Sam pulls back first. “Whoa.”

I wipe the extra saliva off my bottom lip with my thumb. It’s kind of hard to focus on his face; I take a step back and squint to make my vision adjust.

Once he’s not all fuzzy, I grin. My whole body—limbs, tummy, mouth—is wired, sizzling and crackling on good-feelings overload. “Another beer?”

“I think maybe we’ve had enough …” he says tentatively.

“What? The night’s just getting started! Or day—what time is it, anyway?”

Sam looks at his phone. “It’s two thirty in the afternoon.”

I pause for a moment, trying to comprehend that, and start to laugh. So much has happened since we stepped foot in this bar that it doesn’t seem right for anything less than days to have passed. But then again, I should know by now how drastically your life can change in no time at all.

I try to sit back on my barstool, but I only catch the very edge of the seat, so my butt slides off and I stumble a little.

Sam reaches out to steady me. His face, so open just a moment ago, closes off. “Yeah, we’re done.”

“No way.” I do a little dance to show how great I am, and signal the bartender. “More beer, please!” I sit on the stool more carefully this time. Success.

“Dara,” Sam says evenly, “I know what you’re feeling right now. I’ve felt it before too. I was even feeling it up until a minute ago. You’re in that place where everything feels amazing. But—”

The bartender slides two more full glasses in front of us. Before Sam can say anything else, I take a long gulp, and smack my lips.

“Now you.” I point at his beer.

“Dara …”

“Sam.” I try to mimic his buzzkill tone. We stare at each other, a standoff with no real conviction.

It only takes a few seconds, as I knew it would. For all his posturing, his decision-making skills aren’t much better than mine right now. Obviously. We wouldn’t have made out like that if either of us were in our right minds.

He sighs and takes a sip.

Just then my phone, lying faceup on the bar, lights up. The flat-tire guy is calling. I tell him we’ll be right out, hoping my voice sounds normal.

“I’ll go,” Sam says, placing two hands lightly on my shoulders as if to keep me in place.

I don’t argue.

“Just …” He glances around the bar. “Don’t talk to anyone.”

“Except Marla,” I say.

He laughs. “Except Marla.”

I grab my credit card from my bag and hand it to him.

“Thanks.”

Once he’s gone I click my phone on again and pull up Mellie’s emails. I’ve got a pleasantly detached floaty thing going on right now, and confronting her messages doesn’t feel quite as weighty as it did a few hours ago.

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 20 (10:59 PM)

Subject: The start

Dear Dara,

I haven’t told you much about my family. One reason for that you already know, though the details were vague: My childhood was very difficult, and after I left home, it was too painful to revisit that place, even in my mind. But the other reason was because if you knew about my family, you’d surely discover the gaps in the life I’d so carefully constructed for us, and that would have been dangerous. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My earliest memory is from when my mother was pregnant with my brother Lenny. He’s the fourth and final sibling, after Ronald, Joanna, and me. It was 1981—around Easter. To this day, the smell of vinegar egg dye always transports me back to that afternoon at my mother’s kitchen table. I don’t remember the beginning of the conversation, but I do know it was a “where do babies come from” talk, abbreviated for a three-year-old. My mother must have told me that my little sibling was in her belly, and that I had once been in there too, that the mother’s belly is where the baby is put together and grows strong enough to be born. My memory kicks in just as I’m processing this new information. I remember touching her middle, looking up at her, and saying clearly and urgently, “I need to go back in.”

She laughed and ruffled my hair. “You can’t go back in, baby.”

I shook my head. She didn’t get it. “I need to go back in and get fixed.”

Her smile faded and little lines appeared on her forehead. “Fixed how, sweetie? You’re already my perfect little boy.”

But I didn’t know how to tell her what I meant. I didn’t have the words yet. I just knew I wasn’t the way I was supposed to be. Everyone thought I was one thing because of how my outsides looked, but I was really something else. How is a three-year-old supposed to explain something so complex? And back then it was mainly a feeling—a strong feeling, yes, but not a conscious, articulated thought.

I started to cry. I crawled onto her lap and frantically tried to push myself against her stomach, in the hopes that somehow I’d be able to go back in and start over.

She held me at arm’s length, her face cross. “Marcus! Stop it. You’re going to hurt the baby.”

I felt like she’d thrown ice water on me. But her message was clear: The baby was the priority now. My time was over.

