“I like her.” I pick up her picture, standing it vertically on the dresser as if it has little legs. “Hi, Dean,” I say in a high-pitched voice, wiggling the picture to make it talk. “You should clean your room. It’s a mess.” I’m surprising myself, acting silly like this. I’ve been so reserved in front of Dean so far, so nervous, like every interaction between us is a test I need to pass. Maybe it’s the sips of whiskey working their way through me, warming me from my chest to my toes. Maybe it’s the change in location. I’m so very aware of his bed only a few feet away from us. We’ve never been truly alone before, not like this. I wonder briefly if he locked the door when we came in. I didn’t notice.

“I shouldn’t be drinking in front of my mom,” he says, picking up the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “She wouldn’t approve.” He takes a sip anyway and then hands it over to me.

“Well, then I probably shouldn’t drink either. I want to make a good impression on her.”

He puts a hand over her face, shielding her eyes. “Coast is clear.”

I giggle, feeling light and airy. Then, horribly, I snort. I feel heat flood through me. Snorting in front of my friends is one thing, but this is James Dean. I have always tried so hard to limit my awkward bodily noises in front of boys.

“Did you just snort?”

“Nope,” I say, and then take a drink from the bottle. “So what do you say when you talk to them? The pictures.”

“If you don’t snort, then I don’t talk to pictures,” he answers, grinning. He runs a hand through his dark mess of hair and I watch it enviously.

“Fine,” I say. “I may have snorted. What do you say?”

“Give me another drink first.”

I hand him the bottle and he takes a sip, smacking his lips dramatically when he’s done. Then he puts it back on the dresser and picks up the picture of his mom. He clears his throat and then winks at me. Winking is usually something people do in cheesy movies, but seeing James Dean, a normal, cute, definitely-not-cheesy guy, wink at me makes it feel new, like he’s the one who invented it.

He grins, looking at me and then down at the picture of his mom. For a moment—just a flash—I’m filled with embarrassment that I asked him to do something so silly, so awkward and personal. Why did I think this was a good idea? Then he begins to speak and my anxiety melts away at the warm, easy tone in his voice. He isn’t embarrassed. Of course he isn’t.