Your mom is a worrier.” Paul says. We’re still in bed. We’ve had sex two more times and it’s starting to get late. I don’t think I have a fourth one in me. I’m exhausted. “Welcome to my adolescence,” I say. I don’t want him to go. I love sleeping in his warm, safe arms. But he’s right. My parents—especially my mom—don’t know how to mind their own business. They also have a bad habit of showing up places without being invited or calling first. Might look bad if they show up in the morning and find his truck in my designated parking spot after he didn’t come back to the house last night. He kisses me before he leaves. I want to tell him I love him again before he goes, but I’m not entirely comfortable just throwing those words around. They weigh a ton and mean everything to me. My neighbors are outside again, watching him leave. It’s late and they’re all in their pajamas, holding cups of coffee.
