Backseat Desires

Every time the car hits a bump on our family road trip, my eighteen-year-old stepson's burning hand pushes another inch up under my skirt. I bite down hard on the blanket, desperate to keep quiet because my fifty-year-old husband is sitting right in front of us, driving down the endless highway like nothing is wrong. If I had known what the backseat of this road trip was about to become, I would have died before ever stepping into this car—but now, there is no turning back.