I climbed onto the bed. Sitting was not an option, as it would make my stomach bulge, so I lay down beside him. The bed was comfortable, one of those memory foam things where a lady in a nightgown can jump up and down and not disturb the recklessly placed glass of wine on the other end of the mattress. Tucker turned to me and smiled. I felt mature, as if we were great lovers on our honeymoon in Paris. I imagined his room as a château. There were violinists on the street below, or maybe on the veranda, whatever a veranda might be. A silver platter of champagne and grapes.

“Why’s there no door?” I asked, suddenly aware that his father, or Paige, or anyone else could walk in at any moment.

“I got rid of it.”

“Why?”

“They’re ugly,” he said. “Metaphorically speaking. They close people out. Separate.”

I believed, then, in his genius. Moments like this, I liked to think of what my mother would have to say about me, in bed with a prodigious boy I hardly knew. Would she be amused? Impressed? Most likely, she’d be angry, but I liked to think that somewhere beyond the immediate anger she would feel humored. That Laney, she would think. Always trying for new things, meeting new people. I would live the adventurous life she’d been too afraid to live.

“Why don’t you go to school?” I asked.

“Sorry, what was that?”

I repeated the question.

“Who says I don’t?” And then, “Did you know that you’re beautiful?” The blood rushed to my face and I smiled so widely I feared I might look crazed or, even worse, ugly.

“Will you roll over for me?” he asked.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Don’t worry. I just want to give you something. A tattoo.”

I rolled over and lay still while he unclasped my bikini top, his fingers grazing the skin on my back. My heart beat beneath me. Here I was, with Paige’s brother. In his room. On his bed. Beautiful.

“You’re completely safe,” he said. “I just don’t want to get paint on your suit.”

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“I do. It’s the perfect color for your skin.”

I smiled into the bed. “What are you putting on me?”

“It’s a surprise—don’t try to guess. Just close your eyes.”

I did as told and soon felt the wet tip of his paintbrush on my skin. The brush tickled, but I tried not to move.

“You’re a good patient,” he said. “Almost done.”

When it was over, he blew on my back, igniting the cold paint so that goose bumps rose across my body.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You really want to know?”

I nodded.

“It’s my name.” He kissed the back of my neck, so softly it almost didn’t happen. “Now we wait for it to dry.” He then began to run his hands through my hair—something my mother sometimes did if I was feeling sad. I would lay with my head in her lap and she would stroke my head until I fell asleep. Tucker’s hands were warm and strong against my neck. I wondered if he was going to try to have sex with me and, if he did, whether I would try to stop him. Part of me worried I would regret not going all the way while I had the opportunity. And yet, losing one’s virginity seemed like something that should happen in a dark room, where certain body parts could not be properly seen, and that Tucker’s room was too bright, too open, for anything so potentially embarrassing to take place. Another part of me was terrified. But his hands just kept on, raking my hair, digging into my skin. I wondered if perhaps he was a gentleman, if this was what people talked about when they talked about not sleeping with someone on the first date.