How could he explain this without feeling like a dirty old man? He wasn’t grooming her for sex—though he could see how someone might think that. She wouldn’t be eighteen for a while yet, and she needed to know this stuff regardless of whether she had sex with him in the end or not. He was giving her a chance to learn what no one had taught her from an authoritative source. He just also happened to be attracted to her—and in love with her.
Yeah, watch yourself, buddy.
He tried to explain in very mild and general terms. “For both people to find pleasure in sex, they have to be able to talk about stuff like this. If you can’t talk about sex, you’re not going to enjoy it.”
“Really?” Clearly, this made no sense to her.
“You need to know what you like, and you have to be able to tell your partner. Otherwise, he’s just guessing. Every woman is different.”
“Don’t men just know what to do? I mean, isn’t it obvious?”
“Sex isn’t something I dotoyou, Megs. It’s something we do together—and for each other.” He tried to find an example. “It’s like making someone dinner. If you don’t like liver and onions and I keep making you liver and onions, you’re not going to be happy. You need to tell me what you like so I can make that instead.”
“I hate liver and onions.”
He laughed. “Good to know.”
She seemed to accept his explanation and went back to reading. She was focused on it now, her brow furrowed in concentration. Mitch read the subject headings upside down. Communicating About Sex. Exploring Lovemaking. Oral Sex. Anal Stimulation. Intercourse. After Lovemaking. Variations in Lovemaking.
“This is complicated.” She turned the page—and froze.
Rape and Sexual Assault.
It was Mitch’s first impulse to close the book and tell her that she’d read enough for one night, but he held himself back, waited.
“I’m not as innocent as you think. If you read those documents, then you know.”
“I only glanced at them when I put them back in your tent. I saw that there was a case against your stepfather for hurting you.”
“Wayne didn’t hurt me—not really.” She kept her gaze on the page, her voice neutral. “He used to touch me in places he shouldn’t or walk in when I was in the shower and look me over. There were lots of times he touched me through my clothes—between my legs or on my butt or my chest—and then pretended it was an accident. I would push his hand away or tell him to stop. He acted like I was crazy.”
Mitch tried to keep his voice calm. “What did your mother do?”
“When I told her, she slapped me and told me to stop dressing like a tramp.”
“Jesus.” That was despicable.
“Then Wayne came into my bedroom one night and pulled his … penis out of his pajama bottoms. He grabbed my wrist and forced me to touch him. Then he told me to lift my T-shirt and pull down my panties. I kicked and hit him and screamed for my mother. She found him half-naked on my bed—and threw me out of the house. She called me a slut and said the problems in her marriage weremyfault.”
Mitch struggled to take this in, rage hot in his veins. “Oh, Megs. None of that was your fault. Hedidhurt you. He was supposed to be a father to you, and instead, he abused you. So did your mother. She ought to have thrownhimout.”
Mitch stopped himself from saying more. Megs didn’t need his anger. She needed him to listen. “Where did you go?”
“I went to my school and climbed up to an open window on the second floor.”
Mitch grinned. “Of course you did.”
She smiled, too. “I slept in the library. One of the teachers found me. She asked what had happened and called the police. She got me in touch with a friend of hers, a judge. The judge listened to me, told me about emancipation, and eventually granted my request to become an emancipated minor. That’s how I was able to drop out of school and get my GED at sixteen. I wanted to spend my time climbing.”
“I’m glad your teacher was there for you.” Then it hit him. “How old were you when this happened?”
“I was fourteen when I was finally emancipated.”
Fourteen?
Good God!
Mitch’s heart broke.
