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The kiss is short. It’s a test—he wants to know how receptive I am. When I don’t scowl or bonk his head in protest, he comes in for a second, this one slower. His thumbs massage my jawline, working my mouth open so he can taste the lingering mint. I feel sticky and germy, but sitting in his lap, my knees braced around his thighs, I can’t find it in me to care. The engine’s hum is a pleasant white noise—the only sound cutting through our quiet breaths.

One of his hands traces the strap of my tank top as I try valiantly to match his intensity. It’s my second time making out, but my body reacts like it’s been through this scenario countless times. I’m instinctively inclining my head and leaving pecks around his mouth. I grow used to my upper lip being licked in light flits and my lower being nipped. I’m feeling less like I’m swallowing his mouth at the tail end of a lingering kiss.

Part of me wishes I could move my hands so I can put them wherever I want. Another part of me likes that I can’t.

Aaron’s fingers curl into my hair and tug, arching my head, exposing the curve of my shoulder. He plants a kiss under my jawline, then drags his lips down, leaving another lower on my neck. The feeling is electric—each kiss sizzles my skin, and it’s intense enough that I nearly flinch. When I feel a long, slow sweep of his tongue, I bite on my lips to keep from gasping theatrically.

“Too much?” he asks.

“I…I probably taste like salty sweat,” I complain.

“All I taste is sugar.” He bites my tank top strap and drags it down until it’s dangling off my shoulder. “A bit of spice, too.” He closes his teeth around the arch of my neck, just enough to send shivers squirming up my spine, then tacks on, “Ah. There’s the pinch of salt.”

“You talk too much,” I snip, and Aaron laughs, his breath unfurling against my skin. Then he’s really kissing my neck, using every feature of his mouth—lips, tongue, teeth—and the sheer deliberateness of his movements is almost more intoxicating than the actual kissing. My eyes flutter shut, and my fingers curl up against the back of the headrest. I don’t have any other flashbacks, but I also don’t mind.

Aaron kisses me for a while, but even after my energy peters out, I’m reluctant to leave. I stay rooted in his lap, curled up sideways against his chest, my head resting in the scoop of his neck. I tell him I stopped by the university I’m enrolled at, where I ran into Amy Choi, and that I was pleasantly surprised by how cozy and bright it was. He tells me his dads are going out of town for a weekend next month, and that he wants to re-create our first “sleepover” date.

“You already slept at my place,” I point out.

“But we’ll be truly alone,” he responds, grabbing my wrist—now freed from its containment under the headrest—and pulling it into my lap. I don’t realize until then that I’ve been nibbling on my finger. “No parents or siblings to walk in on us. And it’ll be planned, rather than a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

The idea of intentionally spending the night alone with him causes my heart to lurch.

Eventually, he walks me to my door with my belongings (including my giant stuffed duck), apologizes for the hickeys layering my neck, kisses me once more, and heads home. By the time I make it inside, my hair is suspiciously frazzled, my lips are swollen, and my clothes are in disarray. I’m in higher spirits than usual, because today was fun. I guess.

I don’t anticipate anyone will still be awake, what with it being after eleven o’clock.

But they’re all sitting here, waiting for me.

The first thing I notice is that this place is a mess. Paper plates, crumpled napkins, and Solo cups litter the countertops, which are stained with liquid and food crumbs. Foldout tables and chairs are propped around the living room, each adorned with playing cards, and empty beer bottles are stacked behind the kitchen sink. Dad is shoving them into a white garbage bag while Mom is sprawled on the couch, massaging her temples. Logan haphazardly wipes the kitchen table, his eye swollen, splattered an ugly violet.

As the door swings shut, they whip toward me. Mom heaves a deep breath of relief. I look between them in confusion, my heart plunging into the bottoms of my feet, the stuffed duck falling from my arm and squeaking against the floor.

“Ah, Riley! There you are.” Dad smiles with a hint of strain. “We were getting worried.”

I fumble for my phone and unlock it for the first time. Notifications flood across the screen, paling my skin.

“We hosted euchre tonight,” Dad says, shoving another few bottles into his garbage bag. “You weren’t responding to our messages, so we hoped you were okay. It’s a bit unlike you.”

My attention is glued to my screen.

Mind bringing up the folding tables and chairs for euchre tonight? Unless you’re tired.

Hope you’re feeling better baby. You think you could make a quick bean dip for euchre? It’s a potluck and I completely forgot to make something!!

If you have time, could you set up the liquor on the island? Thanks kid.

Just got home. Where are you? You shouldn’t be pushing yourself.

Can you respond sweetie?

You didn’t pass out somewhere, did you?

I blink, and Mom is suddenly cradling my face. “We’re glad to see you,” she says, kissing my forehead. “Don’t worry about the texts. It’s our fault for waiting until the last minute to get everything together. Where have you been?”

“Seriously?” Logan asks from across the room, his face twisting with a scowl. “Look at him. He’s obviously been fucking around with Beckham.”

“Logan!” Mom snaps at him, but then her eyes slide to my neck, and she stiffens. I don’t know what it looks like, but I feel several areas pulsing, so I’m sure numerous hickeys are fully exposed by my tank top. I should’ve put my sweater back on before coming inside.