Page 35 of Girls Will Be Girls
“Travel writer? Adventure writer?”
I contemplate him for a second. “You won’t judge me?”
“Why would I do that?” He asks, a little shocked but amused.
“Because most people do.” I correct myself. “Actually, mostmendo.”
“Right.” He nods. “So it’s notmespecifically who’s the problem, it’s my kind?” He grins.
I can’t help but smile back. “I guess you could say that.”
“That makes me feel a lot better, gotta admit.” His grin grows. “Is that why you write under a pen name?”
I bob my head from side to side. “Something like that.”
“So?” He eggs me on.
“Fine, I’ll tell you.” I laugh. “But if you’re a dick about it I will leave you at this table.”
“That’s fair.” He laughs.
“I work forLure Magazine,” I say. “I’m a travel and wellbeing writer.”
He just stares at me for a second, his usually expressive face completely neutral.
“And you’re embarrassed by this because?” He finally asks.
“I’m not.” I defend. “I just don’t like telling guys about it.”
“Because…” He repeats, confused.
“Because believe it or not, you lot can be extremely judgmental.” I take in a breath, knowing the rant is coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it now. “Guys always think that because I write for a‘women’s magazine’,”I air quote with half a chicken wing in my hand, “that what I write isn’t good or serious, that it’s notrealjournalism. I hate the way you always pity us, as if we couldn’t getrealjournalism jobs, so we had to settle for this. As if writing about anything that isn’t climate change, or war, or politics means we’re somehow not meant to be taken seriously.” I look up at him. “But we should be.”
“I know you should be.” He says without a beat.
There’s a moment of tension as I try to read his expression. I can’t tell if he’s genuine or just telling me what I want to hear.
“I blame Kate Hudson.” I try to lighten the mood.
He hides a laugh. “What did poor Kate Hudson ever do?”
“She starred in, objectively, one of the best films of the noughties, and told a generation of girls that writing about anything feminine wasn’t to be taken seriously. That we should strive to write about war, economics, or politics, but not for a women’s magazine. No matter how much I actually love that film, or her, I can never forgive it.”
“How can you love it if you hate it?” He asks.
“Have you seen it?” I practically squeal. “It’s a freaking masterpiece.”
“This is the Matthew McConaughey, losing a guy one, yeah?” He clarifies.
I shake my head. “You’re such a dude.”
“I’m sorry.” He laughs. “Ten-year-old me only cared aboutYu-Gi-Oh!cards and basketball.”
“It has basketballinit.” I offer.
He drops his hands on the table dramatically. “And no one told me?”
We both laugh until he wipes his hands on a napkin and reaches over to touch my finger with one of his, tapping it like he did on the table earlier. It’s the smallest touch, but it’s so incredibly comforting and warming, my whole body is reacting to it. His eyes settle on me with an affectionate stare, and I think I might combust.