It was the first clue I had that I was on my own—and this was long before my parents started to suspect there was something “wrong” with me. It only got worse from there.

Dara, I never want that to happen with us. You cannot know how sorry I am to have hurt you. You are the most important thing—and always have been. I hope these emails will help you believe that.

Love,

Mom

 

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 21 (2:16 AM)

Subject: A dream is a wish your heart makes

Dear Dara,

I was five when I put my feelings into words for the first time. The understanding came after a dream I had, actually. It was the special kind of dream that you only get a few of, if that, during a lifetime. The kind that is so vivid, so perfectly complete, right down to the fibers of the dream carpets and the pores of your dream skin, that you believe—with everything that you are—during the dream and for a little while after, that it’s real. But better than real, because in the dream anything is possible. Hearts pulse with unbridled joy, wishes come true, and the world is sparkly and warm and beautiful.

In my dream, Glinda from The Wizard of Oz, my favorite movie back then, visited me. Her weightless, luminescent bubble floated effortlessly through my bedroom window, and she alighted to the floor. “You’ve passed the test, Marcus,” she told me, her voice caressing me like a hug. “You’ve been a very good girl. I know how hard it must have been for you—to be so kind and well-behaved when you’ve been so sad.”

I nodded, soaking up her words. I was sad … all the time. Every day felt like a trial. And somehow Glinda saw it when no one else did. I knew there was something specific my mom and dad and siblings and teachers wanted me to be; I just didn’t know what it was or how to be it. It felt like my whole life was a giant, unsolvable riddle. I thought the wrong way; I felt the wrong things. When I tried to like the things I was supposed to like and act the way I was supposed to act, I still wasn’t who they wanted me to be. I got yelled at all the time. But I tried so hard. To be good, to make my parents happy—even though they didn’t seem to like me very much at all.

“The hard part is over, Marcus,” Glinda said. “Now you will be rewarded.”

I reached out and clutched the soft, pink tulle of her gown tightly in my little hand.

“What is your wish?” she asked, smiling kindly.

I opened my mouth to reply, but then I realized: She’d already granted my wish. She’d already given me the one thing I’d always wanted but never knew how to articulate, never knew was even possible. She’d called me a girl. It was like I’d put on a pair of glasses with the correct prescription for the first time.

“I want to be a girl,” I told her. “A real one.”

If I had a girl’s body, everything would match. I would like the right things. I would think the right way. My parents wouldn’t be mad anymore.

Glinda smiled and nodded as if she’d been expecting me to say that.

“Then a girl you shall be.” She smiled kindly, cupped the side of my face in her soft, gentle hand, and floated away on her bubble once more.

When I woke up, it was still nighttime. I grabbed Annie—a tattered old rag doll given to me by my sister when she didn’t want her anymore—slid out of bed, and ran barefoot down the short hall to the kitchen. My mother was drying dishes, and my father was reading the newspaper with a glass of brownish liquid in front of him.

“Mommy! Daddy!” I couldn’t wait to tell them that I had it all figured out.

“Marcus, what are you doing out of bed?” Mom asked.

“Glinda the Good Witch is going to make me a girl!” I said in a rush, as proud as if I were telling them I got first prize in the county fair potato sack race.

But, for the millionth time in my short life, my parents didn’t understand. My mother sucked in her breath and glanced at my father, who pushed out of his chair and crossed the room in two swift strides. He bent down, grabbed my pajamas by the collar, and shouted smelly words in my face. “Don’t you ever let me hear you say that again. God made you a boy; do you hear me? A boy. Knock it off with the queer shit right now or you’re going to get whipped.”

A frightened sob caught in my throat, and in that instant Glinda’s visit faded into nothing more than a stupid dream.

I didn’t know what queer was, but I knew shit was a bad word. And the way my parents looked at each other, the way Dad got so mad so fast, his voice so angry and his face so red, made me think this wasn’t the first time I’d done the “queer shit.”

Glinda was wrong; I hadn’t been good. And I wasn’t going to be a girl.

I nodded shakily, and he released me.

His eyes landed on the doll in my grasp, and he yanked her away from me. “Enough of this. I don’t know why you’ve let him keep this damn thing for so long,” he said to my mother. Then he threw Annie in the trash and slammed the lid down over her.

“No!” I cried out.

