FORTY-THREE
Alma“I don’t know what to pack.”
My new gift from Leo, a glittery purple hard-shelled suitcase lies empty on the bed. He gave it to me this morning and told me to pack for a seven-day trip.
“Clothes,” he deadpans from the bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth.
“Seriously, do I need outfits for cool weather, tropical weather … what? It’s not as easy as just clothes,” I mock.
He walks out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, and I become flushed. Today marks the end of my eight-week restriction against physical activity. I saw the doctor a few days ago, and she said that my body has healed nicely and that I was clear to resume normal activities on the eight-week mark, which, to reiterate, is today. Leo’s bare chest causes all sorts of crazy hormones to rage within me.
“Stop
