I’m hungrier than I was before.

My hand trembles as I tie off the condom.

Whatever. It doesn’t mean anything. Probably just need some nicotine.

“Cigarette?” I say, grabbing a napkin from the center console.

Julia smoothes back her hair. “Yeah. Sure.”

We stand in front of my car, the late afternoon light catching on Julia’s hair. Her eyelashes. I light her cigarette. Light mine. For several heartbeats, we smoke in silence.

“Why did you do that?” She brings the cigarette to her lips and looks at me. Inhales. “Mark me. With your…you know.”

“I didn’t mark you.”

I take a long pull. Feel the tension in my muscles releasing.

Smoking is a shit habit. But I took it up after my divorce to help deal with…well, everything. I’ve been hooked ever since. It’s the only thing that relaxes me anymore.

That, and brown liquor.

“What was it, then?” she asks.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Felt like doing it. So I did.”

“Do you have other kinks? Or is that the only one?”

Glancing at her, my pulse skips. Of course she wouldn’t call what I did weird or wrong or disgusting.

She’d call it a kink. And be totally nonjudgmental about it.

I drop my cigarette on the ground and tamp it out with the toe of my shoe.

“I should get going.”

“Let me guess. Meetings.” She tamps out her cigarette, too. “Did I make you late?”

“I’m never late. Unlike some of us.”

She grins. “Hey. I’m juggling one and a half jobs. Cut me some slack, will you?”

We meet eyes. Hers are lit up. Lips curled into that pretty grin. Cheeks still pink.

What should I do here? Hug her? Kiss her cheek? We just fucked in the back seat of my car, for Christ’s sake. In front of a barn. What’s the post-coital protocol for that?

I don’t want to be a dick. But I also don’t want to give her the wrong idea by pulling her close when I should be keeping my distance.

I need to keep boundaries clear.

Awkward silence stretches between us.

“Welp,” Julia says at last, crossing her arms. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

I’m rooted to the spot. Afraid if I move I’ll just throw her over my shoulder and toss her back into my car.

“Yeah,” I say. “See you around.”

She moves past me. I hear her car door closing, her engine start.

Dust billows behind her car as she drives away.

I smoke another cigarette—doesn’t make me feel any more relaxed—and head to my meetings.

Chapter Four

Julia

Three Months Later

At first I think it’s just a bad hangover.

But hangovers don’t last a week, even in your thirties. They definitely don’t make your boobs hurt.

The inkling that something isn’t right hits me mid-week. I bury myself in my work, hoping the weird moods, nauseous bloating, and overwhelming exhaustion will go away.

It takes me nearly face planting into my laptop, narcoleptic style, on Friday afternoon for me to finally Google my symptoms.