Can I help it that this shade of green makes my eyes look especially blue and my hair look especially blonde? Or that, as a natural hourglass, the wrap dress highlights all of my best features? No, I cannot. Nor should I have to. I am a confident woman in my thirties, allowed to feel vivacious and attractive if I so choose.
At one point, I might have fluttered and fretted over Thad’s comment. But now, knowing that he has no romantic interest in me and I have no romantic interest in him, I feel free to be a little bold. “Were the huge sweaters too big of a temptation? I could see how the messy bun might be confusing for your hormones.”
Now he does look at me, wryly amused. “Even a turtleneck doesn’t hide”—he motions to the general vicinity of my body—“that. And combine that with the kind of stuff you were reading aloud at that sex club?—”
“Writing group,” I correct him, flushing.
“—it doesn’t add up to nun. That’s all I’m saying.”
I’m still stuck on him gesturing at my body, his eyes flickering over me. I know I have larger-than-average breasts and a big booty—how could I not know, with a best friend like Matilda?—but I guess I naively believed the sweaters could hide my shape. I’m stuck between panicking about it and feeling curious, despite myself. Just what did he think about all ofthis, and has that all gone away now that he knows I used to be a sister?
I clear my throat. “My parents don’t know about the romance novel, actually, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t bring that up.”
If Mom is having a hard time wrapping her head around me not wearing wool muumuus anymore, she really won’t like knowing that I’m writing erotic love scenes that are thinly veiled copies of my own fantasies. I’m sure in her mind I don’t have any kind of sexual urges, and any desire I’ve expressed to get married and have a family is purely out of a godly desire for children.
“Ah.” Thad looks like he’s about to glance over again but checks himself. “I can see why your folks might not be too keen. I thought it was pretty good, though. For a book.”
I give him a skeptical look. “You really don’t like to read? Not even those Agatha Christies you were checking out?”
I know it’s possible for some people to genuinely not like reading, but…do I? As a librarian, I’ve always felt like it’s my duty to help people find their thing. Not everyone is a reader like me who will gobble down practically any genre, but everyone hasthat one thingthey would enjoy if they got hold of it. Dean, for example, used to always hate reading until he got into the Percy Jackson books, and then he read them over and over again on a loop. For all I know, he still does—wherever he is now, hiding from the mafia.
Thad shakes his head. “Don’t really see the point. I’ll read the news, or stuff about sports and whatnot. But stories? Happily ever afters? No offense, but I feel like that’s little-kid stuff.”
I roll my eyes. Right—the way that human beings have expressed themselves for centuries, told stories of war and love and imagination and social critique and hope. All kids’ stuff. “You know, they say that reading fiction encourages people to have empathy for others. I can see why that might be a liability, in a line of work like yours.”
Okay, yes, that might be unnecessarily snarky, but he just besmirchedbooks. Books! Some lines should not be crossed.
Thad raises an eyebrow at me, making real eye contact for the first time on this trip. “So I don’t have empathy?”
“Your whole job is putting people in jail.”
“Criminals,” Thad reminds me tersely. “Liars. People who agreed to abide by the terms of their bail. People who don’t care that they’re putting bondsmen and their own families on the line to come up with the money for breaking their bond, all because they’re so selfish they can’t see past their own noses. People who, I’d say, lack quite a bit of empathy.”
There’s no playfulness left in the back-and-forth banter, so I answer in kind, glaring back at him. “You mean people like Dean? My little brother?”
Our eyes hold for a moment before Thad slides his gaze away, shaking his head to himself as he looks out at the road. “You said it. Not me.”
Chapter 18
Thad
I’ve always been pretty good with parents, even when I still had the mohawk. I think my glasses help. For better or worse, people trust people with glasses. That’s why I wear them sometimes out and about, even though I really only need them for reading. Which, as Helen was so keen to point out, I only rarely do.
I also think being a ginger has something to do with it. It puts fathers at ease, for some reason. There aren’t too many ginger heartthrobs out there, so maybe they think a guy with red hair and glasses won’t be too sex-crazed with their daughter, or something.
I’m probably living proof that this assumption isn’t true, though, if my recurring daydreams about Helen are any indication. She’s being pretty huffy with me as we near her aunt’s house, so I guess some of my sparkle has faded in her eyes and she’s no longer interested. And that’s fine, because I’m not interested, either. I have no use for criminals’ sisters who happen to be former nuns and might potentially still be virgins. I have nothing against virgins, as a species, but I’ve never been the guy to think it was some kind of trophy to be someone’s first. It seems like a lot of responsibility, frankly, and if she wants to wait to have sex until she’s married, I’m definitely not the right guy for that. Again, live and let live and all, but I’m not a very patient guy.
We are all kinds of wrong for each other. I know that, and yet…
That wrap dress on her is something sinful. There’s no reason it should make my mind go to such dirty places. But even though it’s not low cut or short or slinky, my eyes keep catching on that little tie on the side, and I can’t stop wondering if that’s the only thing holding the whole dress together, and what would happen if I just give it a little tug. And if she’ll be wearing those red lacy panties underneath.
Jesus.I will myself to think about anything else as Helen leads me up to the front door of her aunt’s house. It’s a quaint two-story on a picture-perfect little street, and today Helen looks like some kind of 1950s sweetheart with her blonde curls that bounce with every step she takes. I want to reach out and give one of them a tug, watch it spring and coil back into place.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Helen rings the doorbell and turns to face me. “Pam and Ken,” she reminds me in a low voice. “And don’t bring up Dean. Wait for my mom to do it.” A little eye roll to herself. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Wait, what was that? There’s some weirdness there between her and Dean. I myself am totally estranged from my brothers, but back when things were good, we didn’t go months without talking to each other, even if it was just dumb little texts and GIFs and whatnot here and there. I make a mental note to figure out what the beef is between the two of them, ideally before the night is over.
