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Sestra:
Of course, you don’t. But please try.
“Zan is renting in this building.”
“Oh shit. You’re going to be weird about it, aren’t you?”
“Why does everyone think that,” I protest, but Kit gives me a knowing look.
“I’m sure he just wanted somewhere familiar. After all, he was here so often when Isla lived here. “
“Sure, sure,” I say. “But how am I supposed to move on from him when I have to see him all the time?”
“By getting yourself some dick.”
The image of Damian immediately comes to mind. I’m in a real pickle here, I fear. All my own making, of course. Well, that’s not entirely true. It’s not as if I’ve forced Damian’s flirting or Zander’s consistence in my life.
If there’s a higher power, maybe she hates me, and this is all a funny joke to her. Except I’m a good person, dammit. I don’t deserve torture the likes of this. Except, maybe Damian isn’t gay and therefore completely available.
Ugh, I’m being a stupid woman.
“How about we don’t speak of men for the rest of the week,” I offer.
“It’s only Monday.”
“I know.” I sigh.
“Deal.”
“How isn’t this a bigger issue? Especially with so many younger members in congress now?” Emma, a fellow student, asks. We’re in the café again, tablets out as we research for a group project we’re brainstorming ideas on.
“Like us, they probably don’t know about it. These are all old statutes, and, in most states, they’ve never been contested, from what I can find,” I say, skimming another page of the current website. “Our state is one of ten that has no minimum age for marriage. Every other state range between fourteen and eighteen.”
“Insanity,” Emma says, disgusted. “This says, eighty-six percent of children married off are girls. Fucking of course.”
“The numbers have drastically decreased over the years. But how is this even possible to begin with?”
“Because men,” Emma groans. “Crap, I need to run. This is our subject though, yeah? And once we finish it, we march straight to Olympia.”
“Agreed,” I tell her. “Have a good one. See you Tuesday.”
“Bye, Willa, have a great night.”
Emma shoves her belongings into her oversized bag and rushes off with a wave just as my phone springs to life on the table. It’s on vibrate and quickly trying to commit suicide off the edge. Rescuing it before its inevitable demise, I come across a text from an unknown number.
At the counter ordering, what’s your poison, it reads. Craning my neck, I see an expensive dark hoodie in line to order.
Me:
Dirty oat milk chai latte.
I program his name in as ‘Ted Bundy’ as his reply comes in. Nobody gets their normal names on my phone, a silly habit I started as a teen and haven’t abandoned.
Ted Bundy:
Coming right up.
“Oat milk, huh,” he asks, setting my drink in front of me.
