A strangled sound morphed into wheezing which eventually turned into low chuckling. “Hold on,” Sarah laughed, “I need to go somewhere else.”
Sarah’s voice was still on the edge of hilarity when she came on the line. “Soooo, let’s see if I have this all straight. You have a girlfriend who reads erotica or romance or something like that, but she doesn’t want to tell anyone, and you’ve been snooping around her e-reader so that you can read the same books she’s been reading and you want to know if you should tell her.”
Sarah was way too pleased with herself. I let out a sigh before answering. “Yes.”
“Uh-huh. And why do you want to tell her?”
“I don’t want any secrets between us.”
“Uh-huh. While that’s noble, it sounds like you’d be doing it more for your benefit. Let me guess, you’re hurt she doesn’t trust you enough to talk about it, and you feel guilty for lying to her?”
I didn’t answer. Not only because she was annoyingly right, but also because Sarah’s lawyer brain wasn’t done.
“Telling her now would only serve to absolve you of your guilt and prove that she has a reason to distrust you. It wouldn’t do anything but hurt her. She’s probably embarrassed enough.”
I stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the kitchen table. “But I’m not judging her, she has no reason to feel embarrassed.”
“Oh, little brother, I didn’t mean embarrassed byyou. I mean by society. By the Kents of the world. You have no idea the stigma women who read romance contend with. They’re marginalized even within the book world. They’re either lust-filled women who read smut for kicks, to which I say, what the hell is the problem with that?”
That was a hypothetical question. I was sitting down by this point, patiently waiting for her to finish. Sarah was on a roll and there was no getting off this train until we got to the station.
“The problem is that women are held to a higher moral standard. Thus, women who enjoy sex are regarded as shallow or bad compared to her male counterparts, which is not only hypocritical, but old fashioned. Or, women who read romance over other types of literature are deemed unintelligent; like a book can’t be written well just because it has sex scenes. It’s one of the most natural things in human nature, to fall in love. To have sex. As long as no one gets hurt, what’s the problem with reading and writing about it? I should know, I’ve been reading romance for years. Remember when I used to hide them under my bed?”
“I remember Gran doing the sign of the cross at your door a lot.”
“Exactly. And that further illustrates my point. We’re judged by men and women alike. I wasn’t reading porn, even if Gran thought I was.”
I winced, because that’s exactly what I’d thought Polly was listening to at first.
“So, you’re saying I should wait for Polly to tell me in her own time?”
My question was met with extended radio silence. I moved the phone from my ear to confirm the timer was still running.
“Sarah?”
“Isn’t Polly the name of the woman you’re nannying for?”
“Uhhh,” I replied, brilliantly.
“I knew it! I knew there was something going on with this single mother! Momma was all suspicious, and you were being cagey not answering my texts.”
“As helpful as this is, Sarah . . .”
“Right. You obviously need to stop spying on her e-reader, immediately. Next, just start reading in front of her. Then, when and if she talks to you about it, listen without Judgment. You want her to share with you? Prove to her that you’re someone worth trusting.”
I resumed pacing around the kitchen slowly, processing my sister’s words.
“She will you know,” Sarah added in a gentler tone. “Trust you, that is. You’re one of the good ones.”
“You really are a good big sister. A little preachy, but good.”
“I’m the fucking best!” Sarah snapped. “Oh, and Jace? This was the cliff notes version. I expect a call by next week to get the whole story about you and this Polly. I’ll have the popcorn ready.”
CHAPTERFORTY-SIX
POLLY
“It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colors and textures and sounds, I felt--I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted--and then I realized that truly I just wanted you.”
