Page 83 of Spark

“But wasn’t he raised to think sex before marriage is a sin, too?”

“No. He’s a boy. Different rules apply, babe.”

“What? That’s totally fucked up.”

“I agree. My parents didn’t mean to screw me over or give me lifelong hang-ups. They were just raising Titus and me the way they were raised, you know? And that meant being extra-protective of their sweet, innocent little daughter and herever-so-important virginity.” I roll my eyes. “I’m partly to blame, too, because I was such a people pleaser. Even if they’d tried to give Titus the same rules as they gave their sweet little daughter, he wouldn’t have followed them. Titus never gave a fuck about the rules.”

“You see yourself as a people pleaser? I’m shocked by that. Even in high school, I always got the impression you didn’t give a fuck about rules. I mean, you were a great student and all that, but you never seemed to care about being popular, or what other kids were doing or thinking.”

“I didn’t give a fuck about any of that stuff. Your impression of me was accurate. But when it comes to sex, the programming a young woman gets is powerful stuff, Kendrick. I don’t think you could possibly understand unless you’ve lived it. It messes with your head.”

We’re both quiet for a long moment as we process the conversation.

“You know,” I venture after a while. “I bet it wasn’t a coincidence I was able to come with you, and only you, for the very first time.”

“Yeah, because you finally found someone with actual skills.”

“No. I mean,yes. Of course that’s true. But I mean because you’re uniquely you in my life.”

Kendrick turns away from the road to look at me, his face lit up. “What do you mean?”

I shrug. “I was raised to believe sex is only acceptable with someone I love. Well, I love you, right? True, I’m not in love with you in a romantic sense, but I definitely love you. So, who better to explore my sexuality with than someone I already love and trust—who’s also an objective smoke show? Yes, your talented fingers were mostly responsible for that orgasm, but I have to think it helped my brain to completely let go for the first time because, subconsciously, there was nopart of me that believed I was doing anything wrong or shameful.”

Kendrick exhales slowly and adjusts his hands on the steering wheel again. His Adam’s apple bobs. His chest heaves. “That’s . . . an interesting theory. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.”

Another silence ensues—this one long enough to feel a bit awkward.

Finally, Kendrick asks softly, “Does that mean you’ve never loved any of your boyfriends? Or am I taking too big a leap in logic?”

My breathing hitches. I didn’t realize that’s what I just said, basically, because I didn’t fully realize it myself. But if my theory about myself is correct, then what other conclusion is there to reach?

“I think I’vethoughtI was feeling love, at times,” I answer carefully. “But looking back, no, I don’t think I did, because I’ve never fully trusted anyone I’ve dated. Not the way I trust you.” I look at him. “Can a person really, truly love if they don’t fully trust?”

Kendrick looks away from the road to meet my gaze. “No. They can’t.”

My heart feels lodged in my throat. Feeling tongue-tied, I look out the windshield to gather myself.

Kendrick’s wipers are swiping back and forth at the light drizzle falling. And suddenly, I picture everyone on the patio at Reed’s party scurrying back inside to the main party room. The thought makes me smile, for some reason.

“Thank you for telling me all this personal stuff,” Kendrick says softly, drawing my gaze back to him. “It means the world to me that you trust me enough to open up like this.”

“I trust you like nobody else,” I whisper. “Totally and completely.”

“I trust you like that, too.” He shifts in his seat, and hisbroad chest rises and falls sharply. “I can’t believe none of your boyfriends took the time to help you reach the finish line. It boggles my mind.”

“It’s not totally their fault. I faked it with a lot of them.”

The comment draws his gaze again. “Why?”

“Sometimes, that seems like a better choice than admitting you’re defective.”

His beautiful features contort. “You’re not defective, Ruby. Not at all.”

I smile. “Yeah, I know that now, thanks to you.”

He blushes, and so do I, and silence fills the cab of Kendrick’s car again, broken only by the swiping sounds of his windshield wipers.

“I told one boyfriend the truth,” I admit. “Remember the emo piano player I was obsessed with during my third year at Northwestern?”

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