All I ever thought about was falling in love.

There were approximately one hundred and fifty boys in my grade at Manhasset Central Middle School. By the time I turned twelve, I had been in love with at least one hundred and twenty-­five of them. If I didn’t have a crush, I didn’t see the point of getting out of bed in the morning.

I devoured Nicholas Sparks and Sarah Dessen novels like they were my death row meal. The Pottery Barn bookshelf in my childhood bedroom overflowed with neatly organized stacks of young adult romances. The spines were cracked and the pages torn, and my copy of The Fault in Our Stars was missing its cover. Sometimes, while I was rereading one of my favorites, a chunk of pages would fall into my lap. My dad would help me glue them back in with a special adhesive from his toolbox.

I kept the more mature romances hidden under my mattress so that my mom wouldn’t find them. After school on Fridays, I’d visit the thrift store down the street, where the owner, Mrs. Wilson, would be waiting with a stack of mass-­market paperbacks she thought I’d enjoy. I’d buy however many I could afford with my leftover lunch money from the week and run home to stash them with the rest of my collection. I only read those in the dark, under the blankets with a flashlight.

Every night, I’d daydream myself to sleep. I would scan through my mental Rolodex of boys I liked from school and pick one to star as my leading man. Sometimes two or three, if the fantasy called for multiple lovers fighting over me. But usually just one. I thought about what our first kiss would be like. Would he tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear before he leaned in? Or maybe he would place a gentle peck on both my eyelids before finally brushing his lips against mine? “I love you, Phoebe,” he would say. “From the moment I first laid eyes on you, I have always loved you.”