“Go back to bed,” he barked, and turned his back on me. I looked at my mother; her mouth was a thin line and her eyes were closed off. She picked up another dish to dry.

I ran back to my room, hid under the covers, and cried myself to sleep.

It’s late; I’m going to try to get some rest. I’ll write more soon. I love you.

Love,

Mom

 

To: acelove6@email.com

From: Mellie.Baker@email.com

June 21 (10:11 AM)

Subject: The Hogans

Dear Dara,

My parents—your grandparents—were very … limited people. Though they never left our small town, though they barely interacted with people who were in any way different from them, for some reason, they thought they knew everything. The beliefs they held, if that’s what you can call them, were always dismissive, often cruel, and trumped absolutely everything else, including their actual relationships with actual people in their lives.

It always amazes me how people who have no concept of what gender even is can have such staunch opinions on it. And it wasn’t just gender, mind you, that Jack and Mindy Hogan felt they were the authority on—it was all sorts of subjects that are life-or-death situations for other people, but have absolutely zero relevance to the personal experience of the people who are casting the judgment.

My parents knew I was “different,” but they didn’t understand how or why, and didn’t give me the option to try to explain. They assumed I was a boy who liked boys. I guess it made sense. My natural movements and vocal cadence, my attraction toward things that were generally considered “girly,” the way I couldn’t relate to my brothers and only ever wanted to play with Joanna … To someone who has no concept of trans people or gender complexities, who only thinks in terms of sexuality, these traits could, I suppose, be considered “gay.”

But not only did my parents misread who I was, they punished me for it. Took away Annie, spanked me, beat me, told me to “man up,” punished me in every way they knew how. Because being gay wasn’t okay, either.

Dara, I want you to know I’ll always support you—no matter what. I know my resistance toward tennis has made you feel otherwise, and for that I will be forever regretful. But know that there’s nothing you could ever say or do or feel that would make me love you any less.

Love,

Mom

Sam taps me on the shoulder, startling me away from the words on the screen. I turn to look at him.

After a half hour in the sweltering sun with the tow-truck guy, sweat beads his forehead and his hands are stained with soot. Did the guy make him help? “I don’t know about you,” he says, collapsing, exhausted, onto his stool, “but I’m ready for another round.”

I click my phone off and slip it into my back pocket. “Right there with you.”

“So, where can I drive you guys?” Marla asks when her shift ends at four p.m. She props an elbow up on the bar. This close, she looks a lot younger than I thought she was. The knowing look she’s giving us now is the first sign we’ve had all day that she probably knows we’re not twenty-one.

I glance at Sam. He’s furiously tapping on his phone screen, wholly focused on winning some battle in the Viking game. A few stray fries lie abandoned on the plate in front of him, the only evidence of the cheeseburger deluxe he scarfed down a little while ago. I didn’t eat anything else after the mozzarella sticks—they didn’t make me feel too great in the end. Plus, it turns out beer is really filling. And I’ve had a lot of it. My mouth feels numb and swollen, and it’s hard to stand without swaying. I think I’m done.

I was just starting to wonder if there were any cab companies that would be able to come get us, but Marla’s offer is even better. “That’s really … thanks, that’s really nice of you,” I say. My voice isn’t quite right. It’s like my words are on a delay, and by the time they reach my mouth from my brain they’re all screwy. I concentrate harder. “Is there any hotels?” I don’t think that was grammar.

Marla laughs. “Sure, there’s a place not far from here. Come on.”

The sun is brighter than I remember it being, and the fresh air makes me feel even woozier, like the little bubbles of beer in my bloodstream just got a swift kick of oxygen and expanded three sizes.

“Where’re we going?” Sam asks, finally looking up from his screen as we reenter the land of daylight. His voice isn’t right either.

“Marla’s car. Hotel.”

“Oh. ’Kay.”

We stumble to my car to get our bags, then follow Marla to her Jeep, which is parked around back.

Sam and I are walking really close, and we keep bumping into each other accidentally. I don’t know if I like being drunk anymore. I like being in control of my body. I like when my muscles and bones feel strong and they do exactly what I want them to do. I like when my arms and legs spring into action on a fraction of a second’s notice to hit a ball that wasn’t there an instant ago.

I give up trying to walk normally, and stay pressed to Sam. His body supports mine like a reinforcement beam in a house.

