I try to imagine a part of my body tearing. I’m not even sure that’s what really happens down there, or what the point is. The most I know about the hymen is that it’s named after the Greek god of marriage. That’s seriously messed up. I begin to feel nervous again. What is my tolerance for pain?

“It’s normal pain, though, right?” I say. “Everybody has sex.”

“Not everybody,” says Afton faintly.

“Right. Not old people.”

Afton stifles a laugh. “I think old people do occasionally have sex, Ada.”

“Stop. You’re ruining it.”

Afton grabs my hand. She’s being uncharacteristically serious about this all of a sudden. “All I’m saying is, you can wait, if you want.”

I pull my hand away. “What, you don’t think I’m mature enough?” This is something we argue about a lot, whether I’m “old enough” to do certain things that Afton does.

Afton sighs. “You’re not immature. You’re just sixteen, and—”

“But you think you were more mature when you were sixteen.”

“I think my first time was a mistake,” Afton says softly.

I stare at her. “You do?”

“Come on, it was ridiculous,” Afton admits. “It was in a garage. It wasn’t romantic or sweet or special. And my second time, I—” She gets that look like she tastes something terrible. “Sometimes I want to have a long talk with sixteen-year-old me and tell her to make better choices.”

“But you still have sex with Logan,” I say.

Afton’s blue eyes cloud over in a way that makes me think maybe sex with Logan isn’t so great, either. “Yes.”

“Is that a mistake?”

“No. But that’s because I know Logan, and—”

“And I know Leo. We’ve been dating for six months.”

“Wait, isn’t it more like five months?” Afton asks.

“The point is, this is a fine choice.” I fold the wine-colored shirt and the jean shorts carefully and set them on top of my dresser for tomorrow. “It’s my choice. I’m choosing to have sex. With my boyfriend. Who I . . . really like. In a bed. Not in a garage.”

“Okay, fine.” Afton starts flipping through my shirts again, even though we already chose the one I would wear. Her movements are brisk, jerky. Upset again.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” She smiles tightly. Subtext: it’s not fine, but she doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I’m happy for you,” she says.

But she doesn’t sound very happy.

Chapter 5

5