Page 62 of When Wildflowers Bloom

He chuckles. “She’s harmless.” His eyes squint. “I think.”

I shake my head.

“What are you doing with random Lincoln Logs all the time?” I ask, eyeing the aged brown miniature logs in his hand.

“Building cabins, of course.” A toothpick dances in his mouth as he grins.

I laugh under my breath as I open the door of the van. “Probably helps with material costs.” I give him one last look, feeling my tongue swell in my mouth at how damn good he looks before pulling my eyes away. “Huck’s probably waiting.”

He rounds his back, leaning on the frame of the door when I pull it closed.

“The only eight-year-old I’ve ever been jealous of.”

Putting the key in the ignition, I shake my head at how smooth he is then shift the gear to reverse.

“See you tomorrow night?” he asks, pulling away from the van.

“See you tomorrow night.” I back up a few inches then push the brakes. Heart pounding, I add, “I’m going to try to adopt Huck.”

His slow-to-grow smile is wide. “I think you should.”

I just nod, looking back through the windshield at the gravity of those words, before giving him a wave and driving away.

When I get home, instead of walking the dog with Huck, I visit Miss Alice and start the application process to adopt him.

Twenty-three

Having no breasts makesgetting dressed up a special kind of surprise party. It’s either awful—puffs of chest fabric showcasing everything that’s missing. Or it’s amazing—there’s never a worry about filling something out too much. There is no pressure to show cleavage because there is none. At the same time—there is no cleavage.

Usually, I don’t spend much time dwelling on this. Over the decade since I had my mastectomy I’ve learned how to dress my different body. The question I have getting ready for whatever my non-grocery shopping Friday night is: hide my chest or embrace it?

I’m wearing blue jeans—fitted and high waisted. I don’t have my chest working in my favor, but all my hours spent trying to outrun cancer on stationary bikes, treadmills, and elliptical machines have done wonders for my ass. My body is far from perfect, but it’s lean and strong.

The shirt is where I’m stuck. The puffy peasant top I’m wearing has me looking like an actual peasant.No. I yank it off with a sigh.

Standing in a lacey tank top, my version of a bra, and jeans, I stare at myself. The top is black, fitted, sexy by most standards. With scalloped edges, it dips low on my chest, between where most women would have breasts. Instead of cleavage, creamy white and soft pink petals of a tattooed mountain laurel peek out of the dark lace. When I ordered it online, the girls in the photos had worn it as a shirt and I was jealously scandalized at the thought. Now, as different as I look from the busty models that pulled it off with sex appeal to spare, I’m feminine. As close to sexy as I’ve felt in twelve years.

I tug at the straps, exhaling at my reflection, thinking of Bo’s last words,Lucy is staying with her cousins overnight.

What did that mean? Mabel told me it meant we were going tohump like rabbits, her exact words this morning. I laughed, but she doesn’t know that I don’t have sex. She’d be devastated with that revelation.

Now, it’s all I can think about. Would he want to do other things? Would that be enough? Would he want to see my chest? Would I be able to show him?

My skin starts to tighten around my skeleton the same time Bo knocks on the door, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts that are quickly turning into anxiety. I stretch my neck side to side, willing myself to relax. His timing makes the decision of what to wear. Big earrings, big hair, and a little shirt are who I am tonight.

With one last look at my reflection and a long deep breath, I go meet my date.

“Seriously?” I look through the windshield and frown at the familiar neon sign. “I skipped my Friday night ritual for Libby’s?”

He looks at me like he’s offended. “They have the best triple sec in town. I thought you’d be happy.”

I roll my eyes. “Funny.”

He gets out, circles the Jeep at a jog, and opens the door for me before I’m even unbuckled. Standing there, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again.

When I opened the door at my house and saw him, my heart stuttered. He looks the same as he always does in jeans, fitted T-shirt, face that makes me want to confess all my sins, and body that makes me want to commit new ones—but something is different. Like this date is a step across a threshold and there’s no turning back.

When his eyes burned a path down my body as I stood in the doorway, I squirmed, panicked, and acted like I had forgotten my sweater. Which is why I’m now wearing a granny cardigan over my once-sexy outfit.

---