I’ve kissed exactly one guy, one time. I gave in to a flirtatious look and a moment standing so close I could taste the mint on his breath. When he shoved me backward, hands fisted in my shirt, and lips touching mine, something came alive inside me. I’ve never felt anything like those sparks replacing my blood, or that tingling sensation coating my mouth like sugar crystals. Of all times and places, in a darkened garage, between a deep freeze and a shelf full of tools, I learned more about myself than I had in two decades.
