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“Then, yes, that was me,” she tells Dad.

“Well, it was worth the effort, then,” he says, and she gives him the biggest shit-eating grin I think I’ve ever seen on her adorable face.

“You two have plans?” Mom asks, her own hand snaking through Dad’s. “Or do you want to hang out with the old folks after the game?”

And to be perfectly honest, I was kinda hoping I could park the car out on 27 for a bit before taking her home, but Alex tells Mom she’d love to come over, so I’m roped into at least two hours of euchre and twenty minutes of Mom showing Alex my baby pictures.

And I’m actually kind of looking forward to it.

I squeeze her hand as they walk away, the last few people emptying out of the gym. “You did fine,” I say. “I told you not to worry. Just be yourself.”

“That is never good advice,” she says, and I hug her again. Because I just can’t stop touching this girl.

36. PEEKAY

I’m curled into a ball to conserve heat, my pajama-pants-clad knees touching Alex’s as our voices blend in the dark, pitched low and secretive so as not to wake my parents.

“Why is it called making out?” she asks.

This is the kind of thing Alex wonders about: instead of talking about making out, she wants to know the origin of the phrase. And I’m totally going to grill her on exactly what she thinks constitutes making out in a minute, but it’s actually a decent question, and like everything Alex says, it insists you stop and think about it.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Because you’re definitely not making anything yet, and if it’s hot and heavy there’s probably more in going on than out.” She giggles a little, telling me that she knows exactly what I mean, and that means it’s my turn to ask questions.

I know Jack Fisher the same way he knows me—we grew up together, could identify each other’s cars on the road and even give a casual wave when we meet. But beyond that I couldn’t tell you if he’s the kind of guy who’s telling all the others about how far he gets with Alex, or if he keeps pussy talk on the down low. I don’t know, and I don’t know if Alex even understands that shit like that happens, that it’s possible the feel of her nipples might be public knowledge now, or that the sounds she makes when she’s in the dark alone with him might get reenacted in locker rooms.

Alex will mutilate people who slip things in my drinks, and I can’t do that for her. But I can protect her in another way, help her navigate the twisty paths of her first relationship and try to stop her from getting played, or at least buffer the blow when it happens.

“So have you guys . . .”

“No,” she says, but doesn’t offer anything else.

“I haven’t either,” I tell her. “I was close, with Adam. But then we broke up.”

“As much as I catch Park looking at you, I think you’ll have another opportunity soon.”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “We’ve been texting, but nothing’s, you know, happened. Truth is, Adam’s the only guy I’ve ever even kissed. So I’m not going to all-out bang Park the first time he tries anything. But it’s not like I don’t want to.”

“Me either,” Alex says. “And it doesn’t have anything to do with my sister, either.”

We’re quiet for a second, letting that settle in before she goes on.

“Do you think you’ll be okay with being touched after what happened at the church?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I haven’t had a chance to find out yet.”

I’ve had a few nightmares, ones that end with the tweakers getting what they wanted. I wake up rolled in my blankets as if they were a cocoon, layers of cotton protecting me from the real world.

“Sex seems so intense,” Alex goes on. “A lot of people are casual about it, like putting part of someone else’s body inside of your own isn’t that big of a deal. I don’t understand that. It’s your genitals touching someone else’s genitals.”

“Only you would describe sex like that,” I say.

“Well, that’s what it is,” she shoots back.

“Yeah, and now I, like, never, ever want to do it.”

“Yes, you do,” she argues. “And I do too, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But it’s not something that I’m going to do with Jack just because I’m his girlfriend and we’re supposed to.”

“So in other words, you’re not Branley Jacobs,” I say, going for a joke that falls flat. I hear it not cover the distance between us and immediately wish I hadn’t said it.