“I like your top,” Ruby said lightly. She reached over and fingered the hem of my very plain black tank top. Her hand grazed an inch of bare skin where my shirt had ridden up and it sent electric shocks through my system.

“Fuck it,” I declared, and I launched myself on her like I was diving into a pool for the first time. You just had to go for it and drown if you were going to drown. I didn’t drown. I kissed her and she kissed me back and I felt myself sink into it. After a few breathless moments, I pulled away slightly.

“Thank God,” she breathed, “I didn’t know how to start.”

I laughed and kissed her again and her giggle escaped into the space between our lips, like if kisses had champagne bubbles.

“You know what would really kick this up a gear?” she whispered. With a flourish, she pulled on the handle that released the back of her seat and she flew back with a thud. I couldn’t help laughing, trying to disentangle myself from my seat and climb over the handbrake. I propped myself up over her, head to head, toe to toe, and it stopped being funny. I kissed her gently this time, soft like a question, and she answered by pulling me close. I leaned into her, pressing against her, wanting to feel more of her body against mine than just our lips. My hands found the curves of her hips and her breasts.

When my heart was beating so fast I thought it might break free of my chest and fly away, when our legs intertwined, finding a delicious friction that charged my whole body, when all I could think of was pulling off her top and finding skin to touch and kiss, Ruby broke away, her hand on my chest forcing air between us.

“Do you think the people next to us can see us?” she asked.

I glanced out the window. Just like in the movies, they were steamed up, but I could still see the film was nearly over. Neve Campbell had just thrown a TV on the bad guy’s head.

“Not exactly.”

“Do you think they know we’re . . . ?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“Maybe we should go back to your house,” she said. I felt something lodge in my throat. Did she mean . . . ? (In case you’re wondering, by the ellipsis, I mean sex, but you knew that, right?)

“Uh, sure. Yes.” Had Dad gone out to Beth’s? He’d said he might, but he didn’t have the car, of course. What if she had gone to our house? Why hadn’t I emancipated myself at sixteen and got my own place and decorated it like a romantic boudoir? Past me had absolutely no foresight.