The car gives a slight stutter as she shifts into second gear, but smooths back down after her foot is off the clutch. With one hand on the wheel, she grabs my arm with the other.

“I’m doing it, Brent!”

It’s awesome, and I chuckle. “Yeah, you are.”

• • •

“You need a nickname. Kennedy is kind of a mouthful to say.”

We’re parked at a picnic area high above the lights in the town below. It’s still and quiet. The top of the car is open, but the sky feels like a dark canopy above us, dotted with countless bright stars.

We didn’t crash into anything and the car is still running, so in my mind, Kennedy’s driving lessons were a roaring success. She said she wasn’t ready for the open road, but I’ll get her there eventually. The look on her face when she really got the hang of shifting—it was pure elation and gratitude. Seeing that expression felt just like when I block an opposing team’s goal—like something I was born to do again and again.

“My name is too long? Do you often have difficulty with big words?” she asks with a smartass smirk. “Maybe you should see someone about that.” Then she asks, “What’s your nickname?”

“BC.”

She frowns, trying to figure it out. “Because your middle name is Charles?”

I shake my head and tell her with the straightest face, “Big Cock.”

Kennedy laughs. “Did you think of that all by yourself?”

“The guys on the team gave it to me. It’s a lot to live up to—don’t want to disappoint the younger classmen. But in the immortal words of Spider-Man, with great power comes great responsibility.”

“Uncle Ben, actually.”

“What?”

She tilts her head. “Uncle Ben said that, not Spider-Man. Remember?”

I do. But the fact that she remembers . . . is pure fucking awesome. It does things to me—deep, thoughtful, serious emotion type of things.

But I’ve never been the serious kind of guy, so I tease, “How about Randy? Randy Randolph. Can I call you that?”

Kennedy frowns. “Not if you expect me to answer.”

We talk more, about everything and nothing in particular. And somehow, even though it wasn’t what I planned—or expected—my arm ends up around her shoulders, her head resting against my collarbone.

Slowly, I slide her glasses off and carefully fold them before placing them on the dashboard. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, I dip my head and press my lips against hers. They’re achingly soft and warm. I trace her lips with my tongue, but they stay tightly closed, and I laugh against her mouth.

She pulls back. “What?”

I look into the gorgeous eyes of the girl I’ve known my whole life, and my only thought is, what the hell took me so long to do this?

My thumb slides slowly across her jaw. “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

The last time we talked about it, sophomore year, she hadn’t.

But she doesn’t blush or recoil at the question. Her voice is low and kind of panting. “Of course I have. Why? Are you saying I’m bad?”

I don’t know who the hell she’s been kissing, but whoever it was—they must’ve been piss poor at it. This pleases me.

“Nope. But you’re about to get even better.” I lean forward, brushing against her lips again. “Open your mouth for me, Kennedy.”

Then there’s only kissing—head-turning, lip-sucking, tongue-sliding kind of kisses. Her taste makes me feel a little drunk. And the whisper of my name from her lips makes me feel a little crazy.

Clothes find their way to the floor of the car. And every moment is easy and natural, and so fucking right.

Afterward, we’re pressed against each other in the same seat, boneless and spent. And I get why they make so many cheesy movie scenes that end just like this—because it just doesn’t get more perfect than right here, right now.

Kennedy smiles up at me and I kiss her forehead, and together we watch the sun rise.

• • •

The next morning, my parents make me get up early—drop me back at school early—because my father has some meeting to get to back home. They leave a message for the Randolphs at the front desk. It sucks that I don’t get to see Kennedy before we go, but I’m consoled by the thought that I’ll see her at school.

Everything is going to be different now.

When I get to my room, I hop in the shower. My thoughts helplessly drift to last night. The feel of Kennedy’s hands on me. The sounds she made—little moans and greedy whimpers.

Let’s just say it’s convenient that I’m in the shower.

I step out of the bathroom with a towel around my hips and water still trickling down between the grooves of my abs.

“Hey, baby.”

Cashmere is laid out on my bed—wearing my lacrosse jersey and nothing else. She’s all hooded eyes, pouty lips, tan skin, and teased blond hair—ready for a Playboy photo shoot. There was a time my dick would’ve led me straight to her and I would’ve happily followed—all our problems solved.

But not anymore. I’m done letting my dick lead me around—it’s time to start following my heart. And I know how corny that sounds, but I don’t give a shit.

“What are you doing here?” I slip boxer briefs on under the towel—it just doesn’t feel right to let her see me bare-assed anymore.