She looks at me then, tilting her head and scrunching her nose. It’s the look that means she’s worried—a look that’s special for me, that I’ve never seen her direct toward anyone else.

“Just come home early,” she says with a sigh. “You need a good night’s sleep.”

Just a year ago, my mom would have insisted I stay in. But I know she’s thinking about next year—how there are only three months until I leave for California and then we’ll both be on our own. Three months until she and Dad won’t be there to care for me when I’m sick. I know she’s trying to prepare me for that; trying to prepare herself.

She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Don’t stay out too late.”

The doorbell rings downstairs and I jump.

“Who are you getting pizza with?” she asks, turning to leave the room.

“Wait!” I say, my tone more panicked than I intended. “It’s no one. I’ll get it.” I brush past her and run down the stairs. I can’t believe I didn’t think about my parents being here when I gave him my address.

But when I open the front door, it’s not James Dean on the other side.

It’s Andrew.

His hair is wet from the shower and he’s in his favorite T-shirt, the one with WORLD’S OKAYEST GUITAR PLAYER written on the front. I feel paralyzed when I see him, and immediately the events of last night flash through my head—his naked chest, the look in his eyes when he took off my shirt, my bra, my pants. I can still feel him on top of me, can still feel the memory of his lips on mine.

I realize I’ve been staring and I try to find my voice.

“Hi.” It comes out as a squeak.

“Can I come in?”

My mom comes up behind me. “Andrew! Of course you can come in. You know you never have to ask.” She ushers him through the door, and we all walk into the den. Andrew and I take a seat on either end of the couch—as far away from each other as possible. My mom stands at the door, watching us.

“Mom, can we have a sec?” I ask.

“Of course. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” She leaves the room, turning once to study us before she’s gone.

“Hey,” he says when we’re alone.

“Hey,” I say.

And then we both say it at the same time, our voices overlapping: “I’m sorry.”

It feels good once it’s out. Like I can finally breathe.