I look back at him, trying to gauge how much shit he’s giving me, if he’s really shutting me out of the joke again. But then he smiles, and impulse brings me in for more kisses, sliding my hands inside his open coat, around his waist, into the back pockets of his jeans, hardly able to believe I get to touch him like this, know the pattern of his ribs—too easy to find—the few scattered moles on his chest.

We leave, passing my jack-o’-lantern, first in line. Ours, I mean. Mine, Sage’s. And Bree’s.

Fifteen

I DON’T KNOW what to do.

A dam’s burst, letting all the consequences through, sweeping away my floaty, spinning feelings, leaving nothing but this roaring in my ears. I’m practically silent on the walk back, searching for words—don’t take this wrong, but—can we not—at least, not in front of—but it’s impossible, the idea of pushing him away, turning him down when we’re so new, just born together.

I’m sick with the thought of Bree, flat-out nauseous by the time we reach the park. Everyone’s here, like they heard a rumor that we were handing out free Fireball or something. Bree’s talking with Sage, Trace, and Moon. She doesn’t notice us coming out of the trees, doesn’t look over until she hears leaves crunching beneath our sneakers. I’m quick to split off from him, and now who’s in the killing jar, beating their wings as everything goes dark?

“Hope you’re ready for this,” Bree says to me. “Trace wants to pull another one.” But her heat-seeking gaze follows Kincaid, watching him get on his board and do a couple slow laps to warm up. I force myself to look anywhere but at him. We didn’t cheat. There’s nothing to cheat on. But still.

Trace shows Sage something on his phone, and I take in all the details: how she sits with her hip pressed against his, their shoulders touching, things that were just vaguely discomfiting PDA before, but now, over the span of one afternoon, I can so totally understand, and envy. What I did in the woods with Kincaid was the farthest I’ve ever gone, a giant leap from that first, chaste little kiss freshman year, with the boy who only dated me because he knew it couldn’t last.

“There’s a crapload of stuff you can do to a car like that.” Trace grins. “Crack picked the wrong ride.” He points his phone at each of us. “You’ll get a text letting you know when. We’ve got to change up the day we hit, so there’s no pattern. Human brains want a pattern. We want them scared.” Two skaters, underclassmen, stray close to our spot, and Trace stares them down until they move on.

“What’s the plan?” I say.