When Wildflowers Bloom

1. One

One

I never expected the last year of my life to start this way, but here I am. Buck naked and so nervous I want to puke.

Dropping my head side to side, I attempt to stretch the anxiety-induced tension out of my neck. I’m screwed, and not in the way I want to be.

My reflection stares back at me from the sticky note-lined mirror—I can’t do this.

A one-night stand? Whose bright idea was this anyway?

Oh yeah—mine.

Hands trembling, I pull my long blonde hair to one side, eyes pinging from the sticky notes back to my body. Tattoos, scars, muscles, fragility. Strong yet broken, the paradox of my life.

“Okay, Birthday Girl, let’s repeat why we’re doing this,” I say to myself, plucking the note titled Reasons to Follow Through from the mirror. I point a finger into the air, like a sort of charismatic leader, feigning conviction as I read it. “Because this day is likely marking the beginning of the end. Because one last night will help strengthen us for battle. Because though we are royally fucked, we can still fuck.” My face twists hearing my voice say the last statement. I’ve never once called sex fucking. I’m not some kind of barbarian.

But maybe that’s who Tonight Me is. Someone who’s vulgar about sex, especially the casual and unattached variety, drinks alcohol, and doesn’t give a shit about rules. Or lists. Or consequences. Tonight Me doesn’t have a care in the world. Tonight Me is just a girl who celebrates her birthday with a good lay.

The thought tightens my throat, and again I study each of the lists, my body, and overall ridiculous situation.

I’m doing this.

Taking my go-to blue dress off the hanger, I pull it over my head until it slips down my body. I rub my hands down my hips, accentuated by the navy fabric, and adjust the thin straps on my shoulders that show off the arms that have spent too many hours in the gym. Hours that have all prepared me for this very moment. This year.

I smooth fabric across my chest, convincing myself that instead of boyish, my flat chest makes me look athletic. Approachable. I scrunch my nose— are chest size and approachability even connected?

I grab a pair of underwear from a drawer before putting them back, deciding that no, Tonight Me is a commando kind of girl. I try not to let myself be disturbed by this .

I could call the whole thing off; it’s not like anyone knows my plan. Instead, I give my reflection a small smile, find the sticky note that says, 42% of women meet one-night stand partners in bars (a statistic I found on the internet) and let a fresh batch of determination take hold of me. Pulling another note from the mirror—the most important one—I skim it for the hundredth time and drop it into my purse.

With one last deep breath, I force myself out of my house, into my minivan, and down the five miles of road to the highest rated bar in town: Libby’s Outpost.

I’ve driven by it daily for years but have never once stopped. Turns out, someone who doesn’t drink alcohol or have any kind of social life has no actual reason to go into a bar.

In the parking lot I pause, staring at the neon beer signs with one last deep breath that propels me toward the entrance.

A little voice inside helps me fortify myself with positive affirmations as I open the door. You can do this , it says as I nudge through the crowd.

When I slide onto the stool, the voice tells me, You look like a million bucks in that blue dress.

I force myself to believe it. This dress will be the magical vessel that shows off my most desirable parts and hides everything I lack while guiding me to the man who will satisfy my needs for a night.

With a jolt of feigned confidence, I flip my blonde, windblown mess of a mane over my shoulder, my unspoken, Look at me, boys .

Of course, I have no idea if there are any acceptable boys in this place because it’s so dark and crowded, but internet statistics from a random poll are on my side. This will work.

I hope.

The bartender, a pretty woman who looks to be late thirties with dark hair and red lips, wears a plain black tank top that shows off her lean build and olive skin. She drops a coaster in front of me with a smile. “Whatcha drinkin’ tonight?” she asks.

Other than occasional glasses of red wine with dinner, everything I know about alcohol comes from my dad’s dusty bottle of scotch and movies.

“Two fingers,” I say, firm, taking the movie route.

She tilts her head to the side, eyebrows pinched. “Two fingers…” –she pauses and cocks her head—“of what?”

Shit.

“Umm…do you have anything organic?”

When I smile, she frowns. Right.

My eyes dart around the wall of bottles behind her for something that screams woman on a mission without artificial dyes. Something strong that will burn my throat and the doubts of everything I’m about to do.

Bingo!

“Triple sec,” I say with confidence at the same time an explosion of clacks come from balls colliding at a pool table behind me, making me jump.

“You want two fingers...of triple sec?” Her red lips press in a tight line.

