“And was it fun? Did she pick the right one?”

“Yes. He was a perfect gentleman. What about you?”

“Um, I was not exactly a perfect gentleman.”

“What? I don’t believe it. Who was your date?”

“My girlfriend at the time. We’d been together for like a year by then.”

“What was her name?”

“Michelle.”

“Was she your first . . . you know.”

I imagined her pounding a fist into the other palm and laughed. “Hell no. Michelle was a good girl from the Bible Belt, and never let me do anything beneath the clothes. But actually, on prom night, she did finally put her hand down my pants. First girl who ever did.”

She snickered. “Was it everything you dreamed it would be?”

“Yes and no. First of all, I came almost immediately, all over her hand and my rented tuxedo pants, after which she burst into tears. Second, she felt so guilty about it, she told her mom, who then told my mom, who told my dad, and he had to come give me a talk about how to respect girls.”

By that point Sylvia was gasping with laughter. “Oh no!”

“It was horrible. And my brothers were outside my room laughing their asses off.”

“I bet. So whatever happened with Michelle?”

“I think we broke up right after that. She had trouble looking me in the eye after I jizzed all over her fingers. Frankly, I think she was surprised by the whole episode. I’m not sure she knew that was going to happen.”

“Poor Michelle. Traumatized for life.”

“It’s possible.”

She sighed. “I should let you go.” Silence. “But I don’t want to.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Are you in bed?” she asked, her voice a little softer, more seductive.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.”

I waited, holding my breath.

“If I put my hand in your pants, would you immediately come all over my fingers?” she asked, which could have been sexy if she hadn’t burst out laughing right afterward.

I groaned. “That’s just mean.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her giggles subsiding. “I couldn’t resist.”

“I’ve learned to control myself—somewhat—since then, thank you very much.”

“I know you have.” She’d stopped laughing entirely. “And I think about it all the time.”

My throat was dry. “I do too.”

“And now I really need to let you go, or else I’m going to say things I shouldn’t.”

“Me too.” With the space of more than half the country between us, it seemed safe to admit it. “God, Sylvia. It just doesn’t get any easier. I keep waiting and waiting for it to ease up, but . . . I still want you. Maybe even more than before.”

“I know. I want you too.”

But what we wanted didn’t matter, and saying it out loud wasn’t going to help.