He pushes his hair out of his eyes, smiling in a bashful way. “My dad made me watch this video about consent. The whole idea is that having sex is like having a cup of tea. It’s a British video.”

“Obviously.” I press my lips together to keep from laughing at this.

“My dad’s very British,” Nick explains. “He adores tea metaphors of all types.”

I know his dad is British. He strongly resembles John Oliver, I think, with his dark hair and eyes and his round glasses. Today is the first time I’ve noticed, though, that Nick has the tiniest bit of an English accent himself—an occasional softness around how he pronounces his R’s. Like in the way he just said adores.

I tap my pen against the sketchbook. “So, giving us possible cuddling time, and factoring in that the dinner’s going to be at the Palace Tower lawn, which is fairly close to here, I’d say we could get to your room and be back in an hour. The awards dinner usually takes like two and a half hours, at least, so that should give us plenty of time. We could even stagger our coming and going, so no one would know we were together.”

“Again, not a crime, us being together.” Nick sounds mildly offended. “And now I’m starting to wonder if you’re doing this out of some weird sort of nerd pity.”

“I’m not.” If I am being honest with myself, I’ll admit that I don’t completely understand why I’m doing it. There are a lot of possibilities, as I’ve mentioned: revenge, distraction, physical comfort. Maybe I want to prove something to Afton. Or I want to prove something to myself because of Afton. But when I think about her finding out, or, even worse, Mom finding out, I know I don’t want to have that conversation. Because if we talk about me having sex, that would lead, inevitably, to talking about the sex my mother is having.

So I don’t want anyone to know.

“It’s complicated, but no, I don’t pity you,” I say. “Sorry. I’m all out of fucks to give about the poor unfortunate nerds of the world. Or maybe I do have a fuck to give.”

Wow. I actually said that. Again, it feels like an alien has taken over.

Nick barks a laugh. Now his ears are a bright, fire-engine red. “Okay, good. Just so we’re clear about our motivation.”

“So we’re set.” I close the sketchbook. “Saturday night. Let’s say eight o’clock-ish? Room 407. I’ll see you then.”

I start to get up.

“Wait,” Nick says. Now he’s really flustered. He takes a breath and lets it out. “Don’t we need protection?”