Obviously, whenever I imagined kissing anyone, it was always Elliot. And we’d already covered that: perfect fan- tasy, sublime reality, potentially treacherous aftermath. Even the idea of kissing him led to thoughts of a nasty awkward breakup and that would cause my stomach to spasm painfully.

Still . . . I could never stop looking at him. When did he lose all his awkwardness and get so completely perfect? What would I do with him if I ever had the chance? Nearly-seventeen-year-old Elliot was a work of long lines and definition. I would have no idea how to touch his body. Knowing him, he would just tell me. Probably give me a guidebook to the male anatomy and draw me a few diagrams. While staring at my boobs.

I snorted. He looked up.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

“I was . . . not.”

He let out a short, dry sound of disbelief. “Okay.” Stretching his neck, he looked back down. “You’re still staring.”

“I’m just wondering how it works,” I asked.

“How what works?”

“When you . . .” I made a telling gesture with my hand. “With guys and the . . . you know.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting. I could see the moment he knew what I was talking about. His pupils dilated so fast his eyes looked black.

“You’re asking me how dicks work?”

“Ell! I don’t have sisters—I need someone to tell me these things.”

“You can’t even handle talking about kissing me, and you want me to tell you what it’s like when I get myself off?”

I swallowed down the thrilled swell in my throat. “Okay, never mind.”

“Macy,” he said, more gently now, “why don’t you ever go out with anyone back home?”

Gaping at him, I told him what I thought was obvious. “I’m not interested in other guys.”

“Other guys?”

“I mean,” I said, catching my slip, “anyone.”

“ ‘Other’ implies there is one guy”—he held out the palm of one hand and then lifted the other—“and then, other guys. But in this case, you said you aren’t interested in any others. So, there is just one guy you’re interested in?”

“Stop debate-teaming me.”

He grinned crookedly. “Who is the one?”

I watched him for a long beat. Inhaling deeply, I decided this didn’t have to be so bad. “You know I compare every boy to you. We aren’t in revelation territory.”

The grin widened. “You do?”

“Of course I do. How could I not? Remember? You’re my best everything.”

“Your best everything you ask about wanking.”

“Exactly.”

“Your best everything who no other guy compares to and whose tongue you let touch your tongue.”

“Right.” I didn’t like where this was heading. This was heading to admissions, and admissions changed things. Admissions make feelings intensify simply because they are given space to breathe. Admissions lead to love, and admitting love is like tying yourself to a train track.

“So maybe your best everything should be your boyfriend.”