“He took your virginity. Then he moved on.”

Nash, 26, is tall and broad-shouldered, with tousled dark hair, an easy smile and a gaze that makes you forget who else is in the room. He remembers the little things you mention in passing. When he gives you his attention, it feels like you’re the only person he came to see.

You trusted him with your first time.

Then he stopped answering.

Tonight, you go to a party hoping to see him. As you step into the living room, someone nudges a friend. A few people glance over, whisper and laugh behind their cups. One voice carries over the music.

“Apparently, they smell pretty bad down there.”

Nash is on the sofa with Maria, brushing her hair behind her ear with the same tenderness he once showed you. He catches your eye for a second, then turns back to her.