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October 6 - October 6, 2024
“Home?” I murmur, glancing at him. “I didn’t know humans were allowed to jaunt back and forth over the River Styx like that.” His eyes raise to mine. His mouth twitches. “There’s a small toll. It’s really quite civilized.”
But men expect you to be more thoughtful than they are—softer, more accommodating. And when you are paid less than your peers, or assaulted on a date, or lose a promotion, they’ll tell you it was your fault—you were too soft, too accommodating. They think it’s a slur when they refer to me as a castrating bitch, but all it says to me is that they’ve finally realized I’m not someone to fuck with.
Debbie continues to explain, to a group of grown humans, how food is labeled. I sigh quietly, and Ben’s eyes flicker to mine, as if he finds my irritation amusing. One day I’m going to light him on fire—we’ll see how much laughing he does then.
“Speaking of work,” he continues, “I was thinking I might make a donation to that charity you like. That women’s thing…the domestic abuse one.” So generous, Dad, to give money to a charity you don’t even know the name of. Surely, no strings attached there.
“Can you do this? This case could be a big deal. I need to know you’re going to bring your A game, no matter how much you hate me, or just hate men in general.” I want to argue that I don’t hate all men, but I don’t think I could swear to it under oath. I hate more men than I don’t, I suppose.
I want the world to be a different place for the women who come after me. And the only way to make that happen is to ignore the fact that it isn’t different yet. But I’m so goddamned tired of staying silent just to get the things I deserve.
“Your outfit screams accidentally sexy librarian, but those shoes belong on a dominatrix.”
“Don’t get too flattered,” he says under his breath. “There are a lot of women in here. It could be for any of them.” I feel my mouth curving upward and promptly turn it back down. “Mommy issues. I should have known.”
His eyes are still narrowed. “Your expectations might be a bit high.” I pull out a pen. “Lower expectations…” I repeat, scribbling the words on my desk calendar. “That’s great life advice, Ben. Anything else?”
Three weeks before my dad left with Stephani, he’d taken my mom to the Bahamas for their anniversary, where he gave her a tennis bracelet equal to a year’s tuition—one she sold a few months later to pay legal fees.
“You okay?” I ask. “You look like you’re having a stroke.” “It’s cute that you’re worried about me,” he says, even more irritated than before. “It’s cute that you think that was worry, not optimism.”
“I’m no one to throw stones, but it seems to me your bar for who you sleep with should be set higher than your bar for who you’d date.” As loathe as I am to accept advice on this matter from a woman who once seduced a monk during a silent meditation retreat, she has a point.
“I can’t believe he told me no,” I complain to Keeley. She laughs. “That’s just the worst when a man expresses interest in who you are as a person. What a dick.”
He points his fork at me. “And that’s why I like you, Gemma. Because you tell me the truth even when it does you a disservice.
Men with power had made this happen. Men just like my father, and the lawyers who railroaded my mother. They helped each other, covered for each other, did whatever was necessary to keep their little circle closed. And they’re apparently still doing it.
