Page 7 of When Wildflowers Bloom

Two

His body, too bigfor the space.

My laugh.

His smile.

My legs.

His lap.

Hungry mouths.

Bitten-off noises.

Hands on my hips.

Fingers in his hair.

Bunched dress around my waist.

A touch between my thighs.

His breathy, “Are you sure about this Pam Beesly?”

My desperate, “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

His belt.

The

single

condom

in

my

purse.

My cry when he fills me.

His smile against my skin.

My sadness when it ends.

My eyes fly open in the darkness of my bedroom as a new bout of pressure starts to build within me. The real-life minivan porn won’t stop replaying in my mind and a very real part of me doesn’t want it to.

In my limited experience, even in a minivan, it was the best sex of my life.

Fighting sleep all night, I crawl out of bed at four o’clock in the morning, resigned to the fact that this is how today is going to be: exhausting and exhausted.

A sleepless night and a distracted morning are my consequences for breaking my own damn rules. Ninety minutes of power yoga, a large omelet with pasture-raised eggs, and making lists for my day do nothing to stop the cruelty of feeling every way Bo touched me—I touched him—over and over again.

My plan of having sex with a stranger to help prepare me for the year ahead has completely backfired. I’m not prepared; I’m a train wreck.

Every single minute that has ticked by on the clock from then until now has left me a little angrier than the last for getting dealt such a shitty hand.

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