I straighten from my perch against the van and step closer to him, standing toe to toe. But not a battling toe-to-toe like with Mrs. Song. This kind is different. Heavy with emotion, a brimming glass ready to spill over.

Warmth bubbles in my chest, like a package of my boys’ Pop Rocks found their way next to my heart.

No, bad Anna. No picturing things that sparkle. Or flex. Or resemble any romantic kind of anything with Dylan.

Flutters fill my tummy, the same, uncontrollable butterflies that make an appearance every time he calls.

We’re mirror images, him on one side, me on the other, tilting toward the hunk of wood that serves as our confessional.

My body remains motionless as he leans in. This is it: The First Kiss After Divorce.

Tears build and slide down my cheeks. My car; totaled, my finances; crap, my pool of people to rely on; a puddle.

THE (NON) DATE WHERE I TALK TO KIRAKids gather at the splash pad below a suspended bucket. It wobbles, teetering with water until it slowly tips. High-pitched squeals and boisterous laughter crescendo as the cooling spray offers relief from the oppressive heat.Kira sits across from me at a table, watching the gleeful strains of summer ...

The fork pauses halfway to my mouth. An urge to laugh bubbles and I choke it back. “Women only want you for your body?”

“So, you’re dating the paramedic?” Dylan’s lips stay flat, his eyebrow raised, and he stares straight ahead.