He crawls into the back seat of Marla’s car, and, though Marla reaches over to open the passenger side door, I follow Sam into the back, not stopping until I’m practically in his lap.

“Guess I’m the chauffeur,” Marla mutters under her breath.

I drape my leg over Sam’s and rest my head on his shoulder. The soft cotton of his T-shirt, the scent of fried food mixed with a slight hint of the Philly hotel shampoo, the very thereness of him is a comfort.

“The hotel is a few minutes away,” Marla says, pulling out onto the main road. “I’ve never stayed there, but it seems decent from the outside. I think we only have it because it’s not too far from the airport.”

“Sounds good,” I say. I’m suddenly hyper aware of my jaw. I wiggle it around.

“So where are you guys from?” Marla asks.

“New York,” Sam says, facing forward. “Small town you’ve never heard of.”

She smiles in the rearview mirror. “Kindred spirits. So how’d you end up at the Outlaw?”

I open my mouth to say, “I just found out my mother is actually my father.” But nothing comes out. I’m not sure if it’s because there’s still some logic working on autopilot somewhere inside me, or if it’s just too much work to form a sentence right now. Either way, it hits me with all the pleasantness of a torn hamstring: People will be asking me some version of “how’d you end up here?” for the rest of my life. An ordinary question for a million situations. And it will always come back to Mellie and her lies.

“Flat tire,” Sam says, and leaves it at that.

I tilt my head up and say Thank you with my eyes.

He smiles back. You’re welcome.

The hotel is surprisingly tall and shiny for being in the middle of nowhere. We grab our bags, hug Marla good-bye, and enter the lobby through the automatic sliding glass doors. I link my arm through Sam’s and focus on putting one foot in front of the other without tripping over my suitcase or veering off course. He seems to be trying to do the same thing, and by the time we get to the front desk, we’re cracking up.

The woman behind the desk begins to chuckle as we approach. It’s incredible how contagious laughter is. How total strangers can connect on the most basic level and share in something real without a single word of explanation.

“Welcome,” she says, peering at us kindly through sensible, wire-framed glasses. Her name tag says Sharon. “Are you checking in?”

“Yes,” I say, and make an effort to form my words in my head before speaking them. “One room, please. Just one night.” That sounded okay. I think, anyway.

“Of course. The name on the reservation?”

“Oh.” I blink. “We don’t have a reservation.” Sharon’s expression falls a little. Crap. If this place is full, it’s probably because there aren’t very many other options around. Sam and I exchange a glance.

Sharon presses a few keys and studies her screen. “We should be able to find something for you …” She types for a moment more, and then says, “Yes. We have one room remaining.” She sounds as relieved as I feel.

“How much is it?” I ask.

“It’s three hundred and nine dollars per night, plus tax.”

Yikes. “Um …” I have no job and a rapidly shrinking bank account balance. Especially after the unexpected mechanic bill. Who knew tires were so expensive?

“It’s our honeymoon suite on the top floor,” Sharon explains. She looks up, and her eyes land on the way I’m clinging to Sam. I didn’t even realize I was still using him to hold me up. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and she gives us a knowing look. “Would that be all right? I assume you’ll be needing only one bed?”

I freeze. Sneak a peek at Sam. His gaze is steadfastly pinned to the floor.

Over the course of the next second, every romantic comedy I’ve ever seen zips through my memory. Sharon seems like a romantic. Maybe she’s got a partner at home who she’s desperately in love with. Or maybe she’s still waiting for her white knight. Either way … we can use this.

I pull Sam a little closer and snuggle in to him. “How’d you know?” I say. “We’re actually on our honeymoon right now!”

Sam glares at me, a silent What the hell are you doing?

I just gaze lovingly back at him. “Right, baby?” I lift up onto my toes to kiss that look off his face. He jolts, but responds as close to immediately as possible. I only meant it to be a quick peck, but he pulls me to him, as if to say, Whatever game you’re playing, I can play too. We’re almost the same height like this, and our mouths line up perfectly. My lips part, and his tongue dances lightly with mine. I fist my hands in the fabric of his shirt and sigh. Why is tasting the insides of someone else’s mouth so good?

I can’t believe we’re making out. Again. And right in front of poor Sharon.

God, he’s good at this. I wonder if I’m good too. Or if I’m not as good as Sarah or the other girls he’s kissed. I wonder if being good at kissing is an innate skill, or something that you get better at with practice. Or maybe it’s both, like tennis.

