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“You don’t?”
“Who could?” I ask.
“It’s not the best showing for women,” he says. “Especially not tough women.”
Damn. How does he know that I hate how much I loveCasablancaexactly for those reasons?
It’s his grandma’s favorite movie—she babysat Lexi and me when we were kids, before River moved in. We spent our fair share of summer nights at his place, with his sister-cousins Fern and North, but we didn’t stay close as we got older—
Stop.
What am I doing here?
How is he the one distractingmenow?
Focus.
“How about that music?” I ask.
Finally, River presses play.
The familiar guitar riff fills the air. Then the layered vocals. The tension in my shoulders eases.
I don’t know what I’m doing with him, I have no clue how this night is going to go, but I know how to listen to this. I know how to share its appeal.
He doesn’t latch onto the new topic, though. He goes right back to Lexi. “You think less of men who prefer a woman like your sister.” He places my cell in the hands-free claw.
“No. Never.”
He says nothing, but hisI don’t believe youattitude spreads through the car.
And the silent pressure makes me feel like I should explain. Defend myself against an accusation he didn’t even make.
“I think less of men who see her as some sort of dumb blonde, yes. Or who think she’s easy.”
I have never judged her for sleeping around. I do wonder why she does it, what she gets out of it, how she could possibly find casual sex with men who don’t respect her empowering, but it’s not because I think she’s wrong. I understand it intellectually. After all, no one asks men who sleep around what they get out of it. We all know sex feels good, physically, and socially, too. She says that’s all it is. But I just, well, I can’t imagine sex with a stranger feeling that good. How often doesanysex feel that good?
“I don’t think that about her,” he says. “I’ve never thought that about her.”
“I know.” I don’t want to talk about Lexi. Why do all the men in my life want to talk about her?
Really, I love my sister, I do. I just wish I could have a relationship with a man, any relationship, any man, that didn’t end up involving her somehow. But that’s impossible, because Lexi is such a big part of my life. And I wouldn’t want heroutof my life. I just want the men in my life to see me as an individual, not as one half of a pair.
“This was my mom’s favorite.” I focus on the music, for his sake and mine. We both need a distraction from Lexi.
“I know it was.” Compassion slips into his voice. Or maybe it’s pity. I can never tell with people.
Thankfully, he doesn’t sayI’m sorry you lost heror something way more horrible likeeverything happens for a reason.
He doesn’t say anything.
He listens to the song, in silence, until the next one starts. “What did she love about it?”
“The seventies were her thing.” I smile. “The bareness of the music, the confessional lyrics. That was her favorite part. Stevie Nicks turning her heartbreak to gold.”
“She was romantic about it?” he asks.
“It’s not romantic,” I say. “It’s bullshit. Why does a woman have to bare her soul to find success?”
