Jane Doe(23)

A few minutes later she returns and jumps onto my small kitchen counter. I should take a picture and text it to Steven. I’m still laughing at my own joke when she leaps nearly all the way to the ceiling to explore the top of the cabinets. She settles into a crouch there and finally turns her gaze on me, surveying me from her position of power.

“You little bitch,” I whisper in admiration. She blinks sleepily in response. She’s the best cat in the whole world.





CHAPTER 17

She did a good job of keeping her distance for a few days, only approaching me on the couch for occasional attention. But when I woke up this morning, my cat was curled against my hip, and she was as warm and soft as I imagined she’d be. I stayed in bed an extra ten minutes, just feeling her there. I stroked her back and she purred her approval.

That was by far the highlight of my day. Now I’m off work and an hour into this dinner with Steven and I just want to get home and see what she’s doing.

“Steven?” I ask tentatively as I pick at the last of my french fries. “Do you believe all that stuff your dad said on Sunday?”

“What stuff?”

“About women.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

We had lunch twice this week, but I’ve been waiting to have this conversation as if I’m embarrassed to even bring it up. Finally, I spit out the horrible truth. “I’m not a virgin.”

He blinks in shock at my sudden confession while I hold my breath a little, hoping to make my cheeks go red. “I mean”—I stop to grimace—“you wouldn’t expect me to be, would you? After what your dad said . . .”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, of course not.”

“But all that stuff about women keeping their legs closed to be more godly . . . I just worried . . . We’re supposed to be dating, and I started thinking you wouldn’t like me if . . . I don’t know! I mean, I assume you’re not a virgin either!”

He flashes a smile. “No. Of course, it’s different for men, obviously.”

I nod as if I agree. “I know.”

“But, no, Jane, I don’t expect you to be a virgin. As long as you’re not some slut who’s slept with fifteen different guys.”

I’d slept with fifteen guys by the time I was . . . twenty? Twenty-one? Who knows. But since his guess is way off my current number, I shake my head hard. “No. Definitely not fifteen.”

He settles back in his chair and watches me for a moment. “Okay. So how many guys have you slept with?”

I cover my eyes with my hands. “Steven! That’s . . . that’s really personal.”

“Does that mean it’s too many?”

“No!” I wonder what his ideal number is. One, maybe. Not a slut, but he doesn’t have to worry about being the first time. Or maybe he’d like that. I bet he would. A little pain and blood to prove he’s having sex with a good girl.

“Come on,” he coaxes. “How many?”

“I don’t think it’s . . . God! Why do you want to know?”

“I’m just curious. Shouldn’t we know these things about each other? We’ve been dating nearly two weeks now.” When I shrug, he says, “You brought it up.”

“I . . .” I wilt a little and keep my eyes covered.

“I’m not going to judge you.”

That’s the most ridiculous lie I’ve ever heard, but I pretend to believe him. “Eight,” I say quietly.

“Eight?” He sounds incredulous. He couldn’t even make it one second without judging me.

“Maybe seven and a half,” I correct.

“Wait—how do you have half sex with someone?”

“It wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t really want to do it.”

“He raped you?”

“I don’t know. We were making out and I didn’t really want to do more, but . . .”

“But he was already excited?” He says it like it makes total sense to him.

“Yeah.”

“Eight guys,” he says, discounting my adjustment. “Wow. That’s a lot.”

“I don’t know. Most of them were relationships, not just . . . you know, one-night stands.”

“But some of them were?”

I shrug.

“How many?”

“How many what?”

“How many were just strange men you picked up at a bar?” God, this color commentary.

I grab a number out of the air. “Three.”

“Jesus.”

“What?” I cry. “You said you wouldn’t judge me. And that’s not so many. I’m thirty! What’s your number?”

He laughs. “I’m a guy. It’s higher.”

“Then I don’t know why you’re judging me,” I grumble.

“It’s just a lot for a girl, that’s all. You’re almost into double digits.”

“But I’m not!”

“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands to try to calm my sensitive feelings. “You don’t want dessert, do you?”

I do, of course, but I shake my head.

He pays the bill and we walk to the car. He’s silent on the drive to my place, and I’m still pretending to feel bad about what he said, so I stay quiet too. The days are getting shorter and it’s full dark even though it’s only 7:30.