Imogene Scott
I’d kissed my ex-husband.
I’d kissed my ex-husband and liked it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I bury my face in my pillow with a groan. My alarm clock has gone off three times already, but I can’t bring myself to get out of bed. Getting out of bed means facing the aftermath of my choices again, and I’m content to stay in my bubble of delusion.
Sadly, the universe doesn’t agree. Less than a minute after I settle on the decision to loiter beneath the covers all morning like I did yesterday, my phone rings. I ignore it. It rings again.
Another groan travels up my throat. I almost wish cellphones didn’t exist, then I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone at—I peek at the digital alarm clock—eight fifteen on a Monday morning.
I press answer and put the caller on speakerphone
