“She’s sixteen,” the carnival man declared.

Triumphant, my mom shook her head. “Thirteen,” she said proudly as he opened the paper to see my age. She ran a hand over my hair, petting her prize racehorse, and we walked away. She didn’t bother to get the blue bear she’d won. She got what she wanted. A thirteen-year-old who looked sixteen.

“He’s cute, don’t you think?”

“Mom,” I chided.

“He’s adorable, Harley,” she said in a teacherly tone. As if she were instructing me in the ways of taste and attraction. “He’s probably fourteen, maybe fifteen. You guys would be cute together.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.” Then she lowered her voice. “We’re going on the Ferris Wheel. Go back and see him.”

Butterflies filled my belly. But she’d given the go-ahead. She’d encouraged me. This had to be the way the world worked.

When my mom and Pierre were up in the sky, I returned to the carnival guy. He leaned against the Guess Your Age sign, searching for his next customer. I tapped him on the shoulder.

“You were right,” I whispered near his ear.

His lips curled up. “You really are sixteen.”

“I really am sixteen.”

“Me too,” he said. “Good thing I didn’t give her a bear.”

“Good thing,” I echoed back.

He licked his lips slightly, tasting what I imagined was the salty heat on them from a muggy summer night. Then I gestured with my eyes to the nearby whack-a-mole and toss-the-ring games. Behind the games was a little hideaway spot, a private corner of the carnival world. There, against the dirty once-white concrete wall I reached out to him, my hand linking through his, bringing him closer to me. I lifted my other hand to his face, brushing my fingertips against his cheek.

I’d never kissed, I’d never been kissed, but somehow I was a natural. I was all instinct.

Later, when we were home, my mom asked me how it went.

I told her everything. Because, that’s what we did. That’s normal, right? She squealed and clapped. “Your first kiss!”

Then she gave me kissing tips for the next time. A lesson in seduction from my mother.

Harley

I sink into my pillow, practicing deep, calming breaths.

Reciting mantras Joanne taught me at SLAA.

This too shall pass.

The three-second rule.

Let the past be the past.

I lie flat and picture calm waters. Blue seas. Shining sun. A warm breeze. The beach I want to run off to. The ocean I want to carry me away from New York. The sand between my toes. Everything is peaceful in the world. My life is serene. Each day flows into the next and I go through life with a smile, a nod and a feeling of good will towards humankind.

There are no sirens, no email demands, no mothers who set you up, no fathers who leave you, no boys who run away from you when you throw yourself at them.

But that life is a lie. A pathetic, bald-faced fabrication and I don’t believe me for a second. There is no peace, there is no serenity, there is no happiness in love, and it’s as if someone or something cranked me up a notch, turned the timer on a once-dormant, now-ticking bomb inside me. I try to ignore the noise and the sound and the tightness in my body.

I pull the covers over my head and close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. Classes are nearly over, I have no more homework, I have no summer plans, I need something to do. I kick the sheets around a few times, flip on my back, then my stomach, even toss off the bedspread. I feel itchy, antsy. I clench and unclench my hands. I glance at my phone. It’s alive, calling out to me, whispering sweet nothings. Touch me. Put your fingers on me. Use me to deal.

I can’t deal by going back. I want to deal by going back.

I can’t. I want. I won’t. I want.

Like enemies in tug of war, the two sides of me pull, they yank, they jerk.

I close my eyes, trying to push away the flashing images of my messages, of Cam, of going back, back, back. They’re like bumper cars knocking, clanging.

I flip over and bang my fist into the pillow.

I can’t believe I did that to Trey. I can’t believe I jumped him like that when I know he wants to be good. When he’s trying so hard to heal. He’s not like me. He’s better, he’s healthier, he’s closer to moving on.

Trey doesn’t want to be a recidivist. He doesn’t want to slide back into the old skin.

And I was the call girl. The temptress. The little vixen school girl who uses charms and wiles to get what she wants.

I smash my hand once more into the pillow.

That’s who I am though. Why fight it. Why fight Layla?

I grab my phone, open my messages, read it again.

Missing things? Missing me? That can be fixed in an instant, sweetheart. Tomorrow night. Bliss Bar. 7 p.m. Be there.

I run my finger across the note, gasping for breath. My mind is drowning in a sea, crashing upside down under the waves. I let them carry me, toss me back into the waters. Before I even think about it for more than a fleeting second — because I don’t think at times like this, I act, I do, I operate on impulse — I reply.

Can’t wait.

Trey

The second I flop down onto my Michele’s couch, I blurt it out. “We fooled around last night.”

She doesn’t raise an eyebrow or give me a haughty look. She simply waits for me to say more. Her dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail and she’s decked out in standard shrink garb. Gray pants, a white blouse, pearl earrings. I don’t know much about her. It’s not as if we talk about her or her family or why she became a shrink. All I know is she specializes in this kind of stuff. In my kind of problem. She was on the list of recommended shrinks from SLAA.

I heave a sigh. “It was at the coffee shop. We went into the back, and one thing led to another.”

“Stop right there.” She holds up her hand, then points her index finger. “That’s not how the world works. One thing doesn’t lead to another. There are actions and choices. Now, you know I don’t judge you for any of them. But by the same token, if you want to have an honest discussion here, let’s not say one thing led to another. Take responsibility for your actions, Trey.”

I narrow my eyes. “Fine. She kissed me. I kissed her back,” I say in a huff. “Okay? That better?”

She nods. “And how do you feel about it?”

“I fucking want her like crazy.” I roll my eyes, pushing my hands in my hair. “Like that’s a surprise? But it will never happen.”

“Why? And what is it? Is it sex you want? Or a relationship with Harley?”

“She doesn’t want either.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe since you said she kissed you. But that’s not what I asked. I want to know what you want with her. Sex or a relationship?”

“It doesn’t matter. Neither will happen.”

“Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe you’re not ready for a relationship.”

“Obviously,” I say sarcastically. I hold my hands out wide, stretching across her beige couch. The window is open slightly, and the horns and the honking of midtown traffic bleat in the distance. “Not as if I know how to have one. Not as if I know anything.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is maybe other things should come first with her.”

“Like?”

“Like working on being honest with her. Practicing honesty.”

“I’m not dishonest.” I cross my arms over my chest.

“I know,” she says calmly. “But you also know you could take your friendship a step further. And it will be good for your healing if you tell her about your family.”

My heart skitters at the thought. I shake my head. “I can’t.”

“You can. You want her to know you, right?”