“Dean.” I move my head to the side so he’s forced to kiss the soft skin of my neck. I shiver at the contact and turn my head, giving in for just a second. But then I force myself to pull away. “Dean, we’re in a car.”

I don’t know what to say or what to do. How can I explain to him that I don’t want my first time to be here in this car without admitting it’s my first time?

“That’s okay,” he says. “No one will see us.”

“That’s not the point. I want to be with you,” I say, wishing I didn’t sound so much like I was begging. “I do, just not here. Not tonight. It’s Tuesday, it’s not . . .”

“I want to be with you too,” he says. “When is it going to be the right time?”

“At prom!” The words tumble out of me before I’ve had time to process them.

He tilts his head to the side, a grin spreading across his face. “At prom?”

“Yeah. My school is having a prom, June twelfth. It’s kind of stupid but it might be really nice, you know, for us to go.” My voice is shaking. I’m kind of horrified that I’ve asked him, but also kind of thrilled. Going to prom with Dean might actually make prom exciting. An image flashes into my mind suddenly—Dean and me on the dance floor, his arms around my waist in front of everyone—and it sends a rush of adrenaline through me.

“So you want me to be your prom date.” He’s smiling openly now. “You’re one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“You’re a romantic.” He reaches his pointer finger up to tap me gently on the nose. “You’re a Bridget Jones girl. You’re an Affair to Remember. You’re an Audrey, not a Marilyn.”

“What does that mean?” I’ve seen the movies he’s referencing, but I’ve never particularly liked any of them. There’s not enough blood. Dean is the one who quotes Casablanca.

“You want the top of the Empire State Building, crying into your ice cream because you can’t face your feelings, love can cure cancer kind of thing,” he says. “I had you all wrong.”

“I don’t want to cry into anything.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, reaching over and taking my hand. His fingers are rough and warm. “I think it’s adorable. Let’s go to prom.”

“Okay,” I say, feeling an excited fluttering of nerves in my chest, the deadline of June twelfth looming only two months away. Because I know what this really means; what he’s really asking me, what I’m really agreeing to. Prom like promise.

“I should get inside,” I say. “It’s late.”