“Willowdean.” I turn. He moves toward me so quickly that I feel like I’m moving, too. Our noses brush and his lips stop short of mine. My mind’s eye has yet to catch up and process that he is here, in my bubble, redefining everything I thought I knew of myself. My discretion. My pride. They’re both gone and it’s like I’ve got horse blinders on. I am kissing Bo Larson. I am thinking of Bo Larson. For the first time in my life, I feel tiny. I feel small. And not in the shrinking flower kind of way. This feeling: it empowers me. “I want to kiss you,” he says, and with each word, his lips brush against mine I lose all words and, instead, lace my fingers through his hair and pull his lips to meet mine.