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“Well?” I prompted when she didn’t go on.
“Well, there was this one guy. He wasn’t around long. He fell off the wagon pretty quickly.”
“What’d he do?”
“He just… he cornered me once. You know, like some guys do…”
“No, I don’t,” I said, though I had an idea. I just needed to hear the details.
“Well, he caught me alone. Everyone was either at work or meetings or whatever. And I was in the kitchen. And he came in and… you know… backed me up against a wall. Saying shit. Touching my hair…”
“And you don’t call that aggressive?” I asked, shaking my head.
“I think a lot of guys do shit without realizing that their actions are predatory, and that men are women’s only real natural predator. So it scares the shit out of us, while they think they are just being flirty. Or ‘alpha males,’” she said, using air quotes and a pretty epic eye roll at the very idea of such a thing.
“Don’t like alpha men?” I asked.
“I think men who call themselves that don’t have the first fucking idea what an alpha male actually is. They think it’s all about getting all the bitches they want and puffing their chests and throwing fists and telling women what to do.”
“What is it then?” I asked.
“It’s about protecting what and who is yours, not starting random fights or fucking as many chicks as will have you. It’s also respecting the opinion and feelings of the person you are choosing to be with.”
“That’s fair,” I agreed, nodding. Aside from Dezi, who just found fights fun, most of the guys in the clubhouse fell into her definition of an alpha male. Sure, they might have fun and fuck around, but when the right woman came along, they were loyal and protected them at all costs. They never disregarded their thoughts or feelings. If anything, they sought out their advice when shit was murky and they were having trouble seeing the whole picture.
“So, is that guy on this list?” I asked.
“No, actually. I kind of forgot about him until just now.”
“You forgot about the guy who backed you into a wall and put his hands on you without permission?” I asked, dubious.
“Listen, when you’ve lived the life I have, you start to see that kind of thing as tame,” she admitted.
I shouldn’t have cared.
It shouldn’t have mattered.
She wasn’t mine.
I didn’t want anyone to be mine.
Still, I liked hearing her talk. I was interested to know what kind of life she had led.
So, yeah, I couldn’t seem to stop the words from coming out of my mouth.
“What kind of life have you led?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sylvie
Most of my memories of my early life were lovely.
Picturesque, even.
Melting popsicle stick juice running down my hand, chalk art covered driveways, suntan lines marking days spent at the beach, covered in sand, building castles, nights spent chasing fireflies and listening to my mom hum softly to herself after I went to bed.
It was all meatloafs and Friday night pizza and girls days on Sundays, spent in silky pajamas all day, painting our fingers and toes, putting masks on our faces, and making our own little grazing boards to eat while we watched movies.
I had not a single moment of uncertainty or worry.
Everything was safe and bright and love-filled.
For nine years.
And then, suddenly, the principal was coming outside after school where I was waiting for my mom—who had always been there waiting for me in one of her long sundresses, her long, wavy brown hair dancing around her shoulders, giving me a big smile, and taking my backpack so I could go ‘run off some energy’ on the playground before we went home—and taking me into the office.
In retrospect, I should have known something was wrong.
Everyone was smiling and bringing me treats from the kitchen or candy from their desk drawers, handing me coloring books and crayons or books from the library.
It wasn’t until the police, and a tired-looking lady, showed up that I felt my belly twist into a knot, as I suddenly became acutely aware that something horrible had happened.
It was all muted, hazy blur from there.
Words were said that I was sure I would never hear. Or at least not until I was old. Until I was married and had kids of my own. Until she was old, had fully lived her life.
But they were the words they told me.
Dead.
She was dead.
She wasn’t coming to pick me up.
She wasn’t going to bring me home and make me brownies for doing well on my test like she’d promised when she’d dropped a worried little me off at school that morning.
She wouldn’t remind me to brush my teeth. Or tell me to clean up my room. Or run her fingers through my long hair and twist it into intricate braids. Or go ‘window shopping’ at the pet store. Or wake up with me on Christmas morning. Or tell me she loved me.
