Page 20 of A Very Addicted Christmas

I should be resigned to whatever news they have to share, but I guess this isn’t exactly the same-old, same-old.

Before, people could create tall tales about me and sex. But my virginity—the truth I held—was a barrier they couldn’t puncture. Now, I’m not a virgin anymore.

So does it make what they’re saying about me more true? What even are they saying?

Tom tosses a twig into the fire, and I watch the flames eat it.

I swallow hard. “So what’s the shitty thing he said?”

Tom’s nose flares, and he tosses another twig into the fire, this time more forcefully. His eyes flick to Eliot.

Eliot says, “He’s calling you a slut.” He pauses then adds, “He’s saying you’re like your mom.”

A sex addict.

I’ve heard this before, but this time, it feels different.Am I a sex addict?Would Caden be able to tell if I’m addicted or have addictive tendencies towards sex? Just with one time?

He can’t know that about me before I know myself.

Right?

“You can’t tell if you’re a sex addict if you’ve only had sex once,” I tell my best friends. “Right?”

Eliot’s blue eyes ice. “Don’t, Luna.”

My stomach twists. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t let that fucking worm into your head.” He points at his temple. “Don’t let him question what you know.”

I know myself.

I take a breath. “What do I know?” I ask, needing them as I teeter between awful feelings.

“You’re not an addict,” Tom says.

“You’re not a slut,” Eliot adds. “Not sluttier than me. And even if you were, that doesn’t make you a sex addict—or else, a quarter of the world would be one. Myself included.”

Tom picks up his guitar to play some dramatic notes. “Sluuuuts,” he sings. “They’re just like us.”

I laugh.

He smiles over at me, then rests his hands on the strings. “What would Moffy say?”

“Fuck what Caden said.”

“Fuck what Caden said,” Tom says in agreement. “The dude you trusted to have sex with for the first time is nowdefamingyou to the rest of the senior class. He sucks. You’re awesome.”

If they’re trying to make me “loathe” Caden the way that they do, the hatred is sitting beneath a feeling like I fucked up again. I chose poorly.

Chose the wrong guy to deflower me.

Chose the wrong time.

Almost got pregnant.

They don’t know that.

“I almost got pregnant with the worm’s baby,” I let out, just staring at the fire.

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