Lying Out Loud(27)

Are you TRYING to make this difficult for me?

No. Sorry. Continue.

Then I would … kiss your neck?

I snorted.

You seem unsure about that.

You make me nervous. I’d be nervous if I were there with you.



I felt my heart pound harder. There was something so sweet about him saying that. About the snobby, confident Ryder admitting he’d be nervous if we were alone together.

I’d be nervous, too.



Here’s another truth: I was a virgin. Not only that, but in seventeen years, I’d only been kissed one time, by Davy Jennings at the ninth-grade homecoming dance. His breath tasted like root beer and it had been enough to kill our fledgling romance. Most of what I knew about sex came from copious amounts of television, unintentionally hilarious Cosmo articles, and my interrogation of Amy, who had swiped her V-card at summer camp last year.

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 funny than seductive. But I was left giggling and feeling fluttery nonetheless.

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.





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 dinner for three people, and after my dad was arrested, I guess it seemed even more pointless.

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 annual feast. It was always a highlight of my year, and it was always hard to go home, full and happy, to a dark, quiet house.

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 dinner and we’d be here to serve as a buffer. It might be good for both of you,” Mrs. Rush said as I helped her clean the house that morning.