My grade-obsessed brain is screaming at me. I have a 98.7% in this class. I can’t afford to fall behind. I’m in a neck-and-neck race with Derek Morrison for valedictorian, and that bastard is relentless.
But every time I try to focus, I see Harper’s face. Hear her voice. Tonight.
I check my phone: 5:01 p.m.
The numbers blur together, meaningless symbols mocking my complete inability to focus on anything except the memory of Harper’s voice when she said it.
That husky whisper. The condom she’d been holding.
Tonight.
My pulse kicks up just thinking about it.
“Getting a lot done, honey?” Mom breezes past with another tray of cookies, flour dusting her apron.
I jerk up in my seat, adjusting my position. This is wrong on so many levels—fighting a hard-on while Mom pulls fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies from the oven and musses my hair like I’m still five years old.
“Yeah, Mom.” I yank away from her touch, reaching for my water bottle instead. If I’m drinking, I don’t have to think about her and Harper existing in the same universe. The same house. The same sentence in my brain.
“Cookie?” She holds out two warm ones, already plated.
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “Thanks.”
Mom’s smile doesn’t waver even though she looks a little tired. I frown, trying to remember if she worked yesterday. She sleeps in after late nights working. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m sleeping fine. You don’t always have to worry about me, you know? Iamthe parent here. Take the cookies. Harper would love these, I bet. She has such a sweet tooth.”
She bustles toward the stairs, and I force myself to breathe. Maybe the dining room table was a tactical error. Too exposed. Too many potential interruptions.
I glance at my phone. 5:02 p.m.
Are you kidding me?
I Google “sunset time today.” 6:44 p.m. Which means I have nearly two hours to sit here, slowly losing my mind.
Where am I supposed to meet her? Her room? My room? The bathroom again?
My stomach clenches. Does she expect me to just...know? Is there some unspoken protocol I’m supposed to understand? She’s probably done this a hundred times. She knows exactly how these things work.
And me?
I’ve done… ya know, somestuffwith girls. I’m not completely clueless. But I’ve been focused on other things—debate tournaments, college apps, keeping my grades flawless. The handful of experiences I’ve had were... brief. Fumbling. Nothing that would have prepared me fortonight.
Forher.
What if I disappoint her? What if she realizes I’m just the Boy Scout she called me that first day—all talk and no actual experience? What if?—
Stop. I need to move. Need to do something before I spiral completely.
“I’ll be at the library, Mom!” I call, already grabbing my keys.
“Have fun, honey!” she calls after me, but I’m already out the door.
The library is quiet.Too quiet. My footsteps echo as I make my way past the help desk, past the study carrels where a few students huddle over textbooks.
I know where I’m going even if I don’t want to admit it.
The romance section sits in the back corner, mostly ignored except by middle-aged women and apparentlyone desperate eighteen-year-old trying not to completely humiliate himself tonight.