Lying Out Loud

That’s something I doubted anyone would expect. That out of the two of us, I was the virgin with virtually no sexual experience while goody-goody Amy was not.

But right now, trying to think of things to say to Ryder, I found myself wishing I had more experience to pull from. He was right. This was difficult.

It’s your turn.

BRB. Googling how to do this.

LOL! So you give me a hard time, but you don’t know what you’re doing either.

OK, some of these sexting examples are hilarious. So that was no help.

We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.

No. Now I am determined to type at least one sexy thing, damn it.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I had to be overthinking this. I went to my imagination, where Ryder was lying next to me. Where he’d just nervously kissed my neck. What next? I tried to let the scene play out.

I’d slide my hand down your chest. Slowly.

I don’t know why, but I felt like everything sounded a little sexier when you added slowly.

I held my breath, my face scorching red, as I waited for Ryder to respond.

I’d reach for the hem of your nightgown …

Nightgown? You think I sleep in a nightgown? What century is this?

I don’t know what girls sleep in.

Well, right now I’m in just a baggy T-shirt and underwear.

Wow. That’s actually hotter than a nightgown.

We went on like this for about an hour, fumbling our way through texts that were usually more awkward and fu

We’ll get better at this eventually.

It wasn’t until I read that message from Ryder, though, that the dirty feeling began to sink in. Not fun, I’ve-been-sending-sexy-texts dirty either. The gross, I-need-a-shower dirty that came with suddenly remembering that all those messages, all those things he’d imagined us doing, had been for Amy. Every virtual kiss and touch, he’d imagined doing to my best friend. He’d pictured her hands, her long, thin body. Her dark, curly hair. Her face. Her lips.

And he thought we’d get better at it. That we’d do it again.

I thought I was going to be sick.

I didn’t write back after that. I didn’t say good-bye or good night. Instead, I went through and deleted every single text we’d sent over the past hour, knowing Amy would kill me (and have every right to) if she saw those messages.

When I crept back into Amy’s room, she was still snoring. I crawled over to my side of the bed and pulled the covers over my head, wishing I could hide from the guilt and the shame of what I’d just done.

Chapter 12

The Ardmores had never been big on Thanksgiving. Or any holiday that involved gathering, really.

My dad wasn’t close to his parents. I’d only met them once, when I was five, and now all I knew about them was that they lived in Florida somewhere. My maternal grandmother had passed away a few months after I was born, and my grandfather had died when I was nine. He might have left his house to his only child, my mom, but before that, he’d been the cold, unfriendly sort. Mom never saw the point of making a fuss over a di

The Rushes, on the other hand, loved Thanksgiving.

There were a few years a while back where Amy’s parents weren’t home much. They jetted from one business trip to another, and Amy spent most of the time at her grandmother’s. But even then, when the family seemed to be drifting apart, Mr. and Mrs. Rush always came home for Thanksgiving. They made a big deal out of it: a huge turkey, the best stuffing you’d ever tasted, and enough side dishes to feed an army of hungry soldiers. They also invited everyone they knew: their extended family, their friends, their kids’ friends. Which meant I got to be a part of the a

This year was different, though. This year I was able to experience the Thanksgiving festivities from the time I woke up in the morning until I went to bed that night.

I was incredibly excited about this, and even Mrs. Rush’s request to invite my mom couldn’t bring me down.

“There will be more than enough food. I know things are rough with you two right now, but she’s always invited to Thanksgiving di

“I’ll see,” I said. “But I think she’ll probably have to work today. You know how retail is these days….”

Mrs. Rush shook her head. “Forcing people to work on Thanksgiving is just terrible.”

I nodded, relieved when there were no follow-up questions.

After that, the day was fabulous. Good food, lots of people, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on in the background. The Rushes celebrated Thanksgiving all day.

And into the next morning, too.

Because the Rushes not only loved Thanksgiving, they also loved Black Friday.

“I don’t understand,” I told Amy as we stood on the sidewalk outside of Tech Plus, an electronics store (the only non-grocery store in Hamilton) at four a.m. I had to work at the bookstore later that afternoon and knew I was go

“We’re not loaded,” Amy said.

“Excuse me. What kind of car do you drive?”

“A Lexus.”

“And your brother?”

She sighed. “A Porsche.”

“I rest my case.”

She shrugged. “I guess my parents like deals.”

At that moment, Mr. and Mrs. Rush were in Oak Hill, waiting outside the mall to do some hardcore Christmas shopping. As much as I hated being awake before seven (okay, let’s be real, I hated being up before noon if I could help it), I couldn’t complain much. Amy and I did have the easiest of the Black Friday tasks. We just had to run in, grab the newest video game console, and get out.

“Your brother better know I was a part of this gift,” I told her. “I may not be contributing financially, but it is a testament to my affection for him that I got my ass out of bed for this.”

“And here I thought it was so I wouldn’t be fighting the crowds alone,” Amy said.

“Nah. Why would I ever do anything for you?”

She giggled, then let out a huge yawn. “What time does the store open again?”

“Five.”

She whimpered.

“I know,” I said, patting her on the back. “It’s cruel to have sales start so early right after everyone’s loaded themselves with sleepy turkey chemicals.”

To make matters worse, it was also cold. We were bundled up in our sweaters and coats, but they didn’t do much to deflect the occasional gust of wind that blew into our faces. The amazing part about this was that Amy’s hair still looked flawless. Four a.m., cold and windy morning, and she still looked like a model with a classy, curly updo.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed either.

“Oh my God. You have to tell me how you did that.”

Amy and I both turned when we heard the voice behind us. There was a girl there, drinking Starbucks. She couldn’t have been much older than us, and she looked a little familiar. Probably a Hamilton High grad. She was wearing some amazing black boots over multicolored leggings that I only wished I could pull off.

“Sorry?” Amy said.

“Your hair,” the girl said. “You have to tell me how you did that.”

It was only then that I noticed her own curls. Brown corkscrews, even tighter than mine or Amy’s. They were a little frizzy because of the wind, but they still looked ten times better than mine. Damn it.