I nod and look down the length of the bar to see if I’m forgetting something. Garnishes. Right.

“And an olive. And orange wedge!” I point my finger at her like a gun with an unspoken and don’t you forget it.

“Two fingers of triple sec…with an olive and orange wedge. Got it.” She gives me one last lingering look before turning away and grabbing a bottle.

“That’s an interesting order,” a man says from a stool next to me.

I turn my head to look at him. His dark hair, long enough to tuck behind his ears, frames a handsome face with a square jaw. He has a beard, thick yet trimmed, and a toothpick bobbing on his lips. The corners of his dark brown eyes crinkle when they meet mine. He’s wearing a black T-shirt—plain—that pulls across his shoulders and chest.

In a different life, I would touch him to see if looks this good are real, but lucky for him, I’m in this life and not wasting my time.

I flick him an uninterested smile as I pull a blue sticky note out of my purse and alternate between skimming it and scanning the crowd.

“I’ve never seen you in here before,” he says, taking a pull of his beer.

I shift on my stool as the bartender sets my drink down.

“Aren’t you observant.”

Translation: Leave me alone.

He doesn’t. “Do you live here? ”

I look at him. “I’m from…” My gaze drops to the mountainous label on the beer in his hand, reminding me I’m someone else tonight. Someone free. “The Rockies.” Aiming for mysterious, I miss with awkward. “I’m here visiting family.”

Both he and the bartender are silent as their eyes ping from me to each other to the drink in front of me.

I pretend not to notice.

I down the liquid in my glass in a single gulp and suck the orange wedge like I’ve seen on TV. I eat the olive next, smacking my lips and following with a loud sigh that I hope masks my disgust. It’s gross, like orange juice syrup mixed with salad dressing, but I don’t show that. I smile. Tonight Me likes it.

The bartender’s eyes widen like a cartoon character. “Okay,” she drawls, dragging out the word with a sort of skepticism that I ignore. Smiling, she reaches across the bar. “I’m Libby, the owner, by the way.” She lifts her chin toward the man next to me. “This is Bo.”

Some of the tension dissolves from my shoulders, no doubt from the hard alcohol, as I shake her hand. “I’m…” I pause, panicking slightly. Tonight Me is someone who does everything different. Has a different name even. Yes! “Pam. Yes, Pam.” I clear my throat. “Beesly. That’s it. Pam Beesly.” My only idea for a fake name is the secretary from The Office, and it makes me want to punch myself in the face.

“Well, Pam Beesly , nice to have you here…from the Rockies,” she says .

She drops my hand, giving Bo another knowing look before walking away to help another customer.

“I guess you are from around here?” I ask, turning to look at Bo.

He has a casual, easy way about him. Maybe he’s faking it like me, or maybe he’s lucky enough to have the kind of life where happiness comes as easy as breathing. Either way, it suits him. Either way, Real Me feels like a gigantic bruise being pushed on when I notice.

“Guilty as charged,” he says, lifting his bottle. “Why are you here alone if you’re visiting family?”

“It’s my birthday,” I say with a grin.

His forearms drop to the bar, his chin pulls back, and a crease forms between his eyebrows. “Where is everyone else?”

I’m about twelve seconds into my lies and already confused.

“Sleeping.” I clear my throat, glancing at the clock to see it’s only seven o’clock. “We had an early party because of the time change between the Rockies—where I live—and here in North Carolina where I’m visiting family.” Every word feels like trying to fit a round peg into a square hole. I realize that math makes absolutely zero sense, so I add, “We partied all day and drank alcohol, so now they are tired. I just needed a break. Alone.” I pause, then, “To celebrate myself.”

“Ah,” he says, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at me, removing the ridiculous toothpick balancing on his bottom lip. “Well, happy birthday, Pam Beesly,” he says before taking another pull of his beer. “How do you plan on celebrating yourself?”

I smile. “With fine spirits and a one-night stand, of course. ”

Bo chokes on the drink in his mouth.

I laugh, waving a hand toward him. “Don’t worry, you don’t meet the criteria,” I say, pressing the sticky note smoothly on the bar top.

His face is a mismatched landscape of amusement and curiosity as he looks down at it.

“What’s this?” he asks, leaning toward me to read it better. When he’s in my space, he smells like so many good fresh things—clean, crisp, evergreen. Winter in summer. A mountain breeze.

“My list,” I say like it’s obvious, leaning away slightly from him and his scent. “For finding the right candidate.”

