. Even simple words do that. For example, the word "fine": how many definitions does the word "fine" have? At least fifteen, and she's sure of that without even checking. (She'll look it up later.)

So when Lindsay comes across the word "limerence" she grimaces.

What on earth is that supposed to mean?

The only thing it suggests to her is "limerick," which makes no sense in the context, and is not an association that appeal to Lindsay at all. Because who likes limericks anyway (besides seventh-grade boys and people on their fifth drinks in bars?)

She reaches for her reference dictionary and thumbs it open. Nothing. Lindsay sighs, makes a note to ask for an O.E.D. for her next birthday. (Maybe her wealthy new "father", long overdue to give her anything, can buy it for her. Or, maybe not.) She checks her textbook again for a footnote or glossary entry that she might have missed, then does an Internet search.

Ah, there it is.

Limerence.

Lindsay starts to take notes, feels her pen moving slower and slower and then somehow writing words that aren't part of the definition at all, that appear on the page automatically. (Magically?)

Ryan Atwood.

Lindsay puts her pen down, traces the letters with a forefinger. She has never written any boy's name on her book jackets, on her palms, in her notebooks. (She feels mild contempt, and a little pity, for girls who do.)

But there are the letters, all ten of them, conjuring Ryan's face, and Lindsay realizes that she's not embarrassed at all to see his name in her precise handwriting, centered on a college-ruled page where she intended to take meaningful, academic notes. She's not even surprised. If A equals B, and B equals C, then it logically follows that C will equal A.

Because Lindsay's mind is scientific, empirical, she prints the webpage, then goes to the mirror for visual verification. As she expected, she sees her reflection smiling back at her, flushed and a little unfocused.

Lindsay Gardner is in limerence.

With Ryan Atwood.

According to the website Lindsay finds, the word "limerence" was coined in 1977 by Dorothy Tennov, professor of psychology, to describe an early state of love (or, as Lindsay makes herself admit, lust) when one person considers the other to be perfect. Tennov, she reads, rejected the existing term "infatuation," claiming that it implies immaturity, and an insufficient basis for feeling.

Lindsay is glad, because (despite the fact that she has now become one of those girls, the ones who decorate their possessions with boys' names) she's confident that no one could call her immature. (Well, except maybe socially. But cognitively? Emotionally? Lindsay knows she's nearly adult.) And she's sure, completely, that her feelings for Ryan are supported by a substantial foundation. One that is, quite possibly, shatterproof, rooted in the very core of the earth.

Nodding a farewell to her mirror self (who looks prettier—softer—than Lindsay knows herself to be) she returns to her desk, sits like an expectant schoolgirl, and thinks.

How did this happen? (It wasn't supposed to.)

Lindsay can pinpoint when it began.

That first day at Harbor, in the student center, before she'd even seen Ryan's face. She'd glimpsed his back, his t-shirt taut across his shoulders, his hair half-curling on his neck, and she'd slipped into line behind him at the coffee bar. (Even though she wasn't thirsty, and had no plan to buy anything. She'd already drunk her allotted two cups of caffeine at home.)

When Ryan had spun around, spilling coffee down her nondescript, don't-look-at-me shirt, it hadn't been his fault. The memory, Lindsay admits to herself, should make her cringe. Instead it makes her smile. She had been pressed too close, her breasts inches from his back, watching the way his muscles moved under the thin cotton, trying to identify his scent under the overpowering coffee smell.

Coffee had splattered his t-shirt too. While he apologized, Ryan had plucked the wet cloth away from his chest, giving her the smallest, most fleeting glimpse of his skin there. Lindsay recalls backing up, clutching her books so that her fingers wouldn't curl around his and pull the shirt further away from his body. She remembers his eyes, wide with contrition, and the shape of his mouth around the word "Sorry." The moisture in her own mouth instantly evaporated; her tongue barely gathered enough to speak. (Maybe she should have accepted the drink Ryan offered to buy.)

When he had appeared unexpectedly in her A.P. physics class (her refuge! her sanctuary!) Lindsay had panicked, had become rudely dismissive. She willed herself to find Ryan's flaws. Failing that, she created some. He must be, she decided, a dumb jock, although she had no basis for "dumb" (clumsy not being the same as stupid, and the coffee incident more her fault that his), and simply assumed "jock" because, with his physique, he must be . . . active. (Safer to think of him active in sports, in a pool, on a court, on a field, than somewhere more personal, engaged in something more private.)

Lindsay knows—knew at the time—that she had instantly opened herself to him. "God doesn't give with both hands." (How could she have let that slip out?) She considers it a kind of gallantry that Ryan let that statement slide, didn't hold on to it, never dangles it in front of her for his own satisfaction.

He is never less than chivalrous.

He belongs, she thinks to another age.

He belongs, unbelievably, to her.

