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She rested against my chest, reading her what she called her ‘least favorite, favorite book’, The Great Gatsby. She was a little weird, but I liked it. Even without really knowing me, she still seemed to understand what I needed, and when I needed it.
I had been nervous to talk to her about my ex-wife, and I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, or do anything to kill our mood. But I had gotten yet another email from Odile, and I was just about ready to snap. I could only hope that she needed to use her rant slip soon so we could be on equal footing. I felt like I was depending on her way too much, and it had only been five days.
I blinked and brought my focus back to her. She had put her book down and was now staring at me.
“A penny for your thoughts?” I asked her.
She smiled; she had the most beautiful smile. “Only a penny, Mr. Black? What type of girl do you think I am?”
“You’re right, my apologies,” I said. “So, what’s the price for a slice of Thea Cunning’s thoughts?”
“One of your own,” she answered, her eyes studying my face intently.
“I have far too many of them,” I told her.
“So do I.”
“And here I figured you just said whatever came to your mind,” I teased.
I brushed her hair behind her ear.
“I do… sometimes.”
“What were you thinking about then?”
“Why the hell is he staring at me like that? Doesn’t he know what his eyes do to me… or, well, something of that nature,” she replied once again, far more honestly than I imagined. “And you?”
“That I depend way too much on you, and I wish it were the other way around.” I couldn’t lie to her for some reason.
“What do you mean? You haven’t depended on me for anything.”
She looked like she truly believed that. She had no idea how much of an impact she had on me.
Shaking my head, I looked to her book. “Why is The Great Gatsby your least favorite, favorite book? Is it because you hate Jay?”
“No! I hate Daisy,” she said, as she sat up angrily.
This was going to be amusing.
“You hate Daisy?”
“She’s an evil witch!”
“That’s a little harsh,” I laughed.
I enjoyed seeing her get so worked up.
“Oh please! First of all, she marries a man she doesn’t love because he’s rich. But I can forgive that, because, you know, it’s the 1900s, women’s suffrage is just starting to kick in. In fact, I felt bad for her because it was as though her parents were pushing her into it. But then she drank the Kool-Aid.”
“The Kool-Aid?” I asked.
“Yes, the golden Kool-Aid of the rich and fabulous. The next time we meet her, Jay’s back, and she’s all like, ‘let me forget about my husband and child, and go party at my former lover’s house all the damn day.’ ”
“But she truly loved him,” I said, realizing in that moment that I was now defending fictional characters.
She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Even if he’s your true love, you’re still married to another man. You either run away with him, or you stay away from him. You don’t keep having an affair under your husband’s nose. And what type of person meets her long awaited, true love and doesn’t ask a few questions first? She just jumps onto his private boat, and parties around in his house.”
“Gatsby is the one that called her there, why didn’t he sweep her away?”
