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I shiver. I need more of her. She feels amazing. She tastes amazing. I sweep my tongue along her bottom lip without breaking our kiss. Her hand slides up my waist. I want to feel her touch under my shirt. I want to be under her.

The sound of the front door opening reaches my room, and we both go still. I hear everyone calling out their goodbyes as a few people leave the party.

Becca pulls back to look at me, and her eyes go from hooded and hungry to round and terrified in a matter of seconds.

“Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

“Becca—”

Before I can ask her what the hell she’s sorry for, or even really process what’s going on, she’s pushing off the bed and jumping to her feet.

“Fucking hell, how did I let that happen? Oh my god.”

“Becca, wait.”

She covers her face with her hands and starts breathing so hard I’m scared she’s hyperventilating.

“Becca.” Half my brain is still lost in the kiss, but I force myself to stand up too. “Becca, it’s okay.”

“No, no, no.” She drops her hands and looks at me while shaking her head. “It’s not okay. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You didn’t do anything.” I keep my voice soft. “We kissed.”

She winces, and it hits me like a punch to the stomach.

“That was a mistake. Just...I can’t...I have to go. I have to go now.”

She gives me one last frantic, haunted look and then leaves the room before I can get another word in.

I don’t chase after her. My feet won’t move. All I can do is stand there and let that word sink in.

Mistake.

I can feel the blunt weight of it slamming into me over and over again. Whatever that kiss was, it was not a mistake. I will never be able to call something so incredible a mistake.

Even if she can.

7

Becca

I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. Last night was worse than anything I did in freshman year—not because it was anywhere near as catastrophic, but because I knew just how catastrophic it could be, and I did it anyway.

I did it again.

I kissed somebody I shouldn’t have kissed. I laid the only thing that’s ever really felt like a family to me on the line just so I could make out with a hot girl.

I roll over on my side in bed and pull my pillow out from under my head. I squish it down over my face to block out all the protesting thoughts, but it doesn’t work.

Last night wasn’t just about making out with a hot girl. It wasn’t like that with Lisa, and it wasn’t like that with Hope, either. This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if that was all it was about.

I press the pillow hard enough over my face to groan into the fabric without the entire house hearing. I let everything out in a long burst of frustration and rage. Then I do that again. And again.

By the third venting session, I feel better enough to sit up.

It’s late, judging by how much light is streaming in through my curtains. I can’t remember the last time I woke up later than the sunrise. I spent the summer in Halifax, working at one of the school’s labs and doing some part time hours at a kayak expedition booking office downtown. I only started work at nine, but I still kept up my usual sleep schedule.

I check the clock on my bedside table and see it’s just past nine now. I’m not sure when I fell asleep. It feels like I spent the whole night lying flat on my back, paralyzed by the constant replay of just how badly I fucked up with Hope.