She laughs. “Your hair is not rat’s nest-y, but yeah, isn’t it? Like, it’s fun to hang out with other people, but it all becomes about the same shit—everyone just wants to feel good at the end of the night, right? You get drunk to feel good. You hook up to feel good. You take other people’s money at the poker table to feel good. And it’s so much fucking work.” The smile has slid off her lips, and her face grows serious in the light of the fire, the sparks reflecting in her amber eyes. “It doesn’t have to be so much work. It doesn’t have to be constantly making sure you’re wearing the right thing, saying the right thing, drinking the right amount, worrying about who’s watching you do what.

“Sometimes it’s so fucking exhausting to feel good that it doesn’t even feel good when it should. We act like beer and boys are so necessary for a good time, for a real night, and honestly, fuck that. If all we cared about was making out with someone—” I’ve barely swallowed my s’more and suddenly there are lips on mine, sweet with a trace of chocolate. Only a moment, and then the cool night air rushes in off the water again, as if it never happened. “Just … do it. You don’t have to throw a whole massive party so three hours later you can get someone back to your room to make out. Just make out. The whole pretense is so tired. I wish people would just admit what they want when they want it.”

I’m not sure I’ve blinked once her whole tirade. I definitely haven’t moved since her lips landed on mine. What the hell just happened?

Suddenly, her face crumbles, every trace of righteous indignation gone. “Oh, shit, Lara, I’m sorry. I got caught up. I shouldn’t have done that. I promise I—”

“Shh.” I hold up a hand, silencing her, as I think about years of wanting Chase. Years of going to his football games and the parties afterward. Yeah, they were fun, but ultimately, what did I want? I wanted him to notice me. I wanted him to want to be with me. I wanted to make out with him and have fun and feel good and lather rinse repeat until … what? Until I didn’t want that anymore? I didn’t have visions of us getting married and having babies. I had visions of him asking me to go upstairs at Ferris’s house so we could make out.

For that, I had worn uncomfortable shoes and too-tight jeans and pounds of makeup and scorched my hair into perfect straightness and listened to Shannon tell me how to stand and what to smell like and what shades of lipstick I should wear.