Page 57 of Plum

And some stripper’s gonna sashay off with the contents of my wallet like she’s got better shit to do? After I treat her like gold? After I say shit to her I’ve never said to any other woman before? Let her in when I letno onein. No one even close.

The worst of it is that the whole time, IknewI was being an asshole. I was one of those entitled pricks I used to make a sport of taking down, one after another, their privilege a huge blind spot that could never let them see Thomas Wade’sadoptedson overtaking them. I knew it, but I was out of my mind.

I’m still shaken, sitting at Jo-Beth’s table, eating a sandwich. I didn’t know I had it in me—Eric’s degenerate delight in taking out his frustration on those weaker and smaller. Someone who has to take it.

In that room in the back of The White Van, I was almost high on it, the indignation, and Jo-Beth’s bare tits and skin, all mine if I wanted it because nobody can tell me I can’t have it anymore. Nobodywilltell me I can’t have what I want anymore. I hated her in that moment. Hated what she was, and hated that I wanted her anyway. I should be better than this.

And then she threw my words back in my face, stepped funny, and cried out in pain, and reality came crashing through the sleep deprivation and the booze and this jacked up, early mid-life crisis. I don’t want to hurt this woman. Never.

And I don’t want this woman tobehurt. Ever. I don’t understand what she is to me, but I know she’s not like anyone else in my life. She’s not a piece on a chessboard; she’s not a cog I need to function properly or discard. I don’t care what she’s done. She’s…real.

And she’s drumming her long, pink nails on the table.

“Yes?”

She has an eyebrow raised. “You’ve been sittin’ there quiet awhile.”

“Does it make you nervous?”

“Makes me bored. You have to do the dishes.”

“All right. Do you want me to help you back to the sofa or to your bed?”

She snorts. “You’d like to help me to my bed, wouldn’t you?”

I grin and grab our plates. “All the same to me. I can eat your pussy on the sofa same as in a bed.”

Jo-Beth rolls her eyes. “That ain’t a golden ticket like a blow job is for a man, you know that, right?”

“It isn’t?”

“A woman ain’t gonna go immediately stupid ‘cause you promise her head.”

“Why do you think I want you stupid?”

“’Cause for some reason you don’t look like you’re fixin’ to leave. And I’d have to be stupid to let you stay.”

“Why’s that?” She’s hobbling back to the living room. I’d drop the dishes and help her, but she’s a proud little thing, and she’s managing.

“Everyone knows. You let a man in your house, he don’t ever leave. Worse than mice.”

“Is that so?” I’m trying not to smile.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. No man you let in your house would ever want to leave.”

“That don’t make me feel better!” she hollers from the sofa. She has her leg propped up and a magazine in her lap. I follow her, lowering myself carefully beside her. I brought the ice pack, fresh from the freezer, a glass of water, and one of her pain pills.

“Here.” I drop a pill in her palm, and then I bend to inspect her ankle. It’s swollen and bruised, and frankly, I’m surprised she’s not complaining about it more. “How badly does it hurt?”

She’s studying me, eyes narrow, as if I’m going to steal her foot. I can’t stop grinning. So help me, I think she’s the hot female version of Grumpy Cat.

“Bad enough. Why you smiling?”

I gently tug up her yoga pants and arrange the ice pack. Then I kiss the tip of her scrunched-up nose. “Because you make me smile.”

She says harrumph. Seriously. Harrumph. I laugh, and she swats me with her magazine, and then grumbles, “Turn on the TV, won’t you.”

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