He rubs a hand across his bearded chin when he leans back. “So to recap,” he starts, amusement spreading more with each slow spoken word. “You are here from the Rockies, alone for your birthday, are going to have a one-night stand, and made a list, on a sticky note, of qualifications?”

My spine straightens defiantly, as if my skeleton is offended by the way he says it. Like I’m ridiculous.

“Yes,” I say defensively, glancing back at my list.

Another scan of the crowd. There are a few couples tangled up in dark corners, but plenty of men who seem unattached. It’s a small town; Bo probably knows everyone here.

“You know,” I say, turning to look at him. “You could help me.”

“Help you?” The laugh that comes with the question is a deep, rumbly sound I feel in my own chest .

“Yes. You probably know everyone here!” I gesture to the people around the room. “And I have no clue where to start.”

There’s a playfulness in his eyes as he looks at the small blue piece of paper and back to me.

“Explain the list and then I’ll help you. Maybe ,” he says, bringing the bottle back up to his smiling lips. The look on his face is cunning. Like this is a sort of game.

“Done,” I say, happy to share my well-thought-out bullet points. “One, on a scale of one to ten, I want a seven—max. I’m sure that’s the opposite of what some women want, but I’m looking for mediocre looks here. Attractive enough to hold my interest, but not so good-looking I feel like I’m staring at the sun. Eight and up?” I solemnly shake my head. “Hard no. I’ll just end up thinking about the hotness later, and it negates the purpose. Tonight is it.”

He stares. I continue.

“Two is straightforward. Single. No weird loopholes; they have to be unattached. Not because I’m looking for a future, but because I wouldn’t do that.”

He nods, something flashing in his eyes as his jaw tics. “Of course.”

“Three, mid-level charming. Same as one. I don’t want to cringe at the experience, but I can’t think of the things he says later. Funny, not too funny. Attentive, not too attentive.” I pause, a silent got it? and he nods again. “Four, he needs to live alone. I’m not doing some weird walk of shame by a mom sitting at a kitchen table reading her newspaper.”

“I can see how that would be awkward,” he says with a smirk .

“And five,” I pause, considering what I’ve written. “Age. Between thirty and forty-five.” I look at him. “I don’t know, I’m thirty-seven today—would it be weird if he was thirty? Is it creepy of me to prey on the young?”

This time he laughs, and for the first time I notice his perfect white teeth. “Prey? Thirty is still a grown man, Pam Beesly.”

I like the way my fake name sounds on his lips.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Thirty-five,” he says.

I shift in my stool. “So would that feel weird? I mean, you being younger than me, if I were to come up and suggest, you know…”

“I think weird is the last way it would feel.”

Before I can even think about what he’s implying, Libby grabs my empty glass.

“Another drink?” she asks with a smile.

When my mouth opens, it’s Bo’s voice I hear. “Libby, Pam Beesly here wants our help to find a one-night stand in this crowd.”

Her eyes go saucer-sized as her smile morphs to a gaping O.

I square my shoulders and lift my chin—again—the only move I know that tells everyone to take me seriously. “I do. And I would like another drink. A beer…in a bottle…without rocks.” I toss my hair over my shoulders and rest my forearms on the bar.

I know I’m doing terribly; I can tell by the way everything I say feels backward in my mouth and all the staring. When she puts a bottle of beer in front of me, I simply take a sip and try not to react to the weird, bready taste .

Libby looks at my list, eyebrows pinched, as I will the beer down my throat. “What’s this?”

“Her list for finding the right man,” Bo tells her before I can respond, a smile curling half his mouth.

I stay silent as she leans over the bar and twists her neck so she can read it. When she’s done, she looks at me, nose scrunched. “Sounds like you’re looking for a dud.”

My chin jerks back in offense. “No!” My eyes flick to the list then back to her. “Not a dud, just someone…without risk. Easy.”

She snorts, resting her forearms on the bar and cocking her head to the side. “A.K.A. A dud.”

When I look at Bo, his eyebrows raise as he takes another sip from his bottle. Like he agrees with her. Which irritates me.

“Tha—”

“If this wasn’t a one-night stand,” Libby says, cutting me off, “what would you have on this list? Like if you were looking for something…not easy.”

I hesitate. I’ve never once in my adult life let myself think of this. A sort of dream man who would make me swoon. Those dreams died long ago when I was a ten-year-old standing at a gravesite.

