Page 45 of All Your Dreams

“I tried to give him a blowjob once,” I add, my cheeks burning. “And he stopped me before I could, saying he didn’t enjoy it. We never tried oral again.”

What I don’t add is that I internalized his comment as criticism toward me, not the act itself. I assumed I would be bad at it, so he didn’t even want to try.

“I’m so sorry.” Haisley whispers.

“I didn’t think his reaction was that weird,” I say, suddenly defensive, the old reflex kicking in. “I mean, people want what they want.”

“Honeybuns, listen. It’s okay for someone to say they don’t like oral. Their body and choice. But not letting you experience the beauty of good old cunnilingus is…I don’t have words.”

Soph nods emphatically and Rose reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “You deserve pleasure,” she says.

Pleasure. The word blooms inside me, startling yet exciting. I’ve spent the last years tiptoeing, surviving instead of living. The idea of taking what I want without apology is dizzying and dangerously sweet. It makes my chest tighten and loosen at the same time.

Haisley leans back, eyes scanning me thoughtfully. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“It’s exciting,” Soph corrects me. “When a man cheats, the universe should automatically erase the fact that you ever slept with him.”

Haisley hums in agreement. “Congratulations, you’re basically a reborn virgin.”

“I didn’t sign up for that,” I groan, covering my face with one hand.

“Too late.”

A laugh escapes me. Maybe this is what healing looks like. Not some grand cinematic breakthrough, but sitting in a wine bar with women who barely know me yet makes me feel more seen as a woman than I have in years.

Rose lifts her glass. “To new chapters.”

“To better sex,” Soph adds.

“And enthusiastic oral,” Haisley finishes as we clink glasses.

I take a slow sip, letting the warmth of the alcohol and their laughter settle inside me. For the first time in years, I’m truly untethered from expectations and history. And for now, that’s enough.

14

OLLIE

My phone buzzes as I’m locking up for the night. The screen lights up with Haisley’s name, and I can’t help but grin. I’m expecting a call full of laughter and probably some over-the-top commentary only she can produce.

“Hey, Haisley,” I answer and lean against the doorframe.

“Oh my God, Ollie,” she slurs, her words tumbling over each other. “Okay. Hi. Listen carefully, Ollie Boy.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Not scared,” she says, drawing the word out. “Prepared.”

“For what?”

“For Peyton, duh.”

“Is she okay?” I ask, bracing myself.

“Yes and no. We’re getting into the cab right now but she’s doing that thing where standing up is optional.”

I exhale through my nose, trying to suppress my laughter. I can picture the scene perfectly: Peyton swaying, her cheeks flushed and eyes glassy, trying to desperately convince everyone—including herself—that she’s fine while gravity has other plans. The mental image makes me shake my head in amusement, and I start toward the stairs.