Oh my god, do I look okay?” It’s not the question I meant to ask, but in my nervousness it’s the one that falls out of my mouth.

Jackson smiles at me, the late afternoon sun forming a halo around his head. We’re standing on the sidewalk in Boston in front of Aphrodite’s Closet, a sex-positive, female-run sex shop. Some of the mannequins in the window wear crotchless underwear and neon silk thongs, while others dangle fluffy novelty handcuffs from their plastic wrists. When I look at them I feel remarkably overdressed and in way over my head.

Jackson’s eyes take an appreciative pass over my body, slow enough to make my face flame. “You look great. In fact, if we didn’t have a meeting, I’d take you home and—”

“Jackson!” I cut him off. I glance down at my dress and booties. This morning, as I stood in front of my boxes and suitcase, I had a small identity crisis. What the hell does a lube CEO look like? I decided to go for stylish and professional, but I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard. And I’m still not sure I’ve gotten it right.

Jackson catches my hand and squeezes. “Anyway, they don’t care what you’re wearing. They want to know how our lube and our party can bring in revenue for their shop.”

Easy for him to say. As usual, Jackson looks gorgeous. I had to tell Jackson where we were going, in the end, and he showed up for the drive to Boston wearing a crisp, hunter-green shirt that makes his eyes pop. He’s shaved the stubble, too, but his hair’s still styled with rebellion, the brown strands of it trained into the just-fucked look he wears so well.

Okay. I squeeze his hand back before dropping it. I can do this.

I’m here in Boston, a million miles away from Swan’s Hollow, and my secret is safe. I have bigger things to worry about, like impressing the store manager, Honey. I’m fine. I force a smile on my face and open the door.

Aphrodite’s Closet is a treasure chest of adult novelties—things I’ve only seen or read about online—and I leave Jackson by the cash wrap as I try to locate an employee. Since everyone looks pretty casual it’s hard to tell who’s who in the store, but finally I notice a name tag on a girl standing near a row of vibrators.

I introduce myself and ask for Honey. The girl, whose tag says “Bella,” nods toward the back of the store, a small stud glinting in her nose. “Honey’s on a call but I’ll let her know you’re here. Feel free to browse around while you wait.”

As I walk around, it becomes clear that the front of the store was the tame section. Toward the back, BDSM gear is displayed tastefully—silk eye masks hang on twirling racks and shiny nipple clamps glitter like polished jewels in a glass display case. A month ago these things would have made me squirm, but now they’re part of my everyday experiences. I’m totally fine. That is, until I hear the noises.

Over the low, calm music in the store comes the methodical sound of something heavy slapping against skin. Sure enough, I turn the corner to see a couple standing in the aisle—fully dressed, thank god—the man holding a leather flogger in his hand. It’s surreal how distinctly normal they are. She could be a librarian and he could work for the post office, but they’ve got this private life that’s the stuff of erotic novels. Will my lube ever find its way to their bedside table?

“I don’t know,” the woman says to the man. “I think maybe something heavier?”

I hurry into the next aisle to give them privacy and pretend to be keenly interested in a leather bustier.

“You must be Delilah.” The voice comes over my shoulder, making me jump. I turn around, guilty, as if I’ve been exposed as a voyeur.

“That’s me.” I shake the woman’s hand with a smile. Please consider me professional. Please say yes.

Honey looks exactly the way she sounded on the phone—a beaming black woman with a smile as sweet as her namesake and a chest so voluptuous she puts Abigail to shame. Jackson looks at me over Honey’s shoulder with an eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face, nodding his chin in the direction of the flogging, which has resumed. I have to ignore him or I’ll never be able to focus on this meeting.

“Glad me and Mr. Overbrook found you.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Mr. Overbrook. It might even be better than Skippy Sawmill. Jackson’s not going to hear the end of this.

Honey leads us to the back room, just a tiny desk and a few folding chairs. “Sorry about the tight fit,” she apologizes as we take a seat. “We tried to keep more floor space for the inventory.”

“That makes perfect sense.”

Honey smiles. “So what have you brought me?”

I hand Honey a sample bottle that our new supplier sent to me. Just like the first time I saw it, it gives me a thrill. There’s something kind of surreal about seeing Penchant’s name printed on a label, crisp and clean. We added a fig leaf logo to our branding after our designer suggested a pop of color, and the green image feels fresh and hopeful. The rest of the bottles will be shipping from my supplier soon, and the idea of a whole pallet full of them makes happy goosebumps rise on my arms.

