“You know... how many people you’ve gotten with.”
“Like made out at a frat party?”
“That’s cute.” Her friend shook her head, every strand of hair falling perfectly back into place. “Fine, I’ll go first. Six.”
“Six?” Poncho Girl’s eyes widened as a startled laugh burst from her lips. “You’ve slept with six guys?”
Bangs shrugged.
“Wow.”
It was a skill to slip so much passive-aggressiveness into such a small word.
“Take several seats, Miss Purity,” Bangs snapped. “It’s not like I’m a sausage jockey.”
“Well, my number is two. And it’s staying that way.”
“For real?” Bangs cocked her head. “You don’t want to play the field before committing to Derek’s dick for the rest of your life?”
Poncho sniffed. “And be some slut?”
Slut.The ugly word slugged Margot like a fist to the jaw. “Excuse me.” Her lips were moving before her brain could register the fact.
The girls jerked, glancing over with identical “And what the hell doyouwant” expressions.
“So... I’ve got a question. Did you know the correct term for a woman who’s slept with six guys?” Margot slipped off her reading glasses and polished the lenses with the bottom of her tunic. “Or what the hell, let’s round up and make it sixty guys.”
The bottom dropped out of Poncho and Bangs’s mouths.
“The correct word iswoman.” Margot stood stuffing her notes and workbook into her canvas Nevertheless, She Persisted tote. “Not a slut. Not a hooker. Not a skank. Not a whore. Wo-man. Say it with me.”
“I’ve got a better question,” Bangs retorted. “Why don’t you keep your big nose out of other people’s business?”
“If it doesn’t involve you, then it doesn’t concern you,” Poncho piped in.
“All I’m saying is that if you have to slut-shame to make yourself feel better, then you’re doing life wrong.” Margot shoved her pink-knit pussycat beanie over her long, wavy hair and shot them a peace sign before beelining toward the exit.
Outside the tea shop, Denver’s infamous winter wind stung her cheeks. The streetlight lit dull flakes of snow settling on the sidewalk. She cursed under her breath as she picked up her pace. Great. Thanks to her big ears—and even bigger mouth—she wasn’t any closer to having her business plan done. All she had to show for jumping on the slut soapbox was a night of missed pay.
She hugged her arms to her chest in a failing attempt to retain body heat. Once upon a time, seventeen-year-old Margot had remained quiet in the face of that ugly-ass word. It had been a hard-learned lesson that getting attention for the wrong things can be worse than being ignored.
Seventeen was also the year that her bonehead professor father had cheated on her stepmom, Annie, who in response had fled not only Portland, but the entire state of Oregon. She’d packed up Margot’s half-brother, Atticus, and returned to her hometown, the little mountain haven of Brightwater, set high in California’s Eastern Sierra Nevadas.
Good for Annie.
Shitty for Margot.
Seventeen had been day after day of torture. Isolated. Confused. Lonely. Finally she’d graduated, moved out to Colorado and started on a journey to figure out who she was and what she wanted out of life.
And here she was, seven years later, still a work in progress.
She ducked her chin and marched toward her place, swinging her arms to keep them from freezing.
At least she wasn’t a scared, insecure teenager anymore. Thank God for small mercies. She’d learned that if she kept her face turned toward the light, the shadows would fall behind her. Better to try and have a sunny disposition than float through life like a pessimistic rain cloud.
Her phone rang, and she rummaged for it inside her tote. Her bestie’s number flashed on the screen.
“What’s up?” Margot batted back a lock of hair whipping her face.
