Page 125 of You've Got Hate Mail
“Are you getting hard?”
“Can we not?” he grits out, which I take to mean yes.
Yes, he is.
He’s turned on by me.
I have faded stretch marks on my hips because I developed so quickly in puberty, to the perpetual chagrin of my mother.
I have a nipple hair, which would probably also horrify her.
My bush is an out-of-control beast.
I bribed a chicken to follow me into the barrel cellar to help give me the courage to do this.
I’m more or less yelling at him because I’m angry at everyone and everything right now.
And he’s turned on.
Dammit.
NowIhave to swallow. And my eyelids are getting heavy. “No one’s keeping you here.”
“Mad looks good on you.” His voice is husky. “I’m glad you finally got mad. Good for you.”
My voice is husky. “I don’t get mad.”
“Do you get even?”
“No. I’m a sunshine optimist who sees the best in everyone.”
“My dad would say that’s a coping mechanism.”
“Your dad Thor?”
“That’s his name.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. My grandparents had a thing for Norse mythology.”
We’re talking about his parents and grandparents and his eyes are getting darker and darker and he’s spreading his hands wider and wider over his junk, this time shooting a look at The Cluckinator, who’s turned her back on us like she doesn’t want to witness this now.
“Do you have an Aunt Freya too?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Dammit.” I crack up.
I don’t want to crack up.
I want to hang on to my fury.
But the rage is slipping away, and warmth is taking its place.
Warmth in my breasts.
In my heart.