Still, I hear myself clear my throat and say, “Patient.” As soon as the word is out, Libby stills mid-wipe of the rag and looks at me like she wasn’t expecting it. “And adores his family. And accepting of people. Has a career he loves,” I pause, thinking of my own parents. “He would make things people love maybe…” My voice trails off as I allow myself to get lost in a fictitious image that will never be real .

Libby’s “Wow,” makes me blink out of my fantasy land, reminding me I’m in a bar, not looking for a happily ever after. I’m here for an orgasm, not a wedding band. When I look at her, she has a look on her face. Like she knows something I don’t. “Hear that, Bo?” She pegs him with the same look she was just giving me. “Sounds an awful lot like someone I know.”

His chin dips, eyes narrow. When he says, “Libby,” she waves a dismissive hand through the air but locks her eyes on mine.

“Like someone who builds houses?” she asks me.

“Um, I guess.” I mirror her position, forearms on the bar. “But I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. I don’t need a builder for what I’m about to do.”

Bo shifts next to me. This time, when he says Libby’s name, there’s a stern tone that wasn’t there before. Palms facing him, she rolls her eyes muttering, “Have it your way,” with a shake of her head. Then she’s gone, down the bar pouring a drink.

I turn to Bo, ignoring whatever it was that just happened. “So what do you think?”

“Tell me something you like,” he says, ignoring my question.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

He shrugs. “Tell me something you like so I know who a good match would be.”

“Fine.” I pause, thinking of my favorite things. “Lists,” I say, straightening my spine at the way his eyebrows pinch. “I like lists because they give me control in the chaos. ”

There’s a seriousness to the way he looks at me that makes me feel exposed, so I quickly add, “And country music.” Then I fully deflect with, “Tell me something you like.”

“Sitting at this bar with you.” It comes out of his mouth so easily I roll my eyes. I don’t have time for his…whatever it is.

I point to my list. “Are you going to help me do this or not?”

“Have you ever had a one-night stand before?” he asks.

“Maybe…”

“Do you usually drink two fingers of triple sec?”

He’s trying to shatter my lies, and it makes my blood boil. “Why does that matter?” I demand.

He stares at me as a George Strait song starts to play through the speakers. My plan—and heart—cracks with every familiar lyric. The normally comforting sound of his voice becomes a cruel mockery of my life.

My forehead drops to the bar, eyes screwed shut, and I hear myself groan, “I can’t do this.”

Bo’s stillness lets me know he’s uncomfortable, not that I blame him. Nobody comes to a bar to sit next to this kind of crazy, even I know that.

The silence that follows lasts years.

“Why don’t I meet these sticky note criteria?” There’s a playfulness in his rusty voice that I can hear even with my eyes closed.

Somehow, I lift my head off the bar, stitch myself back together, and look at him.

“All this”—I gesture from his head down the length of his torso—“is way more than a seven, my friend.”

He laughs with a shake of his head and bobble of his toothpick, but even in the neon, I swear the peaks of his cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. For the first time, I notice his dimples, visible despite the scruff of his beard.

I force another sip of my beer and swallow the gag before it comes out of my mouth.

“What about him?” he asks, pointing to a guy shooting pool.

I scoff. “Maybe a six, but that gold chain takes him down to a four.”

He laughs softly, then repeats, “Him?” tilting his head across the bar to a man who smiles with all his too-big teeth when our eyes meet.

I fight to keep the laugh in my mouth. “You know, it’s the beret and fully unbuttoned shirt that makes it hard to say if he’s a one or a twelve.”

He laughs, hair falling across his face, toothpick bobbling on his lips.

I don’t know if Bo knows that I need this or if it’s just who he is, but it’s what we spend the next hour doing. I don’t drink any more of my beer and he doesn’t order another one as he asks me to rank every man in the bar.

Just like that, I’m a stranger in a foreign land, and he’s a local on a barstool. When we get bored of my ranking, we talk about nothing important. I don’t tell him about my family, about my fate, and I don’t ask about his. Every answer I give him is more truth than lie, but never fully me. It’s easy and fun, and for one night in my whole exhausting life it doesn’t feel like a battle to the death .

I forget about my rules and plans, and I soak the ease of him in like a dry sponge absorbing water from a swimming pool—entirely and with excess.

“What’s with the toothpick?” I ask as it rolls across his lips. Mesmerizing.

He pulls it out and looks at it, as if he’s forgotten it was there. “Gives me something to do with my mouth.” Then he gives this smile that starts out small before slowly curving into something big. Dangerous, even. Without pulling his eyes off mine, he snaps the toothpick in half and drops it into the mouth of the empty bottle in front of him.