Not a single thing about any of this is real, but it still takes some effort to pull away.

I put some distance between us, avoid Sam’s eyes, and turn to Sharon. “Sorry about that! It’s just … our parents didn’t approve, so we ran away together. This is the first time we’ve been on our own and able to express our love in public.”

“Checking things off our list, so to speak,” Sam murmurs, throwing my own words back at me.

I yank his arm and tuck it in closer against my side. This has to work. But it won’t if Sam doesn’t keep his fat mouth shut.

“The honeymoon suite sounds perfect,” I continue, “but we don’t have a lot of money. The wedding and honeymoon were pretty impromptu, and we weren’t able to save much first. We just kind of started driving.”

Sharon smiles. “I understand. You can’t be much older than, what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Exactly,” I say. I pinch Sam’s back, and he nods.

“I met a man while I was traveling in Europe after college. Rodrigo …” Her eyes glaze over a bit, but she snaps out of it quickly. “Anyway, we didn’t have a lot of money, either.”

Okay, now I’m actually interested. I step forward and place a hand on the counter. “Are you still together?” I ask.

Sharon shakes her head. “I had to come back home because my sister was getting married. And I had this job waiting for me and student loans to repay, and once I was back here it was harder to justify giving up the job and using the last of my savings to get back on a plane with no guarantees of anything. Staying was safer.” She shrugs sadly.

There are so many lost opportunities in the world. So many dreams obstructed because of circumstances. Sharon’s story renews my certainty that I did the right thing in dropping everything to take this chance.

“It’s never too late to take control of your life,” I tell her gently.

She places a hand on mine. “Thank you.” She sniffles. “I don’t usually spill my guts to guests like this. There’s just something about you two that makes me feel a little nostalgic.” She takes her hand back and focuses on the computer once more. “Let me book you that room. I’ll give it to you for the same rate as a junior double. One fifty-nine.”

“Really?” I say. “That’s so nice!” I look back at Sam. See? “Isn’t that nice?”

He nods. “Very.” But he doesn’t seem as impressed as he should. I shake my head at him and turn back to Sharon. She swipes my card and prints our keys.

“Have a wonderful evening,” she says.

“You too,” Sam and I say in unison.

Sharon laughs joyfully at how in sync we are.

The elevator is empty, apart from us. Sam’s back is against one wall, and mine is against the other. It’s the most space that’s been between us in hours.

Sam speaks first. “Really?”

I smile innocently. “What?”

He shakes his head. “I’m finding it hard to know what’s real, what’s beer-induced, and what’s part of a scheme.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, I think it does.”

“Come on, Sam, don’t be such a party pooper.”

“Are you serious? No one in the history of the world has ever been more game than I’ve been the past two days.”

“So then why does there have to be an implication behind everything?”

He sighs, defeated. “You’re right. There doesn’t.”

Yay. I win.

The elevator doors open and we lug our bags down the hall to room 1407. I slide the key card through the lock and the door clicks open.

Sam whistles.

It’s different than our Philly hotel, that’s for sure. The suite is huge, with a separate living room, an enormous king-sized bed, two TVs, and a freaking Jacuzzi the size of a small pool in the middle of the room with tiled steps leading up to it and a fake potted plant on the ledge. Floor-to-ceiling windows meet in one corner.

“So this is what a honeymoon suite in an off-brand hotel sort of near the airport looks like,” I say, deadpan.

We burst out laughing.

I kick off my shoes, leap up onto the bed, and start jumping. “New tradition,” I say in between jumps and gasps of air. “We must jump on every bed in every hotel room we encounter on this trip and rank them from best to worst.”

Sam joins me on the vast expanse of white duvet. “This one is definitely the winner so far,” he says.

“Soft but not too soft.”

“Lots of space in which”—he jumps from one end of the bed to the other—“to make wide-spanned leaps!”

I take a big jump too, and my stomach takes a hard dip as I land. I cradle an arm against it and switch to smaller bounces. I’m probably still bloated from the beer. “And not squeaky at all!” I shout.

He laughs. “Probably because it’s the honeymoon suite.”

“What do you mean?”

“People must have sex in this bed all the time. The hotel doesn’t want a squeaky bed keeping the people in the downstairs rooms up all night.”

