The image of Timothy’s contorted face, his eyes bulging and the vein in his neck popping out as he collapsed on top of me flashed in my mind and I immediately felt my shoulders drop from my ears. I almost started laughing, too. If anyone had been inhabited by the Devil this night, it was surely him, in that moment, with that wild face.

Then I thought about Ruthie. I needed to find her. I needed to tell her everything. Every. Single. Detail. I couldn’t wait to see her face—how excited she’d be for me, how we’d laugh together about what a big deal we both made it. It really doesn’t hurt, I’d tell her, assuaging my own concern. I did kind of feel like a different person—but in the same way you might after a milestone birthday. Nothing has actually changed, it’s just another day, but I felt oddly wiser. Like I finally had an experience Ruthie didn’t. I had something she could ask me about.

I turned and walked out the door through which I’d entered. I wasn’t sure if Timothy had seen me, but I didn’t care. First stop was the bathroom—peeing was either supposed to prevent STDs or UTIs or pregnancy, I didn’t remember which, but I wanted none of those. Second stop was Ruthie.

Torches lit a long path from the barn toward what looked like some kind of pool house—a small structure beside the covered pool with a kitchen and bathroom inside. It had started snowing—the thick kind of flakes that melt the second they touch the earth—and when I reached the pool house door I leaned my head into the sky, feeling the snow land gently on my face before turning into water.

As I twisted the doorknob, I felt familiar hands wrap around me. “Where have you beeeeen!” Ruthie sang, her head bobbing around mine, her breath sour in my ear.

She pushed me into the pool house bathroom and was sitting over the toilet, pants off, before I could even lock the door. “Oh my gosh, I have so much to tell you.” She tried to speak over her river of pee, but it came out as shouts. I was sure everyone within five miles could hear us.

“I hooked up with one of the guys—the one with the brown hair, the super freaking hot one. Oh my God, he’s so hot. It was so hot.” She wiped and stood and zipped and went to the sink, repeating how hot he is, how great of a kisser he is, how she wants to see him again.

I listened impatiently, not remembering whether there was a time limit for how close to sex you have to pee for it to work. Two minutes? Five minutes?