Lindsay scrolls down the page on her monitor, confirming the symptoms of her condition.

Limerence.

Marked by fear of rejection, sometimes incapacitating shyness in the presence of the limerent object (hereafter called the LO).

She thinks about all the mixed signals she has sent, the invitations accepted, declined, offered, withdrawn, and she makes a small check in her notebook, just above the "R" in Ryan's name. Sometimes, in his presence, Lindsay feels her emotions stretched thin and transparent, balloons ready to break at his touch, and she knows that she has to put distance between them before Ryan shrugs, turns away, shatters her entirely. (This happens less often now, since Ryan has said that he wants her. Shown her that he wants her. And Lindsay believes him, trusts him, needs it all to be true. But still, sometimes, she looks at him, pictures herself, and she wonders. And she's afraid.)

Limerence.

Lindsay's cursor moves down, lands on a sentence describing an intensity of feeling for the LO that diminishes all other concerns. (Are there other concerns?) She cocks her head, considering. Yes, she still completes assignments on time, submits A projects, keeps up with her reading. Lindsay hasn't forgotten who she is, who she wants to become. And yet, there were those eleven red dots at the bottom of her page that one night (more than one night, and more than eleven red dots, all accusing her). Twice in the last week alone, Lindsay had discarded her work entirely, choosing instead to lie on her bed and (in her mind) wrap Ryan's arms around her, feel his breath on her neck, in her ear, his tongue parting her lips. Even now (Lindsay smiles to herself at the confession) what is she doing besides wishing for Ryan? Losing herself in thoughts of him?

She makes another check, over the A in Atwood.

Limerence.

Lindsay reads down the page, sees a note that cites intrusive thinking about the LO.

She purses her lips, doubting the adjective. Intrusive? That sounds so rude, so unwanted. And thoughts of Ryan don't barge in. They insinuate themselves, always welcome (even when inconvenient) almost always invited. (Not during exams. Lindsay tries to block out images of Ryan then, but there they are anyway, between the multiple-choice questions and essays, in the middle of her equations and proofs.)

She adds a last check, above the "d" that ends Ryan's name.

Depending on the time of day, the temperature in the room, the ambient sounds outside the window, Lindsay finds herself thinking (dreaming) about:

Ryan's arms. Lindsay loves how they are simultaneously strong and gentle, and how she fits inside them. She loves the dips and curves between the swell of his muscles, the prominent bones of his wrists, the fine light hairs of his forearms. If she concentrates, she swears that she can feel each of them brush against her skin when Ryan holds her.

Ryan's hands. They're sure and capable, slightly calloused on the palms and fingertips. They know exactly how to touch her, when to press, when to rub, when to caress, how to find and finger the pulse points in her body so that all the blood rushes just there, throbbing hot and urgent under the skin, making the air around her, between her and Ryan, (what little air there is) hum and shimmer.

Ryan's mouth. It is, Lindsay believes, perfectly formed and compelling, whether it is set in concentration, curved in a half-smile (shy, private, a silent promise) or a full grin (a flash like sunlight through trees.) Ryan's mouth opens when he leans in to kiss hers (to kiss her, anywhere) and the moment his lips part, Lindsay loses her breath, feels a wash of warmth, anticipates everything. She is amazed to remember that boys before Ryan have kissed her. (Or maybe they haven't.) She can't reconcile their mouths (dry, chapped, some of them; others too wet, overeager) with Ryan's. Their tongues were sloppy, inexpert (in her mouth, never allowed anywhere else.) His is agile and rhythmic and generous, and she wants him to taste her everywhere. (Although he hasn't. Not yet.)

Ryan's eyes. Lindsay watches his eyes, because they speak to her, tell her everything she needs to know. They are changeable as the ocean, every emotion a new, unnamed color, a shimmer, a storm, a breaking wave. Ryan's eyes hide nothing (and so he sometimes tries to hide them, lowering his gaze, letting his lashes fall, casting quick, cautious glances up or to the side.) Then there are moments when Ryan looks at Lindsay (looks at her) and his gaze is so searing, his focus so intense, that she burns and trembles under it. She feels, at those times, as though he has known her longer than she has lived. Knows her better than she knows herself. (Better than she ever will.)

Lindsay thinks about the parts of Ryan's body that she has never seen (yet), and she imagines that they can't be less beautiful than any other part of him. She pictures her hands on them, her mouth, Ryan naked in front of her, on top of her, and then inside of her. Lindsay's breath quickens, her nerve endings vibrate, she feels the core of herself begin to dissolve. She promises herself: soon.

Limerence.

Lindsay looks one last time at the webpage, sees that the word, although it has been used in books, has not yet been recognized in any dictionary.

She's glad. That means the word is hers, and she holds its meaning.

She is its meaning.

Lindsay Gardner is in limerence.

With Ryan Atwood.