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“You’re a journalist. Your whole objective is to change people's opinions.”
“Well, it’s more about reporting the truth,” I say.
“Well, yes. But the opinion thing is important too. You’ve been writing that stuff for so long. Isn’t it time that you took the bull by the horns and wrote something that could be truly opinion changing?”
“I can write anything,” I say, not meaning for the claim to sound as cocky as it does. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll publish it.”
“If it’s good, they will. This scandal is going to get your magazine an epic level of exposure. If they decide not to maximize it, they shouldn’t be in business.”
“So you’re saying I should write about my experiences?”
“Be truthful about what happened. Challenge the stereotypes. Stand proud behind your decisions. Nothing good happens when we run away at the first signs of difficulty. Believe me, I know. When you run headlong into it, you show backbone, and human beings are programmed to respect people who stand tall in the face of challenges, no matter how terrible the odds. Think about the three hundred Spartans. They’re still being talked about and having films made about them all these years later. You think if they just ran away from their enemy, anyone would know about them? Be like the three hundred Spartans. Be a beacon for courage when it comes to women’s sexuality.”
“I don’t think the three hundred Spartans had a view on women’s sexuality,” I snort. “And that doesn’t sound like me at all. It sounds like you, Dawn. Are you sure you don’t want to change places with me?”
She chuckles darkly. “I’m quite content being my own beacon of sexual courage over here. You know, the people in Byron were funny about our relationship at first, but now, they don’t blink an eyelid. And you know me. I’m not shy about PDA. My boys get love and affection from me wherever we are and whenever we feel like it.”
“And you seriously don’t get any hate about it.”
“Put it this way. If we did get hate, I wouldn’t give a fuck. And my boys…well, they’d have something to say about it with their big manly fists.”
“You’re damn right, baby,” someone yells in the background.
Dawn giggles. “You see what I mean.”
“You have a good backup, that’s for sure.” Even making that statement hurts my heart. I glance around at my small sitting room, at the photos of friends and family on the side unit and my plant, which needs watering. There are signs of life here, but no men jumping in to protect my name or my person. I’m alone in this situation. Back to square one.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” I tell Dawn in the smallest voice I’ve ever spoken in. “I don’t know if I can stand up and face all of this on my own.”
“You’re never on your own, sweetie. Remember that. And you can. You’re a brilliant writer. The only one who has ever made me cry. Turn that gift of yours for eliciting emotion in your audience to your article. Make the world understand what it’s like to be a woman amongst so many men. Make them understand you and envy you. Make them sick to their stomachs that they haven’t gotten to live your slice of heaven, and then make them cry at how terrible the world is at accepting anything that’s different.”
Wow. Dawn’s the one who needs to turn her attention to persuasive writing, not me.
“I’ll try,” I whisper.
“And when you need someone to read it, send it my way.”
Bless my friend and her support. For the first time since Grace called me, I feel a glimmer of hope within the doom. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Write me an email about what it’s been like for you to love so many men. My experience has been shallow compared to yours. I need the full perspective.”
“You’ve got it,” she says. “But are you sure it’s been shallow?”
Am I? I think back to all the warm hugs and gentle kisses the ten men at the beach house gave me. All the words of encouragement. All the humor and fun we shared. It didn’t feel shallow at all. If it had been, I never would have felt the courage to go so far.
And that realization just makes everything worse.
I’m about to say bye to my long-distance friend while the tears are at bay and the conviction she’s given me is still fresh, when the doorbell rings.
“Who's ringing your bell so late?” Dawn asks.
“I don’t know,” I say, but I guess I better go check.
40
ALLIE
