Page 10 of Let's Kiss and Tell
“It’s only fair,” she says.
There are a million things I could ask Lucy. What’s that perfume you’re wearing? Why are you talking to me when there are far more interesting people at this bar? Are you dating anyone? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? All questions that I will absolutelynotbe asking. Now or ever.
“Where did you grow up?” I realize my lack of creativity, but it’s a question I want to know the answer to.
“Santa Clarita,” she answers. “Moved to LA during college, and yes, I’m aware non-transplants are a rare breed.”
I want to tell her that I thinkshe’sa rare breed, not the fact that she’s not a transplant, but I obviously don’t.
“It’s a Sunday.” I start to paint a picture. “You don’t have a deadline, no errands to run, not a care in the world…How do you spend your day?”
“Ooh, that’s a good question.” She bites her glossed lip. “I would probably go to a boxing class, grab a smoothie or takeout from one of my favorite spots, and then spend the rest of the day binge-watching true crime documentaries.”
“You box?” My eyebrows lift. This woman continues to surprise me by the second. Every detail of her life I’m finding fascinating.
“I do,” she says. “Do you?”
“I actually used to,” I say. “I loved it.”
“Why’d you stop?” she asks.
“Not by choice,” I explain. “Work is always unpredictable and it’s tough committing to any classes. I just usually run or work out at home whenever I can.”
She flips her dark hair over her shoulder. “Well, if you ever want to take it up, let me know.”
“Oh yeah? You’d spar with me?”
“Hell yeah. And I don’t care if you’re twice my size, Marsh. I’ll still kick your ass.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say, and we do that thing again where our gazes linger on each other for a moment longer than is natural. “What made you decide to write about sex?” I ask my final question.
“Because I love sex,” she says, and there’s honesty to her answer. “Sex is like math. It’s the same in every language.”
I let out a laugh. “I’ve never thought about it like that. Have you always had this perspective?”
“It’s something I grew to understand the more I wrote about it,” Lucy says. “One of my first articles was a one-off story in the college paper that ultimately became my niche.”
“What was the article?” I ask.
“It truly is the most uninspired title.” She rolls her eyes, almost embarrassed. “It was ‘What Your Online Dating Profile Really Says About You.’ It turned into this viral manual. Students used it as their bible to navigate Tinder at the time, and they wanted more. So, when the paper offered me a weekly column to talk about dating advice, I obviously jumped at the opportunity.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
“I’m good at it, and I love writing about sex, but…” It doesn’t seem that Lucy is struggling with her answer. She knows exactly what she wants to say, she’s just not sure if I’m the person she wants to tell it to.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say gently. “For what it’s worth, I admire what you do.”
She narrows her eyes at me, almost offended. “I think that’s pretty bold of you to say.”
“I’m not patronizing you.”
“Then say more.” She cocks her head and I’m starting to believe this isn’t the first time a man has made this remark to her. “How do youadmirewhat I do?”
I set my drink on the table in front of us. “For example, there’snews,which objectively can be the most prominent part of any publication. News is what’s universally topical and demanding. It’s what people around the worldneedto know about.”
“Well.” Lucy raises an eyebrow.
“But the difference is,” I continue, “news has no opinion, noperspective. It’s unbiased. Nine out of ten times people read news stories and don’t care about who’s writing it, because it’s simply facts. With sex and relationships, you’re in a vulnerable position. There’s no way to writeyourcolumn without tapping into your experiences, your emotions. To talk about an area of your life that’s so intimate, so personal, is admirable.”
