My phone rings in my hand, startling me.
"Hey Mom," I answer. "What's up?"
"Hey baby girl. Your dad's here, too. We were just wanting to know how things are all the way up there in Seattle." My mom's Southern drawl immediatelycenters me. I bet she and Dad are in the living room of the house that Beck bought them, sitting in matching recliners. In the background, I can hear old reruns on their TV.
"Hi, Moll-Doll," my dad chimes in. "How's my baby girl today?"
Crushed. A little hopeless. Despondent?
But I don't tell them that. I’m really depressed by today’s news; there’s no reason for them to be depressed, too. So I go with, "Good! Staying busy. The usual."
"Is your brother feeding you? I told him to make sure you and my grandbaby are eating," Mom says. She pauses. "Oh, honey. The dog's barking up a storm. Here, talk to your dad."
Dad clears his throat. "Since I got you, have you thought about what I told you the other day?"
"About going back to school to be an elementary school teacher?" I wrinkle my nose. "I guess."
"I saw a report on KTUV news that said that Washington state is hiring teachers. They made it sound like a real good opportunity, Mollie."
I pull down a mug and pour some coffee in it. "Oh yeah?"
Dad proceeds to ramble in my ear about staying busy, the economy being bad, and how teaching can bring me stability in life.
It's too bad that I have less than zero interest in teaching. It sounds boring, frankly. I don't know how my teachers droned on about history for all the years I was in school without losing it. But I'm his little girl,and he does worry, so I let him drone on for four minutes before cutting him off.
"Oh shoot, Daddy. I have to run. I'm going to be late."
"All right, Moll-Doll. Be safe up there. Love you!"
"Love y-" He hangs up before I can get it out.
Setting my phone down, I walk over to my bed, pick up a pillow, and scream into it. My parents have this vision of me that doesn't exist anymore. To them, I'll always be Beck's little sister, the girl who skates on the weekends and needs a lot of looking after. When I talk to them, I feel like I'm being not-so-gently herded toward safety.
I drop the pillow and walk to the window. I think my parents are a big reason that I'm so attracted to Thorne. They are huge believers in manners, in saying the right thing, in playing it safe. In public, Thorne is the PR department’s dream. Saying the right things, backing them up with his actions.
But he’s never been that way with me. He's always very up front with me. He's not worried about saying the right things or being too politically correct. And he doesn't seem even remotely concerned with playing it safe. Thorne lives his life by his own rules.
Much as I'm loath to admit it, I’m really jealous that he can play the media so well.
That's why I've been hovering around the idea of asking Thorne to take my virginity. He's been with a ton of women. Groupies whisper that he's the best they've ever had. Thorne knows his way around a woman's body. And with his lack of bullshit, I couldsee him afterward without it being uniquely awful. He's never once bragged about his conquests or been caught participating in "locker room talk". Vomit.
More than that, though, is the specific way he pays attention. The patience he has, even if he never shows it to me. The way he handles Gordie with real love. And I know that's not what this would be, which is fine. I want one night with someone who actually knows what they're doing and won't make it a whole thing afterward. Thorne can do that. He's done it a hundred times.
That plus my unending crush on him makes him the perfect candidate.
Every year that passes with me remaining a virgin seems a bigger and bigger deal. I'm not interested in rose petals and poems. I want to be fucked. And then I want Thorne to go right back to hating me.
Simple enough, right? If I can just get up the nerve to ask him.
My phone pings with a text from Indie.
Bar?
I grin and text her back.
YES!
Indie will know how to get me the fuck out of my head. That's the energy I need after this morning's news.
