IT BECOMES A regular thing, making out with Dean. We claim the old green couch as our own, turning Legolas around so he won’t witness our sins. We kiss sometimes out in the store too, when we’re feeling daring, when customers are scarce; me sitting up on the counter with my legs wrapped around him so we’re eye to eye. I dream about coming to work, wishing it were more than two days a week, wishing I could live here, could inject it into my veins, let it fill me up from the inside. My heartbeat has a rhythm, has a name: James Dean James Dean James Dean.

“So what are you guys?” Hannah asks, the inevitable question, the question no high school girl can ever resist because we crave labels, need to keep organized when we feel like pieces of ourselves are flying apart.

“Who says we have to be anything?”

We’re in study hall and we’re supposed to be doing French homework, but I have work after school today, so obviously the topic has turned to Dean.

“Well, do you want it to be something?” she asks.

“He hasn’t asked me to hang out again.” I lower my voice to a whisper, like it’s embarrassing to admit to her. “We only ever make out in the store.”

“If he asked you on a date, would you go?”

Truthfully, I’m not sure. A date feels too real. What if he asks me about past relationships? I can’t admit to him I’ve never had a boyfriend, and I obviously can’t tell him I’ve never had sex. Making out in the break room is perfect because we can never go all the way, not at work—it’s wonderful and easy and safe.

Until one day it’s not. We’re on the green couch, my back pressed into the cushions, his body over mine. His hand is tangled in my hair and he nips at my ear, at my neck, at my lips, and then pulls back to look at me.

“I can get used to working like this,” he says, his voice husky.

“Me too,” I say.

There hasn’t been a customer for about fifteen minutes, so we’ve been taking advantage of the extra time in the best way we know how. Thank God for the bell above the door.