The next morning dawned hazy and close. And the heat made my head ache right above my eyes.

Sweltering, I pulled open my little fridge, steam rolling out of its depths as the cool air hit the hot. On the top shelf, next to my milk and butter and what was left of the pasta sauce, was the yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

For a long moment, the cold air brushing across the exposed skin of my thighs and arms and neck, I stared at the cake.

She said you could have it.

But the cake felt like a means to an end for me, like I was building a palace on top of bones.

“Stop it,” I muttered and grabbed the cake, shutting the fridge door.

I took the first bite and it was a bit stale, the cake nearly hard, the frosting thick to swallow.

That’s right. I should not enjoy this.

I took a sip of coffee and then another bite and my mouth must have been warm enough, because the thick frosting melted slightly against my tongue.

Oh. That wasn’t bad.

But the thought made me feel guilty and awful.

Just eat it.

The second bite was at the center of the cake, where it was moist and untouched by the cold air of the fridge.

The next bite was practically a mouthful of sprinkles.

When the cake was demolished, only crumbs and thick waves of chocolate frosting against the paper plate, I stared down at a blue sprinkle and green colored sugar and felt like vomiting.

And I didn’t know if it was from the sugar or from last night.

Buzzing and jittery, I dropped a few ice cubes in my coffee and headed out to the field.

I thought about Phil, and I thought about Hoyt.

And then I thought about Dylan.

I’d never felt so safe with a man. And I didn’t know if that was because we were on the phone and not in person, or if it was just because of who Dylan was.

Or maybe it was because of who I was becoming—I didn’t know. And it didn’t really matter.

I was safe with Dylan and I would do all the things he asked because of it. The realization warmed me from the inside.

For the first two hours I mowed the northernmost part of the field, which was largely in the shade, giving the big rocks I’d marked a wide berth. But by eleven a.m. I was soaked with sweat, and on the far side of the field, that oak tree with its rope swing and the swimming hole were too powerful to resist.

I rode the mower to the side of the watering hole farthest away from the little bridge and the rest of the trailer park.

The weeds and cattails were dense, their tips waving far above my head, and I had to push them aside in order to get to the edge of the pool. Which was surprisingly wide and big. The water was clear, with no scum or algae. It drained off in a stream to my left.

Must be spring-fed, I thought.

The oak tree was on the other side, and on this side, the swimming hole had a muddy little beach and a few big rocks close to the shore.

For a skinny-dipping location, I supposed it didn’t get better than this.

“I’m going to do this,” I muttered, bouncing on my toes. And then, before I could stop myself, I peeled off my sweaty, awful clothes. Leaving on my underwear, because I was still Annie McKay after all.

And then with a squeal and a smothered yell, I ran into the pond until it got to my thighs and then I dove underwater, touching the grainy bottom with my chest and my hands before rising above the surface again.

“Oh my God!” I cried, panting because the cold water took my breath away. But oh, how good it felt! If dessert for breakfast had mixed results, skinny-dipping was utterly amazing. All checks marked yes.

I kicked up off the sandy rocky bottom and floated on the surface of the water, my breasts bobbing just slightly out of the water, where the sun felt hot on the white skin that had never, ever seen the light of day before.

The water felt lush, like not just a liquid, like something magical, even. It lifted me and wrapped around me like ribbons. Between my legs, across my chest, over my waist. Under my neck. I scissor-kicked in the water and laughed out loud as water slid up and into my body, slipping through my pubic hair.

My short hair was plastered onto my forehead and I pushed it off into the water, still lying on my back. For the first time since I’d cut it off, I wished for my hair back. Because how awesome would that feel to have my waist-length hair floating in the water around my naked shoulders, over my breasts?

I closed my eyes, imagining the feeling.

My face grew hot in the bright sunlight, so I flipped over on my belly and dove down to the bottom of the pond, well aware that my butt and my see-through underwear had just breached the water for anyone to see.

But no one was there to see it.

So I did it again. And again.

When I’d had enough I did long, slow breaststrokes back to the shore where my clothes lay in a heap.

But damn it. No towel.

Rookie, skinny-dipping mistake.

I stood on shore and gave myself a big, long shake, trying to get all the water off that I could before putting on my gross clothes.

“Well, well, look who’s naked,” a sly voice said, and I jumped sideways, surprised to see Joan sitting up kitty-corner from me in a little cleared area in the weeds I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Oh my God, what…what are you doing?” I cried, throwing my arms into my shirt and slipping it over my head. I jerked my shorts up my legs and fumbled at the button.

“Calm down, honey, they’re just boobs—I’ll hardly faint.” Joan pulled an earbud from her ear and stood up. She wore that pink string bikini like it had been painted on. Honestly, Joan’s body had to be one of the most perfect things I had ever seen.

“What are you doing?” I asked again, trying not to stare at the sleek, round muscles in Joan’s legs or the indentations around her belly button. She looked strong and totally womanly.

What is wrong with me? Why am I staring?

“Working on my tan lines,” she answered, and while I watched, Joan pulled one of the strings holding her top on and the piece collapsed off her body. “I work down at The Velvet Touch and the better my tan lines, the better my tips. Guys like it when they think they’re seeing something forbidden. Even when they’re paying to see all of it. Go figure.”

The little lines bisecting her back and the small triangles around her breasts were white, like milk white, made all the whiter by the dark skin surrounding them.

Joan stepped into the water and when it was deep enough, dove under.

I shoved my feet into my socks and tried to put on my boots before Joan got back to the surface. I could guess what The Velvet Touch was; I could guess Joan was a stripper.

“Running away again?” Joan asked, and I whirled to face her.

“No.”

She smirked. “You sure? Because I think that’s what you do.”

Oh, fuck you, Joan, like you know a thing about me.

Just to prove the woman wrong, I sat down on one of the big boulders on the beach and crossed my legs.

Two could play this rude game.

“Why’d you get in between Phil and Tiffany?” I asked.

Joan leaned back, her white breasts bobbing up, and I watched them for a moment. And then I looked away, cheeks on fire.

Heatstroke. I have heatstroke. Only reason I’m here. Staring at her like a sixteen-year-old boy.

It was the truck-stop parking lot all over again and everything about Joan was carnal and I couldn’t look away.