“These will be available in a retail box,” I explain to Honey, showing her some images that our graphic designer worked up. “So we’ll have everything ready to go for the party.”

Honey opens the safety seal and rubs some lube on her hands right there. It makes me smile, remembering the way Jackson and I did the exact same thing at my kitchen sink. It feels like a million years ago, but I also know this whole process is just starting.

Honey reaches across the table for a baby wipe, listening to me explain what we love about the lube.

“Not only is this one hypoallergenic, but it lasts forever, and doesn’t get sticky or have a weird smell.” I feel breathless and amped up, my excitement for this project spilling out of me as I talk. “Part of our business is also sex education,” I tell her, diving into the outcome of my latest brainstorming session. “We’ll have weekly blog posts and we’re aiming to feature interviews with other sex educators. We want to be a resource for people.”

Honey nods along as she cleans her hands. “Okay, I like the lube and I like the packaging. Very sleek.” She smiles. “I like what you guys are doing here. We’ll take twenty for the shop to start, and we’ll sell them at the party.”

It’s all I can do not to hug her.

“Thank you so much,” Jackson and I both say. I don’t know if Honey realizes how much of a chance she just gave us, but I’m not going to let her down. Jackson and I spend thirty more minutes with Honey finalizing the details of the launch party before we head back out into the afternoon.

Outside, it’s started to rain—fat, warm drops that speckle the pavement.

“Let me pull the car around for you,” Jackson offers.

I agree and wait for him on the sidewalk, smiling. In a little over two weeks I’ll be back here, sharing Penchant with the world. I’m so, so ready to do this, to let this little business have wings. I’m so ready to be back here in the city, back with the bustle of people, with the Boston Public Library and a hundred coffee shops at my fingertips. I’m ready to reclaim my spot, to prove that, while I may have run away from my cheating boyfriend, it was only to come back stronger.

“Natalie?”

I look around, confused. The person calling my name isn’t Jackson, but it’s a familiar voice. “Matthew?” There he is, jaywalking across the street to make his way to me.

I freeze for a second before I straighten my shoulders to meet him. Because yep, yep, I am standing in broad daylight outside a sex shop with my purse full of business cards and my arms full of goodies and a smile on my face that’s unreal.

This is my life. My wild and hilarious life. And looking at Matthew now, I’m reminded of just how much more fun I’m having than I was before.

“Matthew, hi.” He’s wearing a god-awful tie I always hated, but he still looks like the man I lived with—the comfortable smile lines around his mouth, his square, handsome jaw. I suck in a deep breath, but the rolling tide of loss washing over me isn’t about him at all. I miss Boston, yes. But Matthew’s absence doesn’t hurt the way I expected.

Matthew shoves his hands into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. “What are you doing here?”

I could answer a hundred ways that would dance around the truth—I’m waiting for a friend, I just got caught here in the rain—but Delilah Overbrook doesn’t give a fuck.

“I own a personal lubricant company.” His face goes red and I smile.

“Did I hear you correctly?” he sputters. God, he never would have been right for me. Matthew always like the idea of having an artistic girlfriend, but I don’t think he ever fully accepted the reality of it, of me. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like Aphrodite’s Closet while I just had one of my proudest moments ever in there.

“You did hear right.” I broaden my smile. I’m not the Natalie who ran away from Boston, and I don’t want to be her anymore. The new me is way, way more fun to hang out with. She’s closer to the person I want to be. “Our launch party is here in a few weeks. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like.” I know full well he’ll never show.

Jackson pulls around the corner just then, the little Mini Cooper double parked in traffic to wait for me. I know my cue when I see it.

“There’s my ride,” I tell Matthew. “But look up Penchant Products in a few weeks. You’re not going to find a better silicone lube out there.” Then I smile and can’t resist going for the kill. “Maybe you can use it with Wendy.” I shrug casually and stroll toward the car. “Or maybe not.” Then I walk right past Matthew’s shocked face and get into the car. When I close the door I plant a kiss on Jackson so hot the windows steam.

“What do you say,” I ask Jackson as we pull away from the curb, “about finally giving our lube a try when we get home?”

“For science?”

I nod in confirmation. “For science.” It’s possibly, probably, something like that.