I stop jumping. “Right.” The reality of the little fairy tale I told to Sharon is starting to hit me. Sam and I are going to have to share a bed tonight. And after all that kissing …

If I thought the Philly hotel room was intimate, tonight is going to be way scarier.

Sam slows his jumps and collapses to his knees too, shadowing my position.

There’s about three feet of soft white bedding between us. Suddenly the bed, and the room as a whole, is feeling a lot smaller than it did a few minutes ago.

“So.” I look around. It’s still daylight outside. Too early to turn in for the night, even though sleep sounds glorious. “Want to watch TV?” I stretch to grab the remote off the nightstand.

But Sam’s fingers graze lightly across the hand I’m using to prop myself up on the bed, and every cell in my body feels like it’s fluttering in a warm breeze. I look at him.

“I know you don’t want to talk,” he whispers. “But can I just say one thing? While we’re still drunk and it doesn’t count?”

I nod.

“I really like kissing you.”

I swallow. “I like kissing you too.” Half of me means it one hundred percent. But I’m not as drunk as I was, and the other half is nagging, whispering a sequence of “buts” in my ear:

It doesn’t mean anything.

Kissing someone doesn’t mean you like them.

I needed to try it, and you were there, and it was fun.

So … friends, yeah?

But of course there’s no reason to say any of it. I’m sure Sam’s on the exact same page. If I said this stuff out loud, I’d come off as some conceited, inexperienced idiot who made a good thing weird and jumped to conclusions for absolutely no reason.

Still, he’s right here, leaning forward slowly. In the bar, the kissing was part of the adventure. In the lobby downstairs, it was part of the charade. Here, I don’t know what it is. Being alone with someone makes everything different. And there’s a bed. And we’re on it.

But I like the taste of him. Sometimes, I decide, things can be as simple as that.

Our mouths just barely brush each other’s, and a breathy noise escapes me.

“Was that a good sigh or a bad sigh?” Sam whispers against my lips.

I open my eyes—I don’t remember closing them. His face is as close to mine as it can be.

I hadn’t meant to sigh at all. “Good sigh,” I tell him.

He smiles—I can see it in his eyes and feel it against my mouth.

My stomach gurgles again.

Sam laughs. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” We’re still so, so close, and yet still not officially kissing.

But then my stomach makes another sound, and takes a bigger plunge than before, like I’m in a roller-coaster car that’s just tipped down a tall slope.

I pull back quickly and freeze.

Worry works its way into the lines of his face. “Did I do something wrong?”

I manage a shallow shake of my head. “No, I—”

My stomach swoops again, and this time I know it’s not pangs of desire. Oh no. I cover my mouth with my hand, and launch myself off the bed and around the corner to the bathroom. I throw the door open, and fall to my knees in front of the toilet, unable to spare the time to locate the light switch. A couple seconds later, everything inside me—which basically equates to a bucketload of amber-colored liquid and some half-digested mozzarella sticks—comes up. Luckily, my hair was already in a ponytail.

My body keeps heaving until I’m empty, and then a few more times after that for good measure.

I rest my clammy forehead against the side of the tub and flush the grossness away.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks. I don’t turn around, but it sounds like he’s standing near the doorway.

“Ughhhh” is my only response. I’m sure I look exactly as I feel.

He comes closer and crouches down beside me, placing a hand on my back. It’s the complete opposite of the sexy, daring brush on my hand just minutes ago. This is the kind of touch my mom would use to check my forehead for a fever when I was a kid and not feeling well. Comforting. Gentle.

“I knew you drank too much,” he said. “Or was it the mozzarella sticks?”

I groan. “Sam, please. Shut up.”

“Sorry. Can I get you anything?”

I lift my head and push the sweaty strands of hair off my neck and forehead. “No. Thanks.” I stand up on shaky legs. “I just want to go to bed.”

I brush my teeth, and change into pajamas right in the middle of the bedroom. Sam turns away to give me privacy, but I feel the worst I’ve felt since I had food poisoning from a bad egg-white-and-spinach wrap when I was eleven, and modesty isn’t high on my list of concerns right now.

Neither is the shared bed issue anymore, or the fact that I’ve spent the day making out with my best friend. Sam and I could be about to share a tiny twin bed for all I care. Nothing else is going to happen.

I pass out as soon as the side of my face presses into the squishy down pillow.