44
A paunchy middle-aged woman with a wicked overbite and the kind of short helmet haircut that strips her of all traces of femininity sits at the front of the room.
“Thanks for asking me to share my story,” she says.
I’ve opted for the Chestnut Hill Friday Night Women’s Meeting tonight—opted to get away from Garrett and Paul and anyone else with a p***s—not because I’m scared of men, but because I’m terrified of my own susceptibility.
I probably shouldn’t have, but I listened to Dwight’s voicemail this morning.
“Jesse, kiddo. How’s it feel to be the big three-three? Call me, will you? There’s a lot I want to say, but not on a machine. I love you though. And I miss you.”
April knows something’s up. Except for after Garrett, I’ve never been one to suggest a women-only environment.
“D
