Page 4 of Rhythm and Rapture

I take another swig of wine and consider this. "You can blame it on my analytical mind, or you can blame it on the fact that I've spent the last five years learning that real life doesn't follow romance novel logic. Real life is messier, more complicated, and significantly less likely to involve convenient billionaires with perfect abs and emotional availability."

"But that's exactly why fiction exists!" Rachyl insists. "To give us a break from real life's bullshit. To let us imagine worlds where the hot guy actually communicates his feelings instead of just grunting mysteriously in the corner."

"If you want better communication, maybe don't start with books where the primary male dialogue consists of growling and possessive declarations."

"You're impossible."

"I'm realistic. There's a difference."

Rachyl studies me for a moment, her expression shifting from tipsy amusement to something more serious. "You know what your actual problem is? You've gotten so good at analyzing everything that you've forgotten how to just... feel things. When's the last time you did something purely because it felt good, not because it served some practical purpose?"

The question hits closer to home than I'd like to admit. When was the last time I did something just for pleasure, just for me, without calculating the cost-benefit analysis first?

"I feel things," I protest, but even as I say it, I know it sounds defensive.

"Scientific breakthroughs don’t count Sabina. I'm talking about genuine, selfish, impractical pleasure. The kind that serves no purpose except making you happy."

I stare into my wine bottle, avoiding her gaze. "Happiness is a luxury I can't afford right now, Rach. Some of us have actual responsibilities."

"And there it is," she says softly. "The wall comes up the second things get real."

Before I can respond—before I can deflect with more sarcasm or scientific analysis—my laptop chimes with a notification.

"Saved by the bell," I mutter, grateful for the interruption.

Taking the coward’s way out, I grab my computer and stand, "I have to answer this message.”

"This conversation isn't over," Rachyl warns, but she's already gathering her things. "We're going to talk about your emotional avoidance patterns."

"Looking forward to it," I lie, already mentally shifting into work mode.

Because that's what I do—I compartmentalize, analyze, and survive. Romance novels might promise happy endings, but real life requires more practical solutions.

Even if sometimes, late at night, I wonder what it might feel like to be the kind of person who believes in fairy tales.

PRESENT

I type back:

Can't today. Too much work.

Three dots appear immediately, then:

Bullshit. You ignored my messages last night and I know you read them. You're avoiding me because you don't want to talk about your mysterious "side work" that suddenly has you able to afford organic groceries. I'm not judging, babe. I'm worried.

I sigh, my phone buzzing again:

I’ve given you space. But that time has now passed. I will see your ass for coffee after your last class. I have your schedule. Because it’s MY schedule. Xoxo.

Fuck.

Fine, let’s meet after lunch.

I put my phone back in my pocket.

And there it is—the conversation I've been dodging for months. Rachyl knows something's changed, knows I'm making money somewhere other than my teaching assistant stipend and fellowship, but she doesn't know the details. Can't know the details. Because explaining would mean admitting that her brilliant, fiercely independent best friend has been funding her nephew's cancer treatment by taking her clothes off for strangers on the internet.

Not that there's anything inherently wrong with adult entertainment—my feminist theory classes covered sex-positive perspectives extensively. But there's a difference between theoretical support for sex work and explaining to your trust-fund baby best friend that you've joined the industry out of financial desperation rather than empowerment or exploration.

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