When I was 18, I met a guy who worked in a surf shop. I was buying a white triangle bikini that had sequin flowers embroidered on it. His name was Zane, which at the time seemed cool. I never asked how old he was, but let’s say he was comfortably older than I was. It was a Thursday afternoon after school, and I was still in my uniform. We flirted while my friends sniggered audibly, mere feet away, and he wrote his number on the back of my receipt when I paid.