“Like those dots you put in front of things when you’re making a to-do list.” I would continue to explain, but then I catch on that he’s messing with me. I smack his knee with my bullet journal, and he laughs. Then I flip it open. “So, wiseass, the plan.”

THE PLAN, I write across the top of the page. At the same time, my mind spins, searching for how this is even going to be possible, now that Aunt Flo has arrived. Today is out, for sure.

Nick leans over to read what I wrote. “Shouldn’t it say, the sex plan? We don’t want it getting mixed up with any of the other plans you’ve got written in that thing.”

I snort, but put in a little ^ and print the word SEX between the words THE and PLAN. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

His voice is quieter. I glance over at him again. His mischievous smile is gone. His face is even paler than usual. He looks scared.

Like how I felt with Leo, maybe.

I don’t want to think about Leo.

“I think we should start with where this supposed sex is going to take place. Not my room,” I add quickly. “I can’t—” My mind chooses this moment to revisit the image of the white robe. The dark hotel room. I gulp in a breath. “I can’t have sex where my mom or my sisters sleep. That would be too weird.”

“All right.” Nick nods thoughtfully. “How about—”

“Not the beach. And not a pool.”

“That would be a little public, don’t you think?” Nick’s ears are turning pink.

“Agreed. We need somewhere private.”

“Like my room,” Nick says.

I frown. “What about your dad?”

“I have my own room.”

I gasp. “Spoiled!”

He shrugs. “The conference pays for two rooms. There are only two people in my family. One of the perks.”

“So your room it is, then,” I say. “What room number is that?”

“407.”

I write that down. “But it has to be neat, okay?” I think about Afton’s first time, in that boy’s garage, next to the washing machine. “I refuse to do it next to a pile of dirty socks.”

Nick scoffs. “Do you think I’m a slob?”

“Um, no.” I try not to look at the stain on his shirt, or how it’s half tucked into his shorts. Or the general disarray of his hair. “Next question,” I say briskly. “When?”

“Well, we could—”

“I’m not going to be ready for at least three days,” I say quickly. Thankfully, my periods are fairly short. Three days should do it. I hope.

“What, do we need to take a class first?” He smirks.

“I need to prepare.” I need to recover from my body betraying me.

“Three days from now is Saturday,” he says. “So, Saturday?”

“Sure.”

“What time? Do you have a preference for morning or afternoon?”