By the way, my ban on the mall was up and I made a vow to myself that, next year, post-Christmas, no matter how frenzied Christmas could get, I was lifting the ban in February because I’d gone gonzo when I hit a mall for the first time in over two months. I bought practically an entirely new vacation wardrobe. Some of it was hot but all of it was awesome and none of it I needed (really), especially not after paying for four to be accommodated at a five-star hotel and while setting up a new bakery.

“Third,” I carried on talking to Brock, “although I intend to relax I also intend to shop and you can’t shop in a swimsuit. And last, evening will require me in something other than a bikini and who knows what we’ll be up to? We could be going to nice restaurants or local dive restaurants or family restaurants. I’ve never been to Aruba. Maybe we’ll go to all of those kinds of restaurants and each kind requires a different kind of vacation outfit, not just for me, for all of us. Therefore, we all have to be prepared.”

To this long-winded, multipoint explanation, Brock asked, “You don’t wear bikinis?”

I rolled my eyes and headed to the exit doors, outside of which my car was parked. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Why?”

I pushed through the doors, asking, “Do I actually need to explain?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked his own question of, “Do you own a bikini?”

I answered his question. “No.”

“Babe, you’re at a mall,” he told me something I knew.

“Actually, I’m outside walking to my car.”

“Turn around and buy yourself a bikini”—he paused—“or four.”

“Brock.”

“Sweetness,” his said, his voice had dipped low, “you got a great body. Fuckin’ beautiful. Since you told me about this trip, I’ve been imagining you on the beach in a bikini. I’ve also been imagining you other places in a bikini. I’ve also been imagining taking off your bikini. All this imagining has lasted four weeks. I only got two days left to wait. Don’t take that away from me.”

Mm. I liked that. All of it. So much, I started imagining too.

My imagining took all my attention so I stopped behind a car and studied the tips of my high-heeled boots.

Then something else hit me and I asked, “Do you think it’s okay to be in a bikini around the boys?”

I could actually envision Brock’s eyebrows snapping together before he said, “Uh… yeah.” Then, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” I mumbled.

There was a moment of silence then, softly, “Baby, you just became stepmom to two boys. That doesn’t mean you gotta go June Cleaver.” He ended on a muttered, “Or Christ, at least I hope you don’t.”

I thought about it.