Page 36 of Stay Wild Darlin’

If your very hot boss bandaged your arm and then touched your thigh and groaned like he wanted to devour you—but didn’t—and then you proceeded to masturbate in his guest bed while drunk and woke up in last night’s clothes and hungover to a note saying, “We’re at a friend’s house. Not work-related. Stop by if you want.”

Do you go? Or do you fake your own death and start a new life under a different name?

I hit Post. Deep down, I already knew what I wanted, but I didn’t know if I should.

I wandered into the kitchen, stomach gnawing at itself, and opened the fridge. I found bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a banana that wasn’t too bruised. Close enough to breakfast.

I smeared the peanut butter thick, sliced the banana, and slapped it together before dropping onto the one chair at the tiny kitchen table.

This room would definitely be next. As soon as he was gone this weekend, I was fixing it up. More chairs. A new table. Something that didn’t look like it came from a fraternity house.

I sighed, chewed my first bite, and opened my phone.

The post had blown up.

Responses were flying in, and I scrolled, a mix of laughter and anxiety tumbling through my chest as I read:

@SingleAndThriving: Show up looking hot. Accidentally say “Daddy.” Then leave.

@WitchyBitch89: This sounds like the beginning of my favorite kind of fanfic. Make eye contact.

@SoftHeartScreams: Ok but . . . did he really do anything wrong? Sounds like tension. Not a boundary crossed. If you want to go, go. But don’t do it because you feel bad. Do it because you want to.

@MomOfThreeChaos: I’d die. I would simply perish. Move states. Quit your job. Change names. You had a good run.

I choked on my bite, half laughing, half mortified.

These women were feral.

But God . . . a few of them were right.

I reread the last comment again, thumb hovering over the screen.

Ride the wave.

Or run from it.

I still hadn’t decided.

I scrolled through the replies, half smiling at the ridiculous ones, pausing longer on the serious ones. Why did an online group of strangers feel more supportive than anyone I’d ever known in real life?

I didn’t have family to call. No best friend to FaceTime and scream-laugh about the chaos of last night.

I had no one.

Just me.

What was I supposed to do? Sit here? Alone? Like usual?

No.

This was supposed to be my change. A new place. A fresh start. I was rebuilding.

I messed up last night. I drank too much. I got in my feelings. I touched myself in the guest room of a man I worked for, but we didn’t do anything.

He touched my thigh. I moaned his name into a pillow. That wasn’t a felony—it was a Tuesday in most of those group chat threads.

We were adults. Messy, flawed, fully capable adults. Hell, he didn’t know what I did after he left. He had no idea. So maybe I could let it go.