It’s 10:55 a.m. and I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, wondering if staring at the time on my phone will make it move faster.
I need it to be 11:00 a.m., a.k.a. the start of Aubree’s lunch break. I texted her this morning, telling her I need to talk, not just text. Because if I don’t tell someone about what happened with Asher last night, I think I may actually explode.
Or let it slip in conversation with his sisters, or in front of his family. Which, frankly, would be way worse, and I’d possibly die of embarrassment and humiliation.
At breakfast this morning, I’m pretty sure I visibly flinched every time anyone said “come” or “down” or any other word that my brain could twist into an innuendo about what Asher and I did last night. And when he met my eyes from across the
