The Secret Recipe for Moving On Karen Bischer (read my book .txt) 📖

thrown. I was expecting him to smile dazzlingly and be like, “No way!” like the time his parents surprised him with Devils tickets. I mean, he doesn’t even like hockey, but he’s wanted to sleep with me for at least eight months now.

I try to force a laugh. “Of course in the tent!”

Hunter sticks his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground. “Oh … I just … because you were so…”

I know he wants to say “picky.”

“… cautious before, I didn’t think you’d want to do it, like, in the woods.”

I can’t help it when a feeling of angst swells inside me. When I’d put off all of his previous attempts at having sex, I’d stopped because it didn’t feel right doing it in his sweaty-sock-smelling room with his gerbils watching us from their cage. My room wasn’t an option because I have a really narrow twin bed. It didn’t feel right doing it in our parents’ beds because that’s gross. And the backseat of a car just isn’t romantic. But most of all, I knew once you had sex you couldn’t undo it.

All those times I’d said no, I didn’t feel guilty because my mother, Teen Vogue, health class teachers were always like, “Wait until you’re ready.” It felt okay saying no. But when it feels like every other girl is saying yes and your boyfriend is aware of that?

Yeah, there are times when it feels like I’m in some remedial sex zone, like I’ve been left back three grades and everyone else is on the AP track, graduating early and with full sex honors.

“I think it will be romantic,” I finally say. “No one around except us, nature, and the elements.”

This seems to bring him back into the moment. “You’d better use those forecasting skills of yours and pray it doesn’t rain,” he says, smiling.

“That might be even more romantic! Rain tapping on the tent…” Okay, probably not, but he’s not giving me much to work with here.

“Not if we’re getting washed away in a mudslide.” He reaches an arm out. “Come here.”

I snuggle into his chest and breathe in the smell of sunscreen on his T-shirt. I’m still getting used to his harder and more defined pecs, the result of all his excessive working out of late. In the last few months, ever since his a cappella group, the Ringtones, won the Ringvale Heights High School talent show, he’d gone from mocking our school’s gym rats to weight-lifting in his basement on a daily basis. I’m not complaining. He looks amazing.

“If you’re sure…”

“More than you know.”

“… then three weeks from now it is.” He kisses me on the top of my head, but before I can reach up for full-frontal lip contact, he lets go of me, tears off his shirt, and runs for the edge of the cliff, yelling, “Cannonball!”

Hunter obviously does not have a problem with wet feet in wet shoes.

His jump is followed by cheers and chanting, “Panz! Panz! Panz!” (short for his last name, Panzic) from our friends on the beach below. I see him pumping his fist as he emerges from the water. I’m not sure if he’s feeling victorious because of his jump or because he’s finally going to lose his virginity.

I stand there awkwardly, watching Hunter swim back to shore. I always thought deciding to have sex would feel like something momentous, not end with my normally soft-spoken boyfriend shouting and cannonballing to get away from me.

I peer down at everyone on the beach, where no one seems aware of me, except Alisha Desai, who’s wading in knee-deep water. She gives me a big smile and a wave. I wave back, but stay put. It’s hot, but I’m not done enjoying the view of the treetops and endless stretch of New Jersey sky, where cumulonimbus clouds are starting to gather in the west.

“Ellie Agresti!” Steve screams, startling me. “Jump on down here!”

I give a faint smile. I think of my best friend, Jodie, who wants to be a TV writer someday. We play a game called “If this were a bad TV show…” and fill in situations with television clichés. Like, right now, if this were a bad TV show, I’d jump off the cliff, which would represent me 1) leaping into the sexual unknown and 2) proving that I’d grown as a person, overcoming my fears of growing up or something equally “barfy,” as Jodie likes to say.

I sigh as I turn my back on the beautiful scenery, grab Hunter’s shirt, and head down toward the beach. When I rejoin our friends, Hunter’s shaking his dark brown hair like a dog, spraying water all over Kim Darrett and Brynn, who squeal and giggle. Well, Brynn giggles—she and Hunter have been best friends since second grade, and she thinks everything he does is hilarious—but Kim pulls her black hair into a bun and flops over on her beach towel and onto her stomach.

“Sorry, Kim,” Hunter says, fighting a grin.

“Whatever,” Kim huffs.

I just smile, not wanting anyone to think I’m taking sides.

See, our friends are mostly Hunter’s friends, since he’s known them longer. When I transferred to Ringvale Heights in January, I met Hunter right away, and we started dating soon after that, so his social circle became mine. And while I do like a few of them, some can be a bit … ridiculously stuck-up.

Like, I can tell the wheels are turning in Kim’s head when I see her eyeing Alisha’s reading material on the towel next to her.

Alisha, who may be the sweetest person in the senior class, let alone our group, has pulled from her bag Prom of the Undead, a current best-selling book about high school zombies and the girls who love them. Kim rolls her eyes at Brynn when she sees this, and I pray Alisha doesn’t notice.

“How is that?” I ask.

Her eyes light up. “It’s amazing. Amazingly cheesy, but I love it.”

That’s when Kim lets out a seriously condescending snort. “I don’t get why everyone loves