Broken Read Free Page B

think that’s what made you a man?”
    I watched him curiously. He turned to look at me, his face solemn and nodded slowly.
    “Yeah. I think it showed me what to expect, anyway.”
    “I’m not sure that’s the same thing.”
    “Well, if losing your virginity didn’t make you a woman,” he said, “what did?”
    I said nothing to that, a topic into which I didn’t wish to delve. After a moment, he shrugged. “Mary acted like I was handing her a twenty and kicking her out.”
    “Maybe she assumed you were the sort of guy who picks up women in bars and sleeps with them, then expects them to leave.”
    “I’d have let her shower first!” He cried, indignant. “Jeez, I’m not a total asshole.”
    Yet he didn’t deny he was, indeed, the sort of man who picks up women in bars and sleeps with them, perfectly satisfied with one night.
    I didn’t respond, just sipped my drink. Joe set his sandwich down. The sun shining through the glass overhead cut through the giant Boston ferns hanging above us and striped shadows in his dark blond hair. His frown pulled his full mouth into thinness.
    “Say it.”
    I pretended not to know what he meant.
    “Say it,” he repeated. “You want to. I can see it in your eyes.”
    “Say what?” I relented. “That you are the sort of man who does that?”
    “Keep going.” He sat back against the bench, his arms crossed.
    I smiled. “That you’re a cheater? A rogue? That you don’t know the meaning of fidelity? That you go through women like wind through lace?”
    “Don’t forget that I’m a silver-tongued devil who’ll say anything necessary to get into a woman’s pants. That my Holy Grail is pussy. That I’ve split more peaches than a porn star.”
    I laughed. “Split more peaches? That’s a new one.”
    Joe wasn’t laughing. “Go on and say it, Sadie. I’m a manwhore. You think I’m a slut.”
    I studied him before I answered. “Joe…”
    He wrapped up his food and stood, then tossed it in the pail next to me. He moved like a marionette dancing under the hand of an uncertain puppeteer, all jerks and twitches. He was angry. Really angry, and I stood, too.
    “Joe, stop.”
    He turned to me. His suit today was black, his shirt bright blue, his tie black with tiny blue dots scattered on the fabric. He put his hands on his hips, ruining the cut of his suit, which probably cost as much as my car payment.
    More shadows speckled his blue-green eyes, his high cheekbones, the slope of his nose. No sign of a smile. His glare wrinkled the corners of his eyes, and it wasn’t fair they only made him better looking instead of haggard.
    “I know you think it, so you might as well say it.”
    “But, Joe,” I said gently. “It’s true.”
    “It won’t always be true!” His words rang out, echoing.
    The plants seemed to recoil, startled at this shout interrupting their usual peace.
    I shouldn’t have scoffed, but his anger had made me angry, too. “Oh, please.”
    Joe stalked toward me. I didn’t move away. He stood only a few inches taller but he seemed bigger in his anger. I refused to flinch even when he leaned in so close he could have kissed me, if he’d wanted. This was my role, disinterested observer, as his was playful rogue. I acted as though I wasn’t intimidated, though the truth was, being so close I could count his eyelashes, smell him, feel the heat of his breath on my face, I was. Underneath, I always was. Intimidated and turned on.
    “It’s true,” he insisted through gritted teeth.
    “I’ve heard that before. But every month you come back here and tell me a new story about some new woman. Or more than one. So you’ll have to forgive me if the idea of you suddenly becoming Mr. Faithful sounds a little funny.”
    He jerked away from me, his finger pointing. “And every month, you listen.”
    I lifted my chin. “Is it my fault you have stories to tell?”
    He made a disgusted noise and gestured with his hands as if he was throwing something away.