Page 67 of The Stranger

“I think… I think this is something you should talk to your father about.” My hand flounders for the door handle behind me as I paste on a jolly expression. Nothing to see here—nothing at all to comment on! “I mean, he’s your dad and, I’m sure he’ll understand.” The man I met at an orgy will probably be as chill as furk about the situation.

“Non—please. You cannot tell him.”

The panic on his face gives me pause. “Felix, you’re not in trouble,” I begin carefully. “This,”—my eyes flick to the screen and I try not to wince—“isn’t something you have to be ashamed of. Being curious is all part of growing up. Not that watching this kind of stuff is exactly healthy. But your dad is the person you should be speaking to… if you have questions.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.” He digs his fingers into his dark hair, pulling on the ends. “I cannot!”

“But why?”

“He would not understand.”

“I think you’d be surprised.” This comes out flatter than I mean it to.

“Non, please Primrose.”

Oh, sweet summer child, you wouldn’t be wearing such a panicked look if you knew what your father was into. Or maybe you would because you’re only twelve.

Not that I know what he’s into, either. I kind of wish I did.

My body goes ramrod straight thought.

Nope! I do not need to know how Lucien du Beaumont gets his rocks off on the regular. Even if I think he’ll be kind of beautiful when he does.

My attention moves back to the kid, and my heart sinks.

I don’t wanna do this! I wail internally. This isn’t my job—I’m not qualified! I might be a doctor and might know the basics of sex—which bit goes where—but I’m neither a sexual expert nor a child specialist.

Maybe I could call Emmy.

But she has enough on her plate.

Dammit, I suppose I’d better suck it up. Pull up my big-girl undies. “You know you shouldn’t be watching this kind of thing, don’t you?” I begin, swallowing over the lingering whiny lump of whyyymeee in my throat.

“All of the boys in my class watch.”

My mother’s voice instantly echoes in my head: If all the boys in your class jumped off a cliff, would you? “That doesn’t make it right,” I say instead. “It doesn’t make it healthy, either, but I’m not here to give you a lecture.”

“You aren’t?” His head jerks up, his eyes narrowed and his tone filled with a bucket load of suspicion.

“No, I’m not. But if you want to talk,” I say as I mentally make a sign of the cross over myself. “Or if you have questions, I’m here.” Physically, if not mentally.

He gives an awkward-looking shrug that doesn’t say no. So ignoring this sinking heaviness, I cross the room.

“If we’re doing this,” I say, as I reach out and pick up a small silver balloon dog from his nightstand. I turn it over in my hands. Jeepers, this is a Jeff Koonz. “I supposed I’d better sit down.”

“Okay,” he replies as I take a seat on the chair next to his bed. My bum has barely touched the blue striped fabric when words immediately begin to spill from him. “I can’t help it. Looking, I mean. I don’t want to, but some of it lives in my head, and I think about it when I shouldn’t, and then when I’m alone, I cannot say no.”

“Well.” I put the ridiculously expensive and totally frivolous bit of art back and shove my hands between my closed knees. “If you can’t get the images out of your head, it’s not going to help if you keep looking at them,” I reason carefully.

His shoulders roll forward and his head sinks. “Non.”

“And I’m going to say that it doesn’t help that your brain isn’t ready to view these kinds of acts. These kinds of images.”

“Are you really a doctor?” His question is tentative as he twists the hem of the duvet cover around his index finger.

“I really am.”

“And you know these things?”