I pull up his contact and the first thing I notice is our picture. It’s a picture of us when we he took me to the infamous 230 5th which is a rooftop bar and also has the best view of the Empire State Building. I remember we were getting ready to take a picture when my favorite Beyoncé song started playing and I immediately cheered and began dancing. James started laughing and the girl snapped the picture. We ended up getting one where we were posing and smiling for the camera, but something about this candid picture always makes me smile. I know the picture is saved in my phone but part of me doesn’t want to remove it from his contact photo.

Well, if you’re going to be sending him nudes and sexting him, while you’re home, it’s probably for the best. Change it back when you guys are back in New York and can keep your familial relationship more of a secret. I remove the picture and then erase his name, wondering what I should call him. I opt to use his middle name, Michael, for now. It’s common and I’m not about to make up some fake nickname for him.

“So, Gab, I have to ask. Did you lose your v-card this semester?” Monica asks and my eyes fly to the front of the car where both she and my mother are seated. Really Mon?

A gasp from my mother stops me from answering, thankfully. “Monica!” I can tell that she’s shaking her head before she turns around and looks at me. “Baby, you don’t have to answer that.” She turns back to the front but then turns back around just as quickly. “Unless you want to.” She lowers her sunglasses and raises her eyebrows a few times. “Is there a boy catching my girl’s attention? Are you being safe? I mean…STDs, sweetheart, and don’t get me wrong, I would love any little baby you brought home but maybe not—”

“Mom! Not…” I shake my head. “Not doing that.” I hope I can sell this well enough.

“Oh! I thought maybe Monica was hinting at something or she knew something I didn’t and you were trying to break the news to me.” She glares at Monica.

“No, can’t a girl just be curious about her favorite sister?” Monica looks at me through the rearview mirror. “Sissy,” she says using the nickname she used to call me when we were younger. “You know you can tell us anything. We won’t tell Dad and J.”