Page 1 of When Wildflowers Bloom

One

I never expected thelast year of my life to start this way, but here I am. Buck naked and so nervous I want to puke.

Dropping my head side to side, I attempt to stretch the anxiety-induced tension out of my neck. I’m screwed, and not in the way I want to be.

My reflection stares back at me from the sticky note-lined mirror—I can’t do this.

A one-night stand? Whose bright idea was this anyway?

Oh yeah—mine.

Hands trembling, I pull my long blonde hair to one side, eyes pinging from the sticky notes back to my body. Tattoos, scars, muscles, fragility. Strong yet broken, the paradox of my life.

“Okay, Birthday Girl, let’s repeat why we’re doing this,” I say to myself, plucking the note titledReasons to Follow Throughfrom the mirror. I point a finger into the air, like a sort of charismatic leader, feigning conviction as I read it. “Because this day is likelymarking the beginning of the end. Because one last night will help strengthen us for battle. Because though we are royally fucked, we can still fuck.” My face twists hearing my voice say the last statement. I’ve never once called sexfucking.I’m not some kind of barbarian.

But maybe that’s who Tonight Me is. Someone who’s vulgar about sex, especially the casual and unattached variety, drinks alcohol, and doesn’t give a shit about rules. Or lists. Or consequences. Tonight Me doesn’t have a care in the world. Tonight Me is just a girl who celebrates her birthday with a good lay.

The thought tightens my throat, and again I study each of the lists, my body, and overall ridiculous situation.

I’m doing this.

Taking my go-to blue dress off the hanger, I pull it over my head until it slips down my body. I rub my hands down my hips, accentuated by the navy fabric, and adjust the thin straps on my shoulders that show off the arms that have spent too many hours in the gym. Hours that have all prepared me for this very moment. This year.

I smooth fabric across my chest, convincing myself that instead of boyish, my flat chest makes me look athletic. Approachable. I scrunch my nose—are chest size and approachability even connected?

I grab a pair of underwear from a drawer before putting them back, deciding that no, Tonight Me is a commando kind of girl. I try not to let myself be disturbed by this.

I could call the whole thing off; it’s not like anyone knows my plan. Instead, I give my reflection a small smile, find the sticky note that says,42% of women meet one-night stand partners in bars(a statistic I found on the internet)and let a fresh batch of determination take hold of me.Pulling another note from the mirror—the most important one—I skim it for the hundredth time and drop it into my purse.

With one last deep breath, I force myself out of my house, into my minivan, and down the five miles of road to the highest rated bar in town: Libby’s Outpost.

I’ve driven by it daily for years but have never once stopped. Turns out, someone who doesn’t drink alcohol or have any kind of social life has no actual reason to go into a bar.

In the parking lot I pause, staring at the neon beer signs with one last deep breath that propels me toward the entrance.

A little voice inside helps me fortify myself with positive affirmations as I open the door.You can do this, it says as I nudge through the crowd.

When I slide onto the stool, the voice tells me,You look like a million bucks in that blue dress.

I force myself to believe it. This dress will be the magical vessel that shows off my most desirable parts and hides everything I lack while guiding me to the man who will satisfy my needs for a night.

With a jolt of feigned confidence, I flip my blonde, windblown mess of a mane over my shoulder, my unspoken,Look at me, boys.

Of course, I have no idea if there are any acceptableboysin this place because it’s so dark and crowded, but internet statistics from a random poll are on my side. This will work.

I hope.

The bartender, a pretty woman who looks to be late thirties with dark hair and red lips, wears a plain black tank top that shows off her lean build and olive skin. She drops a coaster in front of me with a smile. “Whatcha drinkin’ tonight?” she asks.

Other than occasional glasses of red wine with dinner, everything I know about alcohol comes from my dad’s dusty bottle of scotch and movies.

“Two fingers,” I say, firm, taking the movie route.

She tilts her head to the side, eyebrows pinched. “Two fingers…” –she pauses and cocks her head—“of what?”

Shit.

“Umm…do you have anything organic?”

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