10000 Things I Hate About You
Derrick’s right—it doesn’t make sense to tell Evie what happened—but I’m not sure I can keep a secret like this from her. Evie is more than my best friend; she’s family. I’m closer to her than I am to my biological sister, and we’ve always told each other everything. Whether good news or bad, I don’t feel like something fully happened to me until I share it with Evie.
The thought makes me perk up in my seat and some of the tension ease from my ribs…
That’s it!
If I don’t share this with Evie, it will be almost like it didn’t happen.
“Everything okay?” Derrick asks, breaking the strained silence for the first time since he started the engine.
“Yeah.” I shift closer to the door, as far away from the soul-and-kissing-confidence-crushing human on the other side of the vehicle as possible. “Everything is better than okay, but I think we should take this one step further.”
He casts a nervous glance my way, dividing his attention between my face and the mostly abandoned road ahead. “What do you mean? I told you, Harlow, that was a mistake. A huge mistake. I can’t—”
“I’m not talking about that,” I say, cutting him off before he can turn me down, yet again.
Ugh. He’s such a jerk. How could I have ever thought he was bossy and controlling in the good way? He’s an uptight joy killer, a nightmare in Sex God’s clothing, and now at the top of my Least Favorite People list.
“I’m talking about not talking,” I continue in a cool voice. “I think you’re right. I don’t think we should talk again. Ever. About anything. From now on, I’ll pretend you don’t exist and vice versa. Sound good?”
He sighs. “Come on, Harlow. I’ve known you since you were a little kid. I care about you. You’re…my friend.”
“I’m not your friend. I’m Evie’s friend. You made that clear every time you treated me like an annoying little sister you didn’t want borrowing your video games or stealing dirty magazines from under your bed.”
Derrick punches the brakes a little too hard at the first stop sign and his head jerks my way. “What? You’re the one who stole them? I thought it was Evie. I gave her shit about it for weeks.”
“Yeah, I know.” I sniff and lift my chin higher into the air. “She told me about it. And I confessed I was the one who took them. And she told me that she’d never tell you what I’d done, because she’s the most loyal, wonderful friend ever. I should have remembered that and made sure I didn’t do anything to damage our friendship. Like kiss her evil big brother who likes bondage porn.”
“A little rope and handcuffs aren’t bondage,” he says. “Not really. And I was seventeen when I was looking at those. You were nine.”
“So?” I shrug. “I was curious. And I started my period a year later. It wasn’t like there were no hormones in my system. I understand it’s convenient for people to assume sexual urges suddenly manifest overnight when you turn eighteen, but that’s not reality.”
“I get that, but still...” He shakes his head. “You were wearing your hair in pigtails and making mud pies with Evie in the backyard. You shouldn’t have been looking at shit like that. I should have hidden them better.” He shoots a frustrated glance my way. “Or, better yet, you should have stayed the hell out of my room. It wasn’t a kid-friendly place, and you were told at least a hundred times it was off-limits.”
“Whatever, I’m fine. I wasn’t psychologically damaged by your second-rate porn, and I found much better stuff under my mom’s bed a few years later, anyway. Romance novels are way sexier than man porn. The women get to have love and orgasms and actual three-dimensional lives, instead of shaving their pubes into a weird dagger shape and bouncing on the pizza boy’s dick, pretending whatever gross dude they hired to play the pizza boy isn’t totally nasty. And none of those women in porn are actually coming. You know that, right?”
“Of course, I know that,” he snaps.
“And that’s okay with you? You’re cool with some poor actress experiencing zero pleasure while Jake the Jizz Factory is spewing all over her face?”
“No, it’s not okay with me. But it… It is what it is. Those women choose to make those films. They’re not forced into it.”
“So?” I challenge. “They should still get to feel good. The men do. Why is it just assumed the women will fake it when a little fucking effort on the part of the men they’re fucking in those movies might actually get them off? It’s another toxic, man-centered belief, and it’s gross. If you really care about women, you should stop watching that shit. Try romance novels instead. You might learn something.”