“It’s not fair,” Lydia says, pulling me closer. “I’m sorry.”

This time, I can’t control the tears. I rest my head on Lydia’s shoulder. Claudia scoots closer so she can rest a hand on my back. Even though I’m crying, wiping at my face so the waitress doesn’t notice me, I don’t regret telling them. I don’t regret the weird comments or the awkward silence. They are officially a million times better than Sarah. I’ve thought about it before, but today makes it a fucking fact.

CHAPTER 9

My new vibrator is small but mighty.

I picked the bullet because I figured it would be simple—shaped like a small baseball bat, silicone, no fancy features—but I was mistaken. There are twenty different settings. I’m not even sure where to start. There’s an instruction manual, but after looking at words like nonporous and multispeed and vibration patterns, I just want to test it out myself.

I flip it on, watching the shaking intensify with each level. There aren’t any fireworks when I press my finger against it. The good news is that it doesn’t make much noise. At least I know my parents won’t hear it and walk in on me.

Okay. I can do this. I have the time and the privacy and the equipment. It’ll be fun. Probably. I just need to be done before Claudia and Lydia come over, in about an hour. I take a deep breath, plopping on my bed before I switch it back to the lowest setting.

“Whoa,” I say into the empty room. My voice is breathy like a porn star’s and I’m sure my eyes are bulging like a cartoon character’s.

It’s not like using my hand, that’s for sure. It feels like I’m finished five minutes after I start, groaning into my pillow.

“Fuck,” I say, the word muffled. “Thank God for the Pleasure Chest.”

I’m still walking on air after I shower and make my way downstairs. Claudia and Lydia have been coming over for dinner for, like, the past two months. Dad does most of the cooking, which is funny, considering he’s usually on call or working late hours. Today, he’s making weird tiny little chickens that look so cute and utterly dead.

“They’re rosemary-crusted,” he says when I mention this. “So they’re going to taste delicious.”

“Oooh,” I say, peering over his shoulder. “Look at you.”