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Chapter Twenty
Joel
“Marry me,” I say, finally. It's all Icansay. There’s no point in beating around the bush. I’ve been watching her around town. Watching her from a field near her home. I’ve asked around about her. I’ve put out feelers. Andnow,I’ve asked all the important questions, like does she want kids, how does she feel about farming and animals, where does she see herself in five years, will she be faithful? What else is there? Still, it’s an absurd proposition, especially for me. But it’s the reason I came, isn’t it?
“Well?” I ask. “What do you think?”
We're sitting in my truck in the parking lot outside the dance. After her altercation with thepreppy man-boy,it didn’t take much convincing to get her to hang around a minute.
“What do I think about what?” she says, as though she hasn’t heard anything I’ve said. Her long hair is wild, her eyes are wilder. Blonde waves sit atop her shoulders, falling like snow when she moves. She looks like an angel, though it's obvious she's anything but. She’s beautiful and charming, and dirt poor. I know; I’ve asked around.
“About getting married?” I clear my throat. “To me?”
“You don’t know me,” she says.
“It’s impossible to ever know anyone,” I tell her. The townsfolk say she’s trouble, but that’s the least interesting thing I heard.
She leans in like she’s trying to let me down easy. She kisses me—slow, deliberate and tender. “I’m looking for someone specific.”
“I know. Me too.”
“I’d make a terrible wife.”
“That's okay. I didn't even know I wanted one until I saw you.”
Suddenly, as if by some magic, she is over me, straddling me, and our lips are locked together. Her hands are in my hair. She’s like a tiger somebody’s just let out of a cage. I can’t say I expected this. But I can’t say I didn’t.
“Tell me what it is you want to do, Joel,” she says, and I know exactly what this is. It’s a test.
Not that I care. Because in that moment of weakness and vulnerability, I know exactly what it is I want to do. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I want to rip off her clothes and take her right here in the front seat of my truck. I want to make love to her on her back, bare, complete and unashamed.
“I want you, Joel,” she says. “I want you to fuck me.”
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Why not?” she demands, pulling back. She climbs off me with the precision of a wild animal. I watch as she slides over, her dress brushing my thigh as she moves. She looks at me, a challenge in her eyes. “Why won’t you sleep with me?”
“Because I respect you.” It’s both a lie and not. The truth falls somewhere in the middle. You can want a thing and know it’s not a good idea. Besides, giving into her is the worst move I could make. It’s exactly what she wants. That way she can write me off. Gina is playing in her masculine energy, but I know better.Mind of a fly, morals of a flea.
Some women want to pin a man down, and then there’s this type. She wants to know you’re worthy. She wantsproof.It’s either that, or something far worse. Only a desperate woman tries this hard, or has this little self-regard. I know, I’ve met plenty of them.
With her, I think I’m going to play the wait-and-see game. It would be effortless to give into her advances, and believe me, I want to. But if she’s the first type and this is a test, that would be a mistake. She’ll write me off faster than a speeding bullet, and I’ll have made it easy.
“What does respect have to do with it?” she asks, reaching for me, her hand sliding up my thigh. I lean in and kiss her deeply. Our tongues meet, and I am a goner. My lies are already forgotten.
I grab her, my fingers inching their way toward her panties, but I stop myself just shy of hitting gold. “It has everything to do with it.”
She pulls away, a coy smile on her face. “Good,” she says. “Then you'll respect my wishes.”
“Marry me,” I say again. It’s all Icansay.
She doesn’t answer, and I just sit there sort of pathetically grinning at her, until she pulls away further, slinking back over into the passenger seat of my truck.
“Joel, I want you to understand.”
“Understand what?” I ask, exasperated.
“I can’t marry you,” she tells me, shaking her head. “I’m just not suited.”
“No one is,” I say. “It's just something people do.”
