Page 19 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“I didn’t tell you I was married because it’s not a real marriage. Not really. Not anymore. Mandy and I were together a long time and got married because it’s a small town and that’s what people expected. Hell, maybe at some point it’s what we both wanted. Seven years ago it started crumbling, six years ago she took off to Nashville to chase her dream of being a singer and we—Ihaven’t talked tohersince. I’ve filed for divorce, tried to figure out how to get her to sign, but I’m stuck. So technically, I’m married, but that’s it. I don’t wear a ring, I don’t talk to her, I don’t see her, and I don’t love her, at least not in the way a man should love his wife.”

He pauses. I’m silent, holding my breath.

“You there?” he asks.

I exhale. “Yes.”

“If I thought I was ever going to see you again, I wouldn’t have done what I did.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, not bothering to hide my offense.

He puffs out a small laugh. “I don’t mean it like that. I mean, whatever reasons you had for wanting one night, I had my own. And I guess you being you and—I got carried away or caught upin the moment and…”

His voice trails off, letting all the unspoken words hang between us.

“Okay,” I finally say.

“Okay,” he echoes.

In the quiet, my heart tries to pound out of my chest.

“Gran showed me the mug you made. It’s very cute.” I can hear the amusement in his voice.

I snort. “It’s a bowl, asshole.”

“Well, it’s a cute bowl.”

I shake my head, but smile.

“Good night, Bo.”

“‘Night, Birdie.”

Then I hang up, get into bed, and dream about broken things being glued back together with gold.

Six

Friday is my dessert.The sweet spot at the end of every week.

My mornings are spent with a woman named Mabel, and in the evenings, I indulge in all my favorite self-care rituals.

Mabel is seventy-five and the sauciest woman I’ve ever met. Maybe even insane.

To look at her is like looking at something that doesn’t make sense but somehow works. Like a piece of wild abstract art that turns into something depth-filled after enough study.

There’s her hair, which she still dyes a vibrant color best described as Merlot—her bright white roots alwaysjustshowing. Then there’s jewelry. Loads of it, gaudy and gold, which hang from her neck, ears, and wrap around her fingers. Her lipstick wouldn’t be so bad, even in the bright red shade called Sinful, but it always puts a streak across her front teeth that she never seems to notice. Even her obnoxious animal-print leggings that would be dubbedtacky by most people suit her. And, of course, she’s also obsessed with trashy romance novels starring Scottish men.

Oh, and Mabel is a former nun.

I’m not much of a reader, but each month she picks a book for me to read so on Fridays we can discuss. Two years into this unofficial book club and I’ve learned way more about Mabel’s preferences in the bedroom than I ever cared to know. She swears the reason she left the convent was because she couldn’t handle the rules, but the more I read these books with her, the more I’m convinced that there was only one rule she didn’t like: celibacy. Mabel is just plain horny.

This month, we are readingKilted Love.

“What did you think about the fellatio?” she asks as we sit on her plastic-covered couch, books in hand.

“Hmm...” I look at the kilted, shirtless man on the cover, recalling the scene she is referencing, not wanting to discussfellatiowith Mabel.Again.

She holds up the book and points at the half-dressed man on the cover. “I bet that Gavyn looked like a snack standing only in his tunic, making any woman hungry. I don’t blame the lass for letting him squirt her in the back of the throat.” When she fans herself with her book, I pretend to get a phone call and walk out of the room, giving her two minutes to calm down.

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