“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I say, because I need to fill the silence.

“No problem,” he says. Then he breaks into a smile and I can see the joke forming behind his eyes. “I’ll come with you all night.”

I try to laugh, but I feel a bit dizzy and the sound doesn’t come out quite right. I can still hear the thumping bass of the music coming from downstairs, but everything is muffled. Dean reaches over and takes my hand in his and I remember when that feeling, his skin on mine, was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I want that feeling back.

“Are you having a good time?” I ask, trying to stall.

“I’m having a good time now,” he says. “Now that we’re alone.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, resting his warm palm against my cheek. “This is what prom is about, isn’t it? You and me? It’s not about that other shit. That other shit is what we have to deal with to get to this.”

“That other shit—those are my friends.”

“Are they, Keely? Are you sure? You’re better than that.”

Sometimes it feels like Dean is telling me things he wants to be true, not things that actually are. What makes me any better than the other girls at school? Why me, Dean? Is it just because I’m a challenge?

An image flashes through my mind of Andrew and Danielle dancing downstairs, wrapped up in each other, his hands gripping her like he’s scared she’ll float away. That’s what Andrew wants. So this is what I want. It has to be.

And maybe it’s better like this. I wanted to get my first time out of the way with someone I didn’t have feelings for. Now here we are. The girls who have it right are the ones like Ava—who sleep with whoever they want just because they want to. You can’t shame girls for liking sex just because you don’t, Andrew said to me once. And he’s wrong, because I can like casual sex too. So what if he’s about to have a moment, if he waited for the girl he loves? I’ve waited long enough.

Dean uses our clasped hands to pull me closer on the bed and I let him, leaning over to kiss him like it’s everything that I want. His breath tastes like champagne and risotto, and the smell of his aftershave wraps me up. I’m trying to find the feeling I once had while kissing him—trying to find the swoop in my stomach. But it isn’t there. His tongue is just a tongue—slimy and wet. The stubble on his face feels scratchy against my cheek.