Of course her mom would be selling their house, since it’s the scene of one of my favorite memories of the entire summer. Burning those memories down seems to be the theme of the week. In another life, I would’ve asked how she feels about losing her childhood home, and whether her mom’s move is the reason she’s here for the year, but we’re in this alternate life now, so all I can do is make a stupid joke.

“I’m sure your dad would’ve sprung for a new Crazy Rich Asians poster. Hell, I can’t believe you moved in without some sort of decorating clause in the contract.”

Her only response is a little snort. Which means she’s serious about not wanting to dig into our summer, to the many times we watched that movie together, to the day we found the poster at a dollar store and she declared she had to have it. She doesn’t even want to take this opportunity to talk about why, after ten years of a custody situation that’s functioned like clockwork despite the frosty divorce behind it, things have suddenly changed.

She’s serious about burying it all, which means I should be too.

“You really want to just pretend this summer never happened,” I say, finally turning.

“Don’t you?” she says, and I look up. Is that hurt in her eyes? It’s impossible to tell when they’re rimmed in kohl like that, glittering like liquid amber peeking from a cloud of smoke. And now that I’m meeting her gaze, I can’t look away. She has this stupid fucking hold on me, and she knows it.

I’ve never been attracted to girls. I have lain awake so many nights wondering, replaying nights in my mind of hanging out with Shannon, Kiki, Gia, Jamie, whoever, trying to find Signs. Objectively, they’re all pretty, maybe even beautiful. But kissing them, touching them, being with them … it’s never once crossed my mind. It still doesn’t.

And I wasn’t attracted to Jasmine like that either, at first. That’s not what happened. I don’t really know what happened. But I wasn’t staring into her eyes like I am now, looking at her lips like I am now, remembering the feel of her skin on mine like I am now. It wasn’t anything until it was, and then it wasn’t, and now …

Now I am staring at The Spot on her neck and I cannot fucking stop.

I know exactly the sound she’ll make if I touch my tongue to it. If I suck gently on it. If I suck not-so-gently on it. I can hear it in the vestiges of my brain and it’s sending unwelcome waves of electricity right through my leather shorts.