“It’s okay, honey. You and Edward were at the end of it, and you knew it in your heart.”
“I still feel like I should have had a stronger reaction.”
“It’s like grief, Gen. There isn’t one singular way to do it.”
“Maybe it’s because I knew it was my fault.”
“Oh, hell no.”
“I could have been a better girlfriend.”
“And he could have been a better boyfriend. He always complained about your work hours, but his are just as bad. That man wanted you to step down and put your career aside for his own comfort. Why didn’t he quit his job if he wanted kids so much? You’re making more than he does—more than enough to maintain your lifestyle.”
“He has his goals, and I have mine,” I justify.
“Exactly.” Her tone turns excited when she says, “Okay, I found a test!”
“For what?”
“To know if you’re bad at sex or not. It’s designed for heterosexual women and all.”
I freeze, many questions running through my mind at once. What if Iambad at sex? What if Edward wasn’t lying, and I’m boring in bed?
“First question,” Hana says without waiting for my approval. “Have you ever had the nastiest, naughtiest sex in your childhood bed as an adult?”
I shake my head, horrified at the thought. Sex in my parents’ house is something I would never do, for fear of whatever repercussions it might bring.
“Alright, so no on this one. Have you ever gone down on someone while pleasuring yourself?”
I shake my head again. Crap, it isn’t starting well.
“Have you ever had sex in a public place?”
“Does being at home with an open window count?” I try.
She shakes her head disapprovingly. “Not when you live on the 28th floor, Gen.”
The more questions she asks, the lower I sink on the couch. With every “no” I utter, I relive Edward saying that sex with me is boring. Hana doesn’t give up though, convinced the test will come through and I’ll get better questions later.
The good thing is that she fills our shot glasses every time I get sad, and we down more vodka. The bad thing is that I get sad a lot.
“What the hell is a Jacob’s ladder?” she asks at some point. Intrigued, I stare at her screen while she googles it. “Holy shit,” she breathes out, scrolling through the images.
I say nothing, too stunned to even speak. Penises. Heavily pierced penises. After a few pictures have passed, I realize that the “ladder” is a series of piercings arranged underneath the shaft. My knees come together on instinct, shuddering at the idea ofthatentering me. Why on earth would someone do this to themselves? It looks terribly painful—especially in such a sensitive body part.
“That must feel amazing,” my friend murmurs with fascination.
As I watch the pictures of dicks parading under her ever-scrolling thumb, I find myself wondering if it would. It has to be an interesting sensation, for sure.
“So, have you ever had sex with that?” she asks.
“Absolutely not. I prefer my vagina not in shreds.”
She mumbles something that sounds like “you wuss,” and returns to the test to select yet another “no”.
“How many questions are there?”
“Fifty. We have fourteen left.”
