I’ve spent eighteen years avoiding tank tops, watching PG-13 movies, and never going on a single date. All because I was to save myself for marriage—for my future husband. I’ve never even kissed a boy. Forget that, I’ve never even held hands with a boy. I have zero idea what an orgasm feels like. Every time I’ve even wondered about trying to give myself one, I hear my mom’s voice in my head telling me how sinful it is. Projecting, obviously. If I’d ever actually asked my mom about masturbation, she would’ve had a coronary and found me one of those metal chastity belts they used in medieval times.

When I told her I wanted to do a gap year, she about died. For weeks, I was subjected to nightly lectures about worldliness and lust and alcohol and Satanic rituals. Literal weeks. Until I found Camp Sunrise. An all-female, all-Christian dude ranch with horseback riding and a baptismal fountain on-site.

Of course, then it backfired on her. Camp Sunrise reached out looking for my entire medical history, and that was when the lies started to splinter. I’d never needed to look at my birth certificate before. I was homeschooled. I rode public transportation. I never needed to know my blood type. I feel so stupid. It was only a matter of time. Eventually, I would have seen the truth.

My lips twitch in something like derision. I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever felt derision before … but I’ve read about it plenty. My favorite romantic heroes always smirk derisively. Dashingly. For years, I’ve been hiding my smutty fan fiction collection from my mom. I’m suddenly very tempted to email her my account password. Take that. I do know what dry humping is.

I smile to myself. There’s a stony break wall trailing out into the water about a quarter of a mile away, and I want to explore it, so I will. I climb the steps and meander along the paved surface, nodding at the families I pass, heading for the very end. I want nothing more than to sit at the very tip, the shoreline at my back, so I can feel like I’m at the end of the earth with only ceaseless rolling waves in front of me.

But when I get there, someone else is sitting in my spot.

Come the frick on.

I’m about to turn back when a piece of paper slaps against my shin, and I hear a voice yelp, “Fuck!”

For a second, I’m frozen as the stranger grapples with the rest of his papers in the wind.

“Can you help?” he growls, and I’m propelled by his annoyance. Which in turn annoys me.