“I’m not you, Afton!” I burst out before she can get fully into the big-sister lecture on changing my perspective. “I’m not . . .”

Perfect is the word I don’t say, the word that sticks in my mouth, because I know Afton won’t like that. Perfect people hate to be called out on being perfect. Because being perfect isn’t perfect. A perfect person needs to have just the right amount of flaws.

“What?” Afton’s eyes become ice. “A slut? Is that what you’re about to say?”

“No!” I say immediately, shocked. I’ve been taught never to say slut. The word feels dangerous in my head. “No. I did not say that.”

“It seems like you were about to say it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“That’s not fair.” Now Afton’s cheeks are each stained with a blotch of nearly neon pink. She stands up and starts to pace. “It’s not like I’m promiscuous, Ada. Yes, I’ve been with three guys in two years. And yes, the first two were big mistakes—you don’t even know—but that’s why I’ve been trying to tell you that you aren’t ready for—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I’m ready for,” I interject. “I’m not like you,” I say again.

Afton turns to face me. “How are you not like me? Enlighten me.”

I scoff. She’s got to be kidding me. “I mean, outside of the obvious differences. Everything always works out for you. That’s not me. I have to think things through first. I did think this through. And tonight with Leo, it was going to be the one part of my life that I did right. This wasn’t the same as hooking up with a stranger in a garage, or some rando boy at a party because you had too many wine coolers.”

Afton stares at me silently for a minute. “Well, I’m sorry your plan to be better than me didn’t work out the way you wanted it to.”

She stalks off toward the house.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say, too late for Afton to hear. I shiver.

The fire has burned out.

Chapter 8

8

All day I replay our first conversation, from when Leo and I met, about a million times in my head. How I recognized him. How I went up and asked him if it was weird being his mom’s muse. How I told him that I was an artist, too, and he seemed genuinely interested. Because of course he did. Leo, if nothing else, knows how to deal with artists.

Then after we talked for a while, he asked, “So do you know my mom?”