Oh god, I’m thinking about my mother. I squirm, and Leo pulls back. His face is so red it makes his eyebrows stand out against his skin, like furry caterpillars clinging to his forehead. It’s distracting.

“You’re beautiful,” he mumbles.

“You too,” I say automatically, and blush so hard it feels like my cheeks and neck have been scalded. Leo keeps kissing me and touching me, and I’m totally into it. At least my body is. My lower half seems to be transforming into hot liquid. There’s a knot of sensation building between my legs. But the further along we get, the closer to the actual sex that’s going to be happening any minute now, the more weirdly disconnected I feel. To the point where I can almost slip out of my body and float over us. See myself from the outside.

I’m wearing a red Harry Potter shirt from last year’s trip to Orlando. It reads “9¾” on the front. It’s childish—I can see that so clearly now—and unflattering, a size too big for me, because I prefer loose-fitting clothes. Leo is pulling this shirt up, exposing my very white, not-very-flat belly, and underneath he discovers a gray sports bra, which confounds him because it doesn’t have any kind of hook or clasp. My mind whirls trying to remember what panties I’m wearing. Hopefully not the plain white cotton with the hole in the butt, which I should have thrown away months ago, but they’re the most comfortable pair I own. Shit. It’s probably those. My hair is tangled around my head. My chest heaves behind the sports bra, which is dark in places, because I’m so sweaty.

From this vantage point, the one in my imagination—seeing as how my eyes are actually squeezed shut—I know I’m not beautiful. Leo only said that to try to make me feel sexy. So I would want to have sex.

I do want to have sex, don’t I?

Yes, I tell myself. Relax. This is fine.

But then Leo’s hand is on the button of my shorts, and my upper half turns to ice. Wait, I think. Wait, and then I almost knock heads with him as I try to sit up.

He examines my face. “Hey. Are you okay?”

I swipe at a strand of hair that’s clinging damply to my cheek. “I’m good. Sorry. Can we just take it slower?”

He nods. “Of course. Whatever you want.”