Page 25 of Female Fantasy
“You first,” I try to deflect. “Who’s the girl? I thought you didn’t date. Anymore.”
There’s an awkward silence that lasts about twenty seconds.
“Her name’s Hannah. And we don’t date. We fuck.”
In the window, I see my ears turn crimson.
“She’s a friend of a friend. We meet up a couple of times a year in the city. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
I snort. “Does she know that?”
Nico frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that she has feelings for you and is hoping you’ll change your mind. It’s a classic trope: friends with benefits to lovers. One party—in this case, Hannah—falls first. And when you realize you’ve lost her, probably because she’s met someone who wants to date her, you’ll grovel. And then you’ll live happily ever after.”
Nico throws his head back and laughs. “A classic trope? You really do live in some kind of magical pretend land, don’t you?”
I grit my teeth, blinking back the anger pulsing in my forehead. Nico always does this: instantly makes me feel infantile, like a delusional toddler. He’s done it since we were kids acting out skits in the backyard. He did it that night when he broke my heart. Yes, I know that everyone confused my optimism with naivety when I was little. As a kid, playing pretend was a way for me to cope with the real world, with the way people saw me. Treated me. As an adult, I’ve realized that reading can provide the same escapism. Most days, my imagination makes me feel more creative and confident. There’s just this one single person who has the ability to snap his fingers and darken the sky of my mental utopia.
I smack his shoulder. “You know, I’m getting really sick of hearing you shit-talk romance. It’s seriously overplayed andsmall-minded. Let me guess: You only read dystopian novels about the end of the world. Flesh-eating diseases, the Earth running out of natural resources, etcetera?”
“Hey, it’s not my fault that society is on the brink of collapse. Excuse me for wanting a good seat on the first shuttle to Mars.” The muscles in his jaw tense. “I read apocalypse porn. You read porn-porn. We’re two sides of the same coin.”
I shake my head. “You still don’t get it, Nico. Romance…it’s about more than happily ever afters. More than smut or spice. It’s about people. Relationships, connections. Communication. You know you can be asexual or aromantic and still enjoy romance, right? Reading the genre isn’t a means to an end. In my opinion, it’s about righting a wrong, a power imbalance. You see, it all comes down to the patriarchy.”
Nico rubs his budding beard. “I don’t follow.”
“Well, from a young age, girls learn about our bodies through a patriarchal framework. Boys learn about what to expect during puberty. Kids and teens only learn about penetrative sex, which robs women of agency. Women get pregnant; men don’t impregnate women. Women lose their virginity; they don’t exercise their sexual autonomy. And the act culminates whenever the man finishes, but women are never taught about how to chase their own pleasure. Combine that with the fact that there’s little conversation about hormonal changes, sexual urges, and consent, and women are left scared, confused, and ashamed of their feelings. They’re afraid to talk about sex with each other for fear of being labeled oroversexualized. So they have to search for answers somewhere, the ones they don’t get in health class.
“And one of the ways that women learn about what they want—from a partner, out of a sexual encounter, in a relationship—is through reading romance. It’s women giving other women a literal helping hand. As they gain more knowledge about their bodies and themselves, they grow more confident and begin taking back that power from the patriarchy. That’s why men like you enjoy making fun of women for reading those books, why you trivialize their impact and liken them to trash. It’s why men guilt women into hiding their desire to read the genre, calling it a ‘guilty’ pleasure. Because you know that once women start swapping book recommendations and discussing their standards for love and sex, the jig will be up. And you’ll lose your power for good.”
Nico stares at me, mouth agape like a fish.
I reach over and close it.
“I had no idea your connection to those books was so…deep,” he finally says. “Honestly, I was just busting your chops. Shit.”
I blink a couple of times, caught off guard by his earnestness.
“Listen, I’m sorry, Joonie. Honestly. I don’t want to be one of those guys who mocks women for liking what they like. I’ll stop.”
I squint, waiting for the catch.
Asshole Nico, the one who calls me names? I know what to do with that Nico.
This genuine, pensive Nico? Not so much.
“Thanks,” I say, apprehensive. “Maybe I can lend you a book sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
We sit in the truck, stewing in silence. My words hang heavily in the air. I snatch back my phone, my hand accidentally brushing against his leg. He jolts as if I’ve shocked him with a live wire. I lean against the truck door, putting as much space between us in the nineteen-foot-long monstrosity as possible, then crank up the air-conditioning. It’s suddenly insufferably hot in here.
I check my phone and look at Waze. Our driving time has shot up. How is that even possible? There must be roadwork or something forcing cars into a single lane. Great. Only six and a half more hours to go. I wish I could just put on an audiobook, soothe myself with the sound of Ryke’s voice. But letting Nico hear that feels…wrong, for some reason. It’s like the two just weren’t meant to meet.
“You never answered my question,” Nico says, disrupting the quiet. “Why are you actually going to New York?”
I don’t know why I do it.
