Page 68 of When Wildflowers Bloom

NO!

I cannot do that. I won’t.

“Bo, I don’t think…” My voice trails off as he reaches into his pocket, pullingout another sticky note.

He hands it to me. I read it.Do something because it feels good.

I look at him, my body seized with panic.

I take a shaky inhale.

Then.

“Okay.”

Twenty-six

Wearing only a pairof boy short underwear and a lacy shirt formerly known as a bra, I stand in the warm glow of my bedroom, shaking. Every way I imagine this ends with me humiliated. Yet here we are, staring. Me at Bo, Bo at me.

I am every bit of the descriptive words that are used in Mabel’s books. Heaving, heavy, achy, starved.

The book, dog-eared and closed on the bed, seems way too small to be able to make me feel all these big things.

Bo stands next to me, fully clothed, and runs his knuckles lightly down my arm. A wave of chills wash over me like a mountain waterfall.

When he drags his hand back up, his fingers trace the thin strap of my top, making my throat close at the proximity of his hand to my chest.

“Birdie,” he says, kissing my shoulder in some way that makes fiery desire rush down my arm and out of my fingertips. He tugs the strap gently. “Can we take this off?”

Panic replaces desire immediately. For twelve years, I’ve been covered—protected. This isn’t about hiding my nakedness; this is about hiding my brokenness. The ugly cracks that define my life: past, present, and future.

A shaky breath.

A—slow—lifting of my eyes to his.

“Please,” he says, clearly reading my hesitation.

Another shaky breath.

Then, a nod.

I don’t want him to see, but a very real part of me wants to know thatsomeonehas seen. Someone that I’ve chosen in this life to, just once, see all of me, even the ugly, before I die.

He stands in front of me, eyes laser focused on mine, and slips his fingers under the lacey hem at my waist before lifting it.

Slowly.

A peeling.

My arms raise, he pulls the fabric across my skin, and the shirt is over my head. On the floor.

The moment the air touches my skin—panic. My arms snap across my chest, hands covering the spot where breasts should be. I’m not sad, but a single tear falls down my cheek as my entire body turns into my own pounding heart.

Hand to cheek, he thumbs the tear away, lightly kisses my lips, and his eyes search mine. They move like he’s reading the linesto a secret text that nobody else knows about, and I’ve told him something important without saying a single word.

His gaze holds a question, his worry, so I nod. Because,Yes, I’m okay.

Gently, he pulls my arms down to my sides. I close my eyes, not able to look at him while he looks at me—all of me—and force myself to breathe.

---