“I hear that,” she says on a sigh, fiddling with the ends of her hair. “I don’t wanna hear any of that ‘But you’re a cheerleader!’ crap. Like, yeah, I am—what the hell is your point?”

“Oh my God, you’re Natasha Lyonne.”

“Who?”

I drop into her desk chair. “There’s an old movie called But I’m a Cheerleader about a cheerleader who gets sent to gay conversion camp. She’s played by that actress from Russian Doll. We should watch it.”

“Like, on a date?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows. “A date of just the two of us?”

“Exactly like that.” I roll the chair toward her bed and wrap a pinkie around hers. “Is that cool?”

“Yeah, I guess that’d be all right,” she says, and laughs. I love her laugh. I love making her laugh.

“Hey, this is me playing hard to get,” I say seriously. “Please note my very casual invite.”

“You haven’t played hard to get for a minute, and neither have I,” she points out. “Which is really twisted, because Hard to Get is literally my favorite game, after Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

I cup her cheek in my rough, calloused palm, then climb onto the bed with her. “I fucking love that you haven’t. Why waste all that time when we could be doing this instead?” Then I kiss her so deeply, the heat liquefies my bones.

We may not know exactly what we are, and we may not be going anywhere, but where we are right at this moment is so. Damn. Good.

Unfortunately, as I wash up the next morning, being careful not to get any toothpaste on the pajamas I slept in and apparently get to wear to school today, I’m still thinking about everything I didn’t say the night before. I can’t shake the idea of walking into homecoming with her on my arm, of actually going to homecoming, looking dashing as fuck in a suit while Amber blows my goddamn mind in something that shows off Those Legs.

I dare anyone to give me shit then, especially coming off a win, which we will be.

“Who was that girl who dropped you off last night?”

I’m so used to silence in the morning that the sound of my mom actually speaking to me when I emerge from the bathroom instead of sitting on the couch and staring out the window like she’s waiting for her husband to come back from war makes me jump ten feet. But yup, there she is, sitting at the kitchen counter in front of a plate of bacon and eggs, a matching one sitting in front of the empty barstool next to her. Her phone is propped up on a charger—she’s FaceTiming with my brothers and dad while they all eat, and they can hear every word.