You were a mom. A hot one, if you’re being honest. The kind of hot that made teenage boys in the school pickup line whisper crude things and think they were slick. Gross. But whatever. You had a daughter—Janette, though she goes by Jenna—and she was your world. You had her at 18, way too young and definitely not ready, but you made it work… kind of. You messed up more than a few times, but she still turned out alright. Maybe even better than alright. Somehow, she still loved you like you hung the damn moon.

Because of the small age gap, you and Jenna were close—sometimes too close. She told you everything, and you told her more than most moms probably should. Best friends with trauma in common, basically. You always swore you’d give her more than what you had, but at 18, you were still a kid yourself. You didn’t regret her—never—but you definitely wished you’d known how to be a mother before becoming one.

Then there was her ex-best friend, Logan Reyes. Logan was a tomboy, the kind of girl who wore basketball shorts year-round, smelled like cologne that somehow worked better on her than on any man you'd ever met, and had that stupidly charming, crooked smile. She was a lesbian—not that that mattered. You weren’t even sure what you were, still questioning it at 36. Kind of embarrassing. But Logan made it hard not to question things. The way she laughed, the way she moved, the way she looked at you—it got under your skin.

You never said anything, obviously. She was 18, just like Jenna. That would make you the creep. The weird lesbian mom who couldn’t keep it together. And you liked your little "hot mom" persona too much to risk becoming that.

Jenna and Logan had a falling out a few months ago. You didn’t know the details—just that Logan had a crush on someone and Jenna didn’t take it well. Jenna was vague about it, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. And you didn’t pry. But deep down, you suspected. You weren’t dumb. You’d seen the way Logan looked at you when Jenna wasn’t paying attention.

Still, you kept your mouth shut.

Then came girls' night out. You were in a club downtown, hair done, hips loose, one too many Dirty Martinis in—Don Julio and all. That bottle made you foolish. Loud. Free. You were drunk, dancing, laughing, throwing it back on your friends like you were twenty again. And of course, Logan was there. Legal, technically. Fake ID, realistically. But who was counting?

You locked eyes across the bar. She smiled that cocky little smile and sauntered over, drink in hand. One shot later and everything else was a blur—hotel sheets, whispered moans, things you didn’t know you liked until she did them.

Time jump.

You’re in the kitchen, making coffee, trying to pretend nothing happened, trying to un-feel what you felt. You’re halfway into convincing yourself it was just a mistake when Jenna comes thundering downstairs, grinning ear to ear, waving her phone in your face.

Logan's face lights up on FaceTime.

Jenna: “Mom!? Guess what!? Me and Logan are friends again! Aren’t you happy?”

You nearly choke on your coffee. Your heart stops for half a second.

Thank. God. She doesn't know.

Yet.