Page 78 of The Romantic Agenda
And with that, she closes that door again and all the lights cut off. Compartmentalizing until she can’t anymore.
Her and Fox. Nothing else.
“How do you feel about pie?”
His eyebrows raise immediately. “You can make pies too?”
“Someone has a sweet tooth. Apple okay? There’s a bunch of them in the breakfast pallet we can use. Come on.”
Joy collects her towel, and they clean up their uneaten breakfast feast before heading inside. She begins as she always does by turning on music. Apple pie requires slow jams: crooning, soulful ballads, and mid-tempo bops that make you sway in time to the rhythm and move your hips. Not sad enough to make you cry, but sappy enough to make you smile and feel nostalgic.
“The secret ingredient is the singing,” she whispers dramatically. “Dancing is optional for the uncoordinated.”
“Hmm.”
She shows him how to wash, cut, and prep the apples, giving him stern warning to useexactmeasurements. They make the dough together too. She puts him in charge of kneading with the instructions, “Be gentle with the dough. Make sure you and your sexy forearms don’t go overboard.”
“Excuse me?”
She laughs. “I hate to break it to you, but you also fit that very exclusive and specific category. My sister is obsessed with forearms for some reason. Especially when the guy is wearing a collared shirt and rolls up his sleeves. I don’t get it, but according to her you have good ones.”
“You don’t get why your sister thinks forearms are sexy or sexiness in general?”
“The forearms. They’re just arms. What’s appealing about them?” She laughs. “I understand sexiness on an abstract level. When something or someone is considered desirable to the eye of the beholder and all that.”
“Does it bother you that people findyousexy?”
“Are we going there? Really?” she teases. “Occasionally. Oh, and thank you, I guess? I’m assuming you meant that as a compliment.”
“I did.”
“Do you think I’m attractive, objectively speaking? I get called ugly and a whole lot worse on the internet. It’s been... interesting to deal with.”
“You’re not ugly, Joy.”
“There’d be nothing wrong with me if I was,” she clarifies as she halves the dough and begins stretching it for the dish. “I don’t view myself like that because it feels so negative. I feel like when people say ‘ugly’ they’re either trying to hurt you on purpose, imply you don’t fit conventional beauty standards as a fact, or bully you into being ashamed until you do something about it.”
“Hmm.”
“Ilike the way I look, soIdon’t think I’m ugly. But I know not everyone feels that way.”
“Hmm.”
“When I was younger, I used to stare at pictures for hours trying to figure out the difference between people’s faces. I remember sometimes I’d be like, ‘Oh yes, this is a good face that makes my brain happy,’ and then there’d be others, ‘Now, people are saying this one is sexy, butwhy?’ and just on and on and on. I finally gave up, decided everyone is beautiful, and called it a day.”
“Hmm.”
“Am I talking too much?”
“No.”
“Then how come you aren’t saying anything?”
“I’m listening.”
Joy stops pouring the filling and sets the bowl back down. “I want to talk to you, not at you. All you say ishmm. I’m tired of hearinghmm.”
“Hmm.” He grins.
