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“Straight from death to mommy issues to sex?” I ask.
The joke eases the tension in the air. It sends a smile to his lips. “Of course.” He takes a long sip of his water. “It’s your turn to share. What was it you liked? What was it that worked for you?”
Chapter Twenty
Deanna
Why don’t you want to talk about your mom?
It’s ridiculous to accuse him of deflecting with a deflection of my own, but the question bounces around my brain all the same.
I rarely share details about my pain. Any pain. But when it comes to my mom, I keep those feelings locked up tight. People don’t want to hear the truth. People don’t want to hearmy mom died when I was thirteen and it was horrible watching her fade. I hated every minute of it. I miss her every day.
They want to hear something nice, something pleasant, something that tactfully informs without bringing down the mood.
But Death isn’t well-mannered. And all the polite terms for it are bullshit. Mom didn’t pass on. She faded and died, and I had to be strong for her and Lexi and Dad. Because she was scared, and I couldn’t put my fear on her.
And the appropriate reaction tohow are your parentsisn’tmy mom is dead, actually.
But then I guessmy mom dumped me with my grandmaisn’t the appropriate answer, either.
River is not the hopeless romantic artist he sees himself as. Sure, he’s a romantic, and he’s artistic, but he’s not jumping to pour his emotions onto the table. He’s not diving straight into big, messy, ugly things because they’re honest and real and whatever else people use to describe art.
And I’m not holding everything back, even though I’m an analytical programmer who struggles with feelings. I’m not as cold as ice, even if I am a merciless businesswoman.
We fit into our roles in certain ways.
He struggles with his as much as I struggle with mine. He isn’t all butterflies and storm clouds. He’s logic and reason, too.
Maybe that means he can move past old hang-ups. Old obsessions.
Into someone else, someone different.
“Deanna?” River leans a little closer. He keeps his voice soft, caring. “Are you okay?”
“Tired.”
“We can get more tea or some coffee.”
“Soon.” I want to move away from the subject of death, too. Even if it’s to the equally dangerous topic of sex. But I need to keep it abstract, not personal. “I’m trying a version of the app with sexual compatibility.”
His pupils dilate. Again.
“It’s a secret,” I say. “Because it always overwhelms things. Sex.”
“It tends to do that.”
“People don’t know how to combine sexual and romantic compatibility. Especially when it comes to apps. Either you’re looking for marriage, and sex is a secondary or tertiary concern, or you’re looking to hook up, and the rest is irrelevant.”
“Is it that simple?” he asks.
“Maybe not, in people’s heads, but from a marketing point of view, yes. The second you mention sex, that’s the focus of the app.”
“You’re not answering my question,” he says.
“What question?”
Epiphany fills his eyes. “Who was the last person who blew your mind? What did you like about it?”
