And Leo just said he loved me. Was he being serious? Did he mean love the way you can say, I love peanut butter cups? Or the real way? Was I supposed to say it back? I like him, yes, so much, but could I say I love him? I mouth the words “I love you,” and it feels fake. Maybe I could mean it in the peanut-butter-cup sense. But it’s too late to respond now, anyway. He said he loved me, and I didn’t say anything, and now we’re on to the sex.

This is happening. I’m about to have sex.

Leo returns. He holds up a foil packet triumphantly. “Okay, let’s do this.”

That’s when I know I can’t do this.

“Actually, let’s not.” I stand up, eager to get off the bed.

His smile fades. “What? What happened?”

“Nothing. I . . .” I choose my next words very carefully. “I just don’t want to go all the way. Not tonight. Okay?”

Now he looks like a little kid who’s opened his Christmas present to discover a sweater. “But why not?”

“I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not. Sorry,” I tack on, and then hate myself for apologizing. I’m not supposed to be sorry. But I am.

Leo’s frowning, but he says, “All right. I don’t want to do it if you don’t want to do it, obviously.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

Silence builds between us. A new song starts pouring out of the speaker, a song I know this time, a slow song by The Weeknd called “Earned It.” Over Leo’s shoulder I read another inspirational Michael Phelps poster. You can’t put a limit on anything. The more you dream, the farther you get.

Leo puts the condom on the bedside table. “So what do you want to do?”

I wouldn’t mind making out some more, but that could send a mixed message. Besides, my lower half is starting to ache, a tight but heavy, decidedly unpleasant feeling, like period cramps. I try to smile at him. “I don’t know. Maybe we could watch something?”

“Sure,” he says dully. “Whatever you want.”

Chapter 2

2

“I thought you were staying at Lucy’s tonight,” Pop says when I come into the kitchen later.

“I just wanted to be home.” Things were awkward with Leo, so awkward that I finally said I wasn’t feeling well—which wasn’t really a lie—and he insisted on walking me to the train station.

“You’re my little homebody,” Pop says now with a smile. Like that’s cute.

My five-year-old sister, Abby, is sitting at the counter coloring while Pop makes dinner. “What’s a homebody?” Abby asks.

Pop continues dicing a stalk of celery. “A homebody is someone who loves to be home more than anywhere else.”