Having sex with Nick would probably be a mistake. But maybe I want to make a mistake. A huge mistake. A mind-bending, colossal, unmistakable mistake, a mistake that means I’m alive and I am a human teenage girl and I am fallible and back off, everyone. I am not a fucking square!

“I did mean it,” I say, louder than I mean to. “I’m sixteen, and I feel like I’ve never done anything remotely risky or exciting, and it feels like everyone around me is doing things, and—well, I won’t get into the details of what they’re doing, but—I want to do things. I want to feel something besides guilt, I guess, and what do I have to even be so guilty about? Nothing. I refuse to feel guilty about the things other people do. I want to do things. I want to feel things. Yes. Yes, I meant it. I do. Mean it. Yes.”

“Wow. That’s a lot to unpack,” Nick says. “But I agree.”

I glance over at him. “You do?”

“Well, I didn’t understand all of that, but what I did get, I agree with. My life is super boring, if I’m being honest. I keep thinking, is this it? Seriously? This is my life?”

I start nodding compulsively. “Exactly.”

“I want to do things!” he says.

“So you want to have sex,” I confirm.

It’s dark, but I get the sense that he’s turning red. “Yes,” he says. “I meant it, too. At first I said yes because that’s what came out of my mouth the second you asked—knee-jerk reaction, or whatnot. But I’ve been thinking about it for the past hour, and yeah. Yes. That’s an affirmative.”

Now it’s my turn. “Why?”

“I’m a sixteen-year-old boy,” he explains.

“Happy birthday, by the way.”

“Thanks. Anyway, sex occupies like seventy-eight percent of my thoughts these days.” He sees my expression and adds, “But it should be special, right? With the right girl. At the right place. And what could be better than Hawaii?”

There it is again, that word. Special. But I feel fluttery inside, actual physical arousal, all my lady parts revving up just talking about having sex. This sort of thing is obviously not restricted to boys. I want to have sex. With Nick Kelly, the runaway beanpole kid.

And here I thought Leo was the miracle.

“And you think I’m the right girl?” I ask slowly, taking that in.

“Well, I know you,” Nick says. “I’ve always liked you.”

So who’s unfuckable now? Not me. And not Nick.

“I like you, too,” I say lightly. I’d quantify it as much as I like peanut butter cups. Or almost. “But it doesn’t have to be a relationship, right? I mean, we only see each other like once a year. It could be casual.”