“In fact,” I continue, my nerves jumbling up the longer I’m in his presence, “a woman should always take precautions into her own hands. You can’t solely rely on a man to be prepared or safe.”
He doesn’t say anything.
For some reason, I keep talking. “Besides, birth control is pro-feminist, even if some of the methods aren’t.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Like the IUD? Novel invention, barbaric insertion practices. Most doctors don’t evenofferpain medicine beforethe procedure, and they try to downplay the horrors. I’ve heard stories, you know? My aunts, my friends, my cousin?—”
“Not personal experience?”
A shiver skates down my spine. “No. I take the pill religiously. Have since I was fifteen. Although back then, it was for these really awful periods I’d get, where the cramping was so bad I’d vomit, and there was no other way to alleviate my suffering. It cut into my rehearsals for community productions, kept me from going out with friends. Turned out to be endometriosis, which explained a lot.”
He continues staring at me, his expression blank, and I scream inside.
Someone shoot me in the face. Please.
For some reason, I can’t seem to stop myself.
“But back to the casual sex?—”
An employee in a gray uniform comes out, their blue eyes wide as they approach the aisle. They say something to the man in a different language, and he replies easily, setting the shelf on the ground.
The employee exhales, offering a timid smile before heading to the front of the store again to continue counting lottery tickets.
“Was that French?” I ask, peering up at the man. He’s got at least eight inches on me, nearly as tall as my father, which feels sort of rare. The men in my family have always felt like giants compared to the average people I stumbled upon growing up or even in LA.
“Oui,” he replies, abandoning me once more to peruse the other end of the aisle. “My maternal grandmother was originally from France. She taught it to us to keep us connected to our heritage.”
Huh. I wonder what that feels like.
“Are you from around here?”
“Born and raised.” He still doesn’t refocus on me. “Am I correct to assume you’re not?”
“What would make you think that?”
“Grandeur Playhouse jacket.” His gaze flickers to me for a split second, and he nods at the insignia embroidered on the breast of my hoodie. “Not many people from Fury Hill know about LA community theater. Especially not enough to have its merch.”
“Then how doyouknow about it?”
He says nothing, which I find infuriating. Here I’ve already spilled half my life story, and all I know about him is that he has French ancestry and is from Fury Hill, which I could have guessed.
A man who looks like that doesn’t show up in a place like this by choice. He must have deep family ties or financial obligations.
I squint at his handsome face as he scans the nutrition label of a Pop-Tart. He tucks a brown sugar and cinnamon one beneath his arm with the pizza, then circles around the end of the aisle, heading for a display case against the far wall with bottled drinks.
A part of me expects him to grab a box of cheap wine from the alcohol section—the haphazard, late-night meal and disheveled appearance make me think he’s single, living alone, and probably prepping for the new semester that starts soon—but he goes for green tea instead.
Shaking off the encounter, I try to compartmentalize my embarrassment and get back to the task at hand. If I’m late to meet Quincy and Asher, they’ll never let me live it down, and I’m not trying to spend the next sixteen weeks as their mutual punching bag.
I got enough of that as a kid. My sister and brother were quiet and preferred their alone time, where I was outgoing and the lifeof the party. I wanted to be surrounded by people and the center of attention, which is how I got into acting in the first place.
Lot of good that interest did me over the last seven years, but I digress.
Not everything works out the way you hoped. That doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world.
At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself.
