Three is drowned out by the refined shrieks of a very pale Brit. But they make it over.

Meg curls into my side, her sun-soaked skin soft against mine. “Should we just stay up here? It’s nice and quiet.”

I pretend to consider it, turning my body so my arms wrap around her completely. She traces the lines of my chest. “Did you know that you were the inspiration for my sexual awakening right here on these rocks?”

I throw back my head and bark out a laugh. “What?”

Her cheeks are pink, but she’s got a sly grin on her lips. “I’m serious. I’d never seen a boy up close without a shirt on before you took me cliff jumping that day. I’m lucky I didn’t fall off the cliff, I was so distracted by all your muscles.”

“I should feel cheap, but…”

“But you sort of like that I can’t get enough of you?”

I chuckle low. “Yes, that. And it’s mutual.” I draw my fingertips along her wings and tip her head back to look at me. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Are you ready?” she asks, eyes dancing.

“You jump, I jump, Hennessey.”

Author’s Note

I’ve done a lot of soul-searching as I drafted this book. I’m a classic overthinker, and as an author of books for young people, I take my job very seriously. My intended audience is teens, and that carries a lot of weight—I get to shape hearts as a writer. It’s an incredible feeling. But yeah, I think about that a lot before I set fingers to the keys, and this was a tough one.

I’ve worked with kids and teens all my adult life. And one night, when I was in my early twenties, I co-led a junior high / senior high girls small group (similar to Bible study, but more casual) with a mom of teens. This mom pulled a fast one on me. I don’t recall the topic, but whatever it was, it was not abortion or premarital sex. And that’s what she chose to talk about. She was prepared. She had pictures and articles and materials and eyes full of thundering damnation, and I was … gobsmacked.

She lectured and accused these young girls and, Reader, I was furious. Shaking, sweating, stammering. Jesus flipping tables in the temple had nothing on me. All I could think was what if one of these girls had had an abortion? Or knew someone who’d had an abortion? Or, more likely, had had premarital sex? Or wanted to have premarital sex because that is a normal desire for a hormonal human being?

And what if they went home and cried after that and decided because of those things, because of those gory photos and damning articles written by nobody important, Jesus couldn’t love them?