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"I think so," I say.
"Is that what your tattoo was about?"
"Which one?"
"Either."
"I guess both were about that," I say.
"They suit you."
"Thanks." My cheeks flush. "Did you apologize? To your sister?"
"Eventually," he says.
"I can't imagine my kid sister reading my journal. I'd feel so… exposed."
But it would be a relief, too. Because I wouldn't have to explain all this to her.
She'd know.
She'd get it. Or, at least, she'd have as much insight as I can give her.
Is that why I keep my online journal? A secret hope Julie will stumble on it and understand?
A secret hope someone will stumble on it, understand, realize it's me, love me.
Maybe. It's an impulse more than anything. A desire to understand myself, to feel understood.
"But maybe it would be good in some ways," I say. "If she read my ugliest thoughts, if I didn't have to worry about whether or not I should share them with her, if she saw me at my worst and loved me anyway."
"You don't think your sister loves you?"
"I know she does. But there's plenty I don't tell her."
"Maybe you should."
Maybe.
"It would make sense, if you did like something about it."
"Huh?"
"Someone reading your private thoughts," he says.
"It would?"
"You are an exhibitionist."
"I am, aren't I?"
"Is that really a question?" He laughs.
It's an easy laugh. Sex is easy for us. Less fraught. And I need to talk about something less fraught. "Okay, yes, it's pretty obvious. But you?"
"Baby, don't tell me you're not sure if I enjoyed that."
"I know you enjoyed it."
