It wasn’t flowers or a love note but diarrheal medicine that made my heart do a slow, inevitable flip-flop in my chest. God help me. God help us both. I cleared my throat, surprised at the emotion clogging it. “I’ll give it fifteen minutes. What’s our signal?” “It should be something subtle like, ‘Derek, I need your throbbing cock in my womb right now,’” he said, smoothly shifting gears and accelerating around a graffitied school bus that was riding the rumble strips in the bike lane. “My family will understand.”
