It made a strange sort of sense to Anne, as much as anything could make sense at the moment. What they needed was distance. Separation. Perspective. And Joshua Tree, a vast and desolate desert expanse dotted with hill-sized boulders, was a little over two hours away without traffic. Not too far, and not too close, either.
I kissed Sadie.
Anne had never been to Joshua Tree, preferring the kind of rocks that came in a glass. Sadie, though, knew the park from a solo trip she’d apparently taken soon after her divorce. “It’s the only spot I can think of where there’s room for this,” she said, pointing at herself, then Anne.
I kissed Sadie.
Still sitting shell-shocked on the couch, Anne wondered what the hell you wore on a spur-of-the-moment road trip to the desert provoked by a life-upending crisis. Linen? “I need to get out of these clothes first.”
Sadie made a strangled sound.
“What?” Then—oh. Heat flooded her cheeks. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t.” Sadie’s eyes seemed a little too large, and as Anne watched, her face reddened, color spilling across her skin.
Was Sadie—? Anne couldn’t let herself think it, shecouldn’t, and yet she did, the idea stealing her breath. Sadie was picturing Anne out of her clothes.
Sadie wanted her like that. Sadie needed her.
Anne needed Sadie.
The thought moved through her body like wildfire, licking everywhere, and with that quick flush came a wild, terrified, thrilled incredulity.I can feel like this. I’m capable of it.
“Anne?”
Anne pressed one hand against her own cheek. It felt hot to the touch.
“I’m—” Sadie’s chest was rising and falling, her nipples hard against the fabric of her shirt. She shifted on the couch, her hips twitching slightly, and just the sight of that small, small move spilled kerosene on Anne’s heat. “Anne, I’m—”
“Don’t tell me,” Anne gasped. She wasaching. “Don’t tell me what you’re feeling, okay? Or thinking. It’s too much right now.” She’d never known whattoo muchreally meant.
Sadie inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Right. All right. I’ll go take a lukewarm shower. That’ll help. You go—change. Yes? You change, and I’ll distract myself, I’ll think about horrible things, terrible things, I’ll change, too, and then we can reconvene here in an hour, when we’re less—” She broke off and glanced away, as if even looking at Anne was overwhelming.
“Yes.” That was a good idea. Anne stood up so quickly, her vision blackened at the edges. “Yes. Distraction. Horrible things. You think about massive cuts to public arts programs. Or the burning of the Library of Alexandria. Or what it would feel like to give a party and have no one show up. Just—do whatever you need to stop thinking—”
—about me getting out of these clothes. Stop thinking about my shirt crumpled on the floor, stop thinking about stumbling together into the hallway wall because we can’t make it just a few more feet to the bed, stop—
“Burning library, Sadie,” Anne croaked. “Hundreds of thousands of scrolls—we lost all that ancient knowledge—” She practically ran to her bedroom.
Once the door was safely closed behind her, she stood in the middle of the room and took deep breaths. Half an hour ago, she’d been—what? Not the Anne Lowell she’d thought she was, but not this, either. Not a shamble of electric nerve endings masquerading as a human being.
Realizing she was attracted to Sadie was one thing, but the sudden, shattering hunger of it was another. Desire swelled inside her, huge and overwhelming, like a vast cathedral, a place built not for prayer but for longing.
For the very first time, Annewanted.
She inhaled and exhaled deeply, over and over for several minutes, until every tortured part of her begging to be touched began to quiet down.
Anne had always assumed that intense sexual cravings were a complete myth, just a feeling that everyone collectively agreed to lie about. That was part of being a woman, wasn’t it? To pretend your private life was far more exciting than it actually was, so that no one would notice any cracks in the facade. Everyone hid the truth: Sex just wasn’t that enjoyable. Or so she’d told herself for years.
Since adolescence, she’d smiled and nodded along whenever her friends had chattered about their boyfriends or husbands.Oh, Josh really knows how to please a woman. I’m so glad Mike has a hairy chest—I love a man with a hairy chest, you know, like Hugh Jackman. Steven’s big arms really do it for me. Would you believe Ben’s into spanking? Iknow, you’d never think it to look at him. What about you, Anne? What does James do that drives you wild?
I don’t kiss and tell, girls, she’d tell them,but Iwillsay that he’s no slouch in bed. And then she’d wink, the gesture always overexaggerated, designed to steer them into squawks of delight—and to distract Anne from that ever-present stomach twinge brought on by girl talk.
Had they hidden their realities too? Was their laughter as manufactured as hers? Or—as she’d secretly feared for years, decades—did they really look at the bodies of their men with desire?
Was Anne locked out of a normal feeling everyone else had? Was something deeply, irrevocably wrong with her?
Throughout her life, those questions had bubbled up inside Anne, always unanswered and brushed aside. No use in navel-gazing, not when she had an entirely respectable and privileged life. The only thing self-contemplation did was make you miserable.