“Ew,” I said, my nose scrunching up.
“Don’t like the idea of being provided for?”
“God, no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to rely on someone. Ever. That’s a power imbalance. I don’t like that.”
“I think maybe in a healthy relationship, there aren’t power dynamics you have to worry about.”
“That’s a fantasy.”
“Not a romantic, huh?”
“I think romantic love is just a silly little story people tell themselves. Like Santa Claus.”
“You think love is like… Santa Claus,” he repeated, shooting me a smirk that suggested he thought I was being absurd.
“No. Actually, I think love is the sillier of the two. I mean, at least we all grow out of our belief in Santa when we’re, like, eight.”
“Were you always such a cynic?” he asked.
“Growing up in the club kinda squashed any Disney princess fairy tales,” I said, shrugging.
I had distinct memories of watching those movies at friends’ houses and scoffing at how ridiculous they were. Even at that age, I felt my father’s over-the-top action movies were closer to reality than love stories.
I still believed that.
“So, I’m assuming you’re not a rom-com kind of girl.”
“Are you a rom-com guy?”
“I don’t mind them.”
“Really? With the cold heroines with resting-bitch-face who end up with the super sweet hero? That’s some fantasy right there.”
“I dunno. Think there might be something to them.”
“To what?”
“Cold women with great resting-bitch-face,” he said, his gaze on me.
“I’m nobody’s heroine,” I told him. “I’m a big girl. I can walk myself across the street,” I said as we reached the side of the road that would lead to the motel.
“I’m sure you can. Still gonna cross it with you.”
“That’s annoying, by the way,” I told him as we waited for a car to pass then crossed.
“What is?”
“Good manners?”
“Not listening when a woman tells you to shove off. Would you be following me to the motel if I were a man?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Not even a hesitation admitting that double standard.”
