I raise a hand to her as if to say,I’ve got this.“You know, you’re every bit as obnoxious as I imagined you’d be.”
The insult seems to amuse him. “Funny, my partner’s usually called the obnoxious one. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t think I was so bad a minute ago.” There’s a lascivious edge to his smirk, like he’s seen me naked. I huff and tug my blazer closed.
“Wait, what happened a minute ago?” Nat asks, trying to keep up.
“He attempted to blackmail me into a date. I almost fell for it, too.”
“So this is the thanks I get for helping you out, huh?” He shakes his head, but he’s still wearing that stupid smirk, like my ire entertains him. And it probably does, since life’s all a big game to men like him. They can behave however they please and never face any real consequences. They can act like a cocky asshole at a bar and still walk away with a girl’s phone number. They can get away with murder and the world will say,May I offer you another victim?“I hand-delivered you Eric Jessup’s first on-the-record comments about his engagement, but somehowI’mthe villain here? Please tell me, how exactly have I wronged you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t go there, buddy,” Nat warns.
My blistering laugh could strip paint from the walls. “How have you wronged me? Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s the constant stream of misogynistic articles you publish, many of which come at Siren’s expense? Or perhaps it’s that your site brands all women as either nagging harpies or sex objects? Or maybe”—I snap my fingers—“it’s that you’ve inspired an entire generation of men to shout their chauvinism from the rooftops.”
“I warned you,” Nat singsongs.
Jack regards me calmly, his expression unfazed, almost bored. I’m having the exact inverse reaction—the more unruffled he appears, the more agitated I’m getting. “Brawler is a site where men can be men. You know, almost exactly like the websiteyouwork for?”
“The site we work for doesn’t encourage its readers to troll and harass anyone who disagrees with them.”
“We don’tencourageharassment.”
“You don’t condemn it, either.”
“I’m not responsible for the behavior of our readers any more than you’re responsible for yours.”
Our gazes collide in a fiery clash. I’m so frustrated, I could flay the skin off his bones.
I flog him with my words instead. “I can’t believe you’re actually defending what you do. You’re shameless.”
He’s quiet for a beat, eyes narrowed, considering me. “You seem to be harboring some sort of personal grudge against me, but as a reminder, I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Oh no? Then I guess I must have just imagined the guy who told me last week that he couldn’t attend my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party because ‘Saturdays are for the bros,’ ” I spit with derisive air quotes. “But I suppose that’s not your fault, either, right? You’re not responsible for any of the harmful ideas you put out on the internet to your little band of brainwashed sycophants.”
My insult doesn’t hit its target like I thought it would. In fact, Jack’s eyes soften—and when I realize why, I immediately regret revealing that detail of my personal life. I don’t want his pity.
“For the record, that guy sounds like a dick.” He pauses, as if to gauge whether his comment will thaw my iciness any, but I throw my shoulders back and raise my chin in a clear message:I don’t need your sympathy. He sighs. “But you’re blaming me for something that has nothing to do with me.”
“Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw; his control’s starting to slip.Not used to women talking back, are you, Jack?I inject that satisfaction directly into my veins; it fuels my outrage better than gasoline and a match.
“You know, the whole idea behind Sacred Saturdays was to give men a day to just be men, to recharge with theirfriends. I can’t help it if some guy weaponized it as a way to dodge his obligations.” His voice is razor-sharp.
I scoff, wishing I hadn’t ditched my glass of wine. I could throw it in his face and it would besosatisfying.
“Wanting to drink a beer and watch the game isn’t a crime, you know. In fact, I fail to see how it’s any different than women having a ‘girls’ night out,’ but somehow it’s only wrong when guys do it.” He’s gaining steam now, clearly riding his own wave of self-righteousness. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy vilifying us for it, you’d see that a little downtime actually makes men better partners.”
Does anyone actually buy this BS?“So you’re doing it all for us, then? I suppose we should thank you for your service? Wait, let me guess—your publicist fed you that line for situations just like this. When someone calls you out, just spew some crap about how you’re actuallyhelpingwomen. Spot-on delivery, too. But hey, it’s not a lie if you believe it, right?”
Nat drains the dregs of her cocktail in one long, judgmental slurp.
He cocks his head. “Have you ever actually been to our site, or are you just parroting back what you’ve heard about it?”
“You ran an editorial titled ‘Why women should be seen and not heard.’ ”
“It’s called satire.” His words are clipped. “As a writer, I’d think you’d be familiar with it.”
“Your logo is a set ofboobs.”
