I was seventeen. Elliot was nearly eighteen. Last summer, we had kissed. We’d admitted to feelings. And ever since, he’d looked at me differently, more like something to be devoured than something to be protected. As much as I tried to think we could stay the kind of friends we’d always been, I knew I also wanted more. He was already one of the two most important people in my life. Instead of worrying about losing him, I had to focus on how to keep him.

I was draped on the pillows in the corner when he stepped into the room the Saturday after our arrival.

“Hey, you,” he said.

At the sound of his voice, I jumped up and ran to him, flinging my arms around his neck. It was a different sort of hug; instead of creating the careful triangle-embrace we’d always managed—shoulders touching, nothing else—I pressed my front all along his, from my chest to my stomach to my hips. Of course I knew he was the same Elliot from only a few weeks ago, the last time we’d been to the house, but after all my nervous obsessing over what the summer might be like, I suddenly didn’t feel like the same Macy.

He froze for a moment and then reacted with this tiny, perfect grunt of relief. Bending, he wrapped his arms around me and exhaled a quiet “Hey” against the top of my head.

For a few breaths, everything went still, and my entire world was the feeling of Elliot’s heart beating against mine, and the way his hand spread across my lower back.

“I’m so excited it’s summer,” I said into his neck.

He stepped back, still smiling. “Me too.” There it was again—the breathless silence between us. And then he broke it, brandishing two books in his hand. “I brought you something to read.”

“Something for our library?”

He laughed dryly. “Not really. You may not want to leave these out.”

His words confused me until I looked at the covers: Delta of Venus by Anaïs Nin and Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.

I was enough of a book nerd to know these were not books I would already find in my high school’s library.

“What are these?” I asked, seeking confirmation.

He shrugged. “Erotic literature.”

“When did you get them?”

“A couple of years ago. I read them in January.”

I swallowed thickly. After my revelation that things were definitely changing between me and Elliot, these books felt like blistering rocks in my hands.

Elliot flopped down on the futon. “You’re all curious about boys and sex, I thought you might want to read them.”

I felt my entire face heat and handed the books back, avoiding his eyes. “Oh, that’s okay.”

I was ready for a step forward. But the idea of sex, and Elliot, sent me into light-headed territory.

“ ‘That’s okay’?” he asked, incredulous.

“I’m not sure I’d like them.” My voice was thick; the lie didn’t want to roll off my tongue.