Zack said that night when he crawled in my window. “You were so nervous. You were sweating.” “But you don’t think she caught on, do you?” I asked. I was sitting on my bed in a tank top and the girlie boxers I wore as pajamas. “No way,” he said. “She has no idea.” I sighed and closed my eyes. Inside I tuned to the relief channel, but quickly switched to the guilt channel and back to relief and then guilt again. I hadn’t been able to get Jules out of my head. The worst part was how badly I wanted to share with her what was happening to me. I wanted to tell her how I wasn’t doing that thing that I do with guys, making mental notes of who had called or texted whom last, always keeping score and trying to stay on top. I wasn’t planning out what I would say to Zack in advance or practicing lines that I thought might make him like me more. I was just being me. I wanted to tell her how I was actually enjoying making out, not just because it reassured me that a guy liked and wanted me, but because it felt good.
