In my vagina.
Just like yesterday.
Dammit.
“My dad’s a trained psychologist,” Heath says, like he’s trying to concentrate on his parents to keep from facing what’s happening. My skin feels like lightning’s about to strike. “Specializes in childhood trauma. Treats both kids and adults.”
“Naturally,” I murmur.
“But he left it to be a handyman when the stress got to be too much.”
“Tell me he doesn’t make jokes about Thor’s hammer.”
He visibly swallows. Then swallows again. “Could any dad worth his salt resist?”
Is wine flammable? Will all of these barrels combust if Heath keeps staring at me like he wants to inspect my vagina for himself?
While we’re in here talking about his parents?
There’s something wrong with both of us.
“Aunt Freya’s a preschool teacher.”
“Heath.”
He sucks in a breath and looks up at the cavernous ceiling like he doesn’t want me to say his name.
“What would your parents say about you avoiding the elephant?” I ask.
“They’d tell me I’ll face it when I’m ready.”
“Are you for fucking real? My parents would tell me to suck it up and deal with it.”
“Yes. I’m for fucking real.” His voice is hoarse now. “I’m glad you’re letting yourself be angry. That’s healthy. It’s good. Gladyou were finally ready and that you’re not holding it in. Holding it in is bad.”
“You’re turned on by me practicing good mental health strategies?”
“I—yes.” His face is a bearded, crooked-nosed beet. The purple kind of beets. “Good for you. I—yeah. I’ll let you get back to it.”
He turns on his heel and flees toward the exit behind the barrels, the door slamming loudly enough for me to hear it close.
Leaving me suddenly feeling alone.
But oddly, not naked.
Not exposed.
Comforted.
Accepted.
Encouraged.
I look at my chicken, who stares at me briefly before ducking under the lowest rail of barrels.
Then I look at my phone.
And then at my body.
