Page 24 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail
She scoffs, but I spot the fleeting smile she tries to hide.
We stroll down the little freezer aisle, our carts strewn with the random groceries we each need. So far she has two dozen eggs, flour, sugar, milk, and tampons; I have significantly more (minus the tampons), and I’m still adding things.
“And tell me about Betsy,” I say as we walk.
She hums and then says, “What about her?”
I slow to a stop in front of the frozen pizzas. “I bet I could fit three of these in my freezer.”
“You want to know how my motorcycle would feel about the pizzas in your freezer?”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously not.”
She sniggers while I grab three boxes of store-brand meat lover’s pizza and stack them in my cart.
“I just meant—when did you start riding? Did you wake up one morning and think ‘You know, I’d like to be a sexy biker chick’?” Since I’ve determined it’s probably best to be my normal self around India instead of worrying what she thinks, I don’t let myself hesitate after this question. I don’t let myself stumble over calling her asexy biker chick.I just open my mouth and clarify, “Where did that life choice come from?”
“Why?” she says as we continue down the aisle. When we reach the end, we both automatically weave our way into the next. India shoots a look at me. “Are you wondering where you can find other women like me? A motorcycle rider who’s moreyour type?”
For some reason, this makes me faintly uncomfortable—ashamed, almost, even though I’m not sure there’s any reason to be. It’s a creeping feeling in my gut, faint but unpleasant.
“No,” I say. “And that wasn’t—” I clear my throat. “I never meant that as an insult.”
“I know you didn’t,” she says easily. “You never do. But intent doesn’t necessarily dictate effect, you know?”
That uncomfortable feeling grows in the pit of my stomach. Her tone is casual, not at all hurt or offended, but the words themselves aren’t flattering.
“Oh”—her gaze catches on something over my shoulder—“bagels. Ours are gone.”
I step aside, and she slips past me to grab a bag of blueberry bagels. When she speaks again, it has nothing to do withtypesor women, and because I’m a coward—because I don’t know what to say—I’m relieved.
“As for Betsy…” She trails off and then shrugs, tossing the bagels carelessly into her cart. Her gaze doesn’t quite meet mine when she goes on, “I don’t know. I just needed a change. I’d always been interested in motorcycles and scooters and other modes of transportation, so I decided to dive in.”
I nod slowly, my earlier discomfort replaced by something bright and amused. It sounds like she really might have just woken up one day and decided to ride a motorcycle because hey, why not?
“For real, though. Why the questions, Felicia?” she says as we keep moving, her eyes scanning the shelves.
And I don’t know how to describe it to her, the kind of person I can be. Like a child entranced by pretty lights, or a dog for whom every single day is the best day of his life. I want to know things and see things, always. I want to meet new people and learn new things and play and be delighted. Life is exciting to me.
But it’s a trait I’ve had to learn how to navigate, because there are negative aspects. I can’t go through life never satisfied, never content, constantly searching for my next sparkly object or flashing light. That’s not healthy, it’s not smart, and it’s not sustainable. So over the years I’ve practiced contentment—and I’ve practiced letting myself be bored, so that I’m not in constant need of stimulation or distraction.
It’s a fine line. I guess all I can do is walk it the best I can. I’m a lot better than I used to be, thankfully—because I used to be exactly the kind of person Cyrus still thinks I am. He knows I’ve never been scum, but these days I try to be less flippant with peoples’ feelings.
These aren’t things I feel like sharing with India, though—or, rather, I’m not sure I would know how. So I simplify. “I like learning about people. I find them fascinating. So I ask questions.”
“Do I get to ask questions too, then?”
“Of course,” I say immediately. “I’m an open book.”
“Eh,” she says, and I’m actually disappointed when she turns her attention to the small selection of salad dressings. “I don’t really have any questions.”
“Rude.”
A surprised laugh escapes her lips. “Fine,” she says, looking at me. “Tell me your favorite color.”
“Green,” I answer.
“Favorite…food?”
