These dirty thoughts are my secret. As far as I know, they’re normal, but I would never tell anyone about them. It’s not like I’m trying to hang on to my virginity forever, but I just keep waiting for the person who will make all the visions go away. Someone who will fill my imagination for me.

“So what college do you go to?” he asks. It’s a small talk question, and I hope he doesn’t think he has to keep up boring conversation for me. I quite enjoy the silence anyway.

“I don’t go to college,” I answer.

He stops walking and stares at me with a worried expression. “How old are you?” he deadpans.

I can’t help but laugh, barreled over with my hands on my knees. “I’m nineteen!”

He laughs too, but it’s a hesitant chuckle. “When you said you weren’t in college…”

“I’m not in high school!” I answer. “I just meant that I took a year off before going to college.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

He resumes his walking and we keep pace together. “How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty-five,” he answers.

I can feel the beat of my heart pick up speed when I look at him. Twenty-five. Just as I expected. He has a youthful face with the demeanor of someone wiser and harder, like he’s been through a lot. It’s heartbreaking and somehow painfully beautiful.

Logan

Her perfect pink toes in the sand have my attention throughout most of our walk. I keep my eyes glued, even in the dark, on her delicate features in the moonlight. I have to shove my hands in my pockets to stop myself from touching her blonde locks, her soft skin, the thin layers that hide what I’m sure is a perfect body.

That white T-shirt she’s wearing hangs off of her shoulders and the soft rise of her chest. And the way she looks with my jacket across her shoulders has me feeling breathless. But as much as I love the way she looks in it, I can't help but imagine pushing it off of her so that I can slip my fingers under her shirt and around her soft tits.

God, I’m disgusting.

We stop after about an hour of walking to sit on the beach and stare out at the waves. “Don’t your parents worry about you?” I ask.

“Not here. They encourage me to engage in spring break behavior at Wickett. Like they want me to get it outta my system here. I think that’s what everyone does. It's kinda gross if you think about it.”

“Trust me, I do. The locals can’t help but support the spring breakers, because we need the business, but at the same time…”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“But you're not like them,” I say, looking over at those perfect pink toes digging into the sand.

“I hope not,” she answers with a smile.

“What do these mean?” she asks as she traces her fingers across the skin of my arms.