But for some reason, I wanted to tell Ryder. Maybe because — and yes, I knew this was sick — he wouldn’t know it was me. There was security in knowing he’d think it was Amy’s nightmare. Amy’s dark, broken place.

I was still freaked out and didn’t want to cut off the contact with another person just yet, so I found myself writing out the dream, taking up several long texts to do so. When I hit SEND on the last one, the one that explained my mother’s bedroom, I felt a pang of regret.

Too much, I thought. Too honest. Too close.

I didn’t think he’d reply. Maybe this would help him get over Amy once and for all.

But then:

Things really are bad with your mom, aren’t they?

Yeah.

I’m sorry about the nightmare. But they say if you talk about it, you won’t dream it again.

Does that count with texting?

I guess you’ll find out.

I smiled. Actually, I did feel a little better having it off my chest. The shaking had stopped and my heartbeat had slowed down. I might even manage to fall back to sleep if I tried to.

But right now, for better or worse (definitely worse), I wanted to keep talking to him.

Thanks for letting me share.

Of course. I just wish I was there with you.

I felt a mischievous smile tugging at my lips as I typed my response.

Oh, yeah? Why? What would you do if you were here?

For a minute, he didn’t respond, and I was worried I might have scared him off. I should’ve known better, though. At the end of the day, he was still a guy.

Are we really doing this?

Do you WANT to do this?

I do, but I have no idea how. I’ve never done it before.

You never sent sexy texts to Eugenia?

No. Have you?

No, I have never sexted with Eugenia.

You’re hilarious.

I know.

Pause.

If I were there, I would lie on the bed next to you and pull you into my arms.

I’m actually on a couch right now.

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.

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 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.

“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 gonna regret being up this early. “You’re loaded. Isn’t Black Friday meant for poor people like me? So you all can watch us fight to the death, Hunger Games style, over a half-price iPod?”

“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?”