My mind flashes to the last time I was in this position, a boy on top of me pressing me into a mattress strewn with flowers; how I felt more alive than I ever expected to feel with a boy who was just a friend, only a friend.

Dean reaches out toward my underwear and I pull away from him.

“Let me get a condom.” I sit up, feeling light-headed at the rush of it, and bend over to find my purse.

“You brought a condom?” he asks.

I reach into my purse and rummage around, cursing myself for not cleaning the junk out of it before I took it to prom. It’s still littered with old tissues, gum wrappers, and ticket stubs from movies I went to see months ago, and somehow the condom has gotten lost in the mess.

“If you can’t find it, no biggie,” Dean says. “I’ve got a bunch.”

“I’ve got it.” I dump the purse upside down onto the bed, and everything tumbles out, a tube of lipstick that my mom made me bring, my phone, a cracked pair of sunglasses, and the little square wrapper. I reach out for it but my hand stops on something else—a white cardboard square, rough around the edges. I flip it over and my breath hitches. It’s a card, one I don’t remember getting, one I must have been carrying around in my bag and never noticed. It has a Ninja Turtle drawn on it in Sharpie, a bunch of silly cartoon hearts. And then, in Andrew’s scratchy writing: Happy Birthday. I love you more than pizza.

It’s just like the valentine he sent to Danielle so many years ago, back in middle school. The one she didn’t understand. What is this doing here? When did he slip it into my bag? Why hasn’t he said anything? Did he make this for me?

“Did you find it?” Dean asks, coming up behind me and resting his head on my shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

“It’s nothing,” I say, closing my hand around the card. I don’t want him to see it, because even if I don’t understand it, it’s wonderful and private and mine.

I love you more than pizza.