What if...
Cindy unearths a cryptic book titled What if..., it's pages whispering secrets of a life she might have lived, filled with forbidden desires and paths untrodden. As the lines between her present emptiness and a shadowy past blur, Cyndi must unravel the mystery of the book--and herself--before the question consumes her.
"As I lifted the blanket’s edge, I spotted the corner of a book poking out. I pulled it free and read the cover: What If… Those trailing dots felt infinite, full of possibility. I flipped it open, skipping the dedication page and started reading. Before I knew it, I’d settled into a nearby chair, lost in the words…"
"Cyndi set the book down gently, her fingers brushing its frayed edges, unsure if she’d ever find the will to open it again. The story unnerved her—not for its strangeness, but for its haunting familiarity. As she turned its pages, a quiet certainty settled over her: her life seemed to echo within those lines, as though the book had penned her days, her love, her very being. It was a notion she wanted to push away. Perimenopause was already a storm of its own—emotions that surged and crashed, energy that flared and guttered—without the doubt that seeped from those words. Lost in the narrative, she felt a spark of aliveness she hadn’t known in years, a vibrancy that jolted her awake."
"His hands roamed her skin, firm and insistent, igniting a fire that seared through her. Lips grazed her neck, hot and hungry, as she arched into him, her fingers digging into his unseen flesh. Their rhythm surged—raw, desperate—skin slick with sweat, breaths ragged in the sultry dark. He pressed her against an unseen wall, every thrust a pulse of molten need, until pleasure shattered through her in a trembling crescendo. She woke breathless, the dream’s heat clinging to her, the man’s identity lost to the fog, leaving her pulse pounding and a restless ache in her core."
“Oh, sweetie,” Lynne breathed, her voice catching with awe. “It’s brilliant. These… they’re alive. Every curve, every stage—it’s like you’ve caught the whole damn journey of being a woman. Not just pretty pots, but… us. All of us. Yes I blushed with pride, I’m calling it Curves of Time—twelve pieces, one for each phase of a woman's life."
"Cliffs loomed on one side, the sea flashing turquoise through gaps on the other, until Positano unfurled ahead—a tumble of pastel houses cascading down to the water, a dreamscape carved into the rock. My eyes were glued to the view out my window. I could not believe that I was really here in Italy. As my eyes drank in the scenery, my heart lost track of anything else."