Either his words or his smile or the unexpected snapping of wood heats my chest. My neck. Some place low in my belly.

I shift on my stool. “What would be on your list?” I ask, driving the conversation away from his unnerving mouth. “If you were in the same position as me, I mean.”

He blows out a small breath, looking away from me and spinning the empty beer bottle in front of him. “I don’t think what I need can fit on a sticky note.”

“Why?”

He hesitates, still spinning the empty beer bottle in a way that’s hypnotizing to watch. When I don’t think he’s going to answer, he says, “Because sometimes life is messy.”

Then we’re quiet. As much as I want to ask what he means by that, I know what it feels like to not want to talk about it too. What it’s like to have a mess .

Finally, “I have to go,” and I hate the words as soon as I say them. Maybe it’s him or maybe it’s because it’s just not everything else, but I don’t care. I don’t want it to end. I want to be Pam Beesly at a bar with a man named Bo forever.

“I’ll walk you out,” he responds. And when he stands, I notice how tall he is, how much space he takes up, and how he can wear a pair of blue jeans like it’s a high-paying job.

I say goodbye to Libby, who gives me a genuine smile and an easy, “Come see me again if you’re ever in town.” She says it like she means it—like maybe we could be real friends—and it makes my chest ache.

Outside, we’re in empty parking lot around the back of the building lit only by a streetlight. Muffled sounds of music come in waves from the front of the bar when the door randomly opens and closes.

Bo crosses his arms over his chest and leans on my minivan with a smirk, light flickering in his eyes like two slivers of the moon. “Nice ride.”

I shake my head with a small laugh. “It’s for work.” Then I remember, “My dad’s work, I mean.”

I notice how alone we are as much as I notice my urge to touch the strands of hair that tumble across his forehead. To want his beard beneath my fingertips. Between them.

“When do you go back to the Rockies, Pam Beesly?” he asks.

“Tomorrow morning,” I say, leaning against the minivan as a small smirk tugs at his lips .

“I can’t let you go without telling you…” His pause has the power to make me stop breathing. “Nobody drinks triple sec straight.”

I snort out a laugh. “That explains the taste.”

I look him over one last time. From the lines and angles of his face in the night to the casual ease of his body leaning against my minivan. In a different life…in a different life.

My fa?ade is already faltering, the Cinderella effect of the night starting to fade. I’m thinking of tomorrow’s workday, what I’ll have for breakfast, how the alcohol is damaging me, and what time I’ll go to yoga to try to undo it all. My mind is loud, cluttered, and makes my eyes burn.

I lift my chin toward him, a million different things I want to say bouncing through me. I debate asking him if he wants to go back to my place, but Pam Beesly doesn’t have a place here. This is the end, and I want to cry because it’s always the goddamn end.

“So Bo—” I don’t know what I’m going to say next, but it doesn’t matter. He unfolds his arms, steps forward, and presses his palms against the minivan on either side of me. A capturing.

It’s his pause.

My slight nod.

Then impact.

His mouth is on mine and my body goes limp while simultaneously being shocked to life by a jolt of electricity from the way it feels to have his skin touch mine.

As fast as his mouth touches me, it pulls away. And— what the hell? That’s nowhere near enough.

Eyes flicking between mine, he must see that I want more, because a wicked grin spreads across his face as he— slowly —leans toward me.

When his lips find mine again—bliss.

His tongue, rubbing against my lips—melting me—retreats away when I open my mouth. He’s teasing me. I can feel his smile when I too eagerly use my own to reach for his. I can’t help it. I want him. This. Desperately. And he knows it. He pushes his body up against mine and he’s already half-hard, sending a fresh shot of want blazing through me like a brushfire.

His mouth moves across my jaw and down my neck, tongue swirling against my bare skin. He grips my hips so tightly I might bruise. And yet, I don’t care.

The way he feels and tastes is like everything else about him—a mountain breeze.

When he pulls away, I’m breathless. The smolder in his eyes matches how the inside of my entire body feels.

Compared to his quiet, my panting sounds like a hurricane.

Don’t let him go , the little voice inside me whispers.

So I don’t.

Just this once.

Instead of getting in the driver’s seat, I match the heat in his gaze, pulling the handle to the back door. When it slides open, I wrap one hand around his neck, and we fall inside the back of the van together.