Jane Doe(38)

“It’s fine, but leave the sweater on.”

“Aw. I think it’s pretty.” I shrug the sweater off and wiggle my bare shoulders. Steven looks away from the stoplight to ogle my breasts.

“It is pretty, but this isn’t some sleazy bar. Are you wearing a bra?”

“Yes!” I yelp. “It’s just strapless. Jeez.”

“Keep the sweater on.”

“Fine.” I pout. “I just . . . I thought you’d like it, that’s all. It’s a party.”

He pats my knee and then rests his hand on my thigh. “I do like it, baby. You can model it for me later, all right? Without the sweater. Show me how pretty you feel.”

I giggle and shove his hand away when he tries to slide it higher. “You’re so bad.”

“I am, but best behavior tonight, okay? There will be a lot of important people there.”

“Got it.”

“No drinking.”

“Oh. Okay. If you think so.”

“This isn’t your normal crowd.”

I nod as if I haven’t been to multiple parties at the American embassy in Malaysia with dignitaries from all over the world. Yes, it’s been all keggers and ragers for me. I hope I’ll be able to keep my panties from falling off in the middle of a conversation about the local chamber of commerce.

Steven’s been on his best behavior this week, charming and mostly kind, so things are proceeding nicely. I plan on sleeping with him tonight.

I turn to watch the world slide by through my window.

It’s dusk, and the streetlights begin to flicker on. All the snow that fell this week has melted, but the weight of it pulled down most of the turning leaves, and the city looks bleak.

We get on the freeway and head out of town toward houses with bigger yards. By the time we reach Pastor Hepsworth’s house, a little farther away than the church, the yards have turned into mini-estates, each big plot at least an acre of land. “Did you grow up here?” I ask.

“No, my dad bought this place when he remarried. I was twenty, so I lived here on and off during college, but I grew up just a few blocks from the church.”

The houses closest to the church are big split-levels built in the early ’80s, and I wonder if that’s why he bought a similar-style house for himself.

“Your mom is in Rochester?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“Do you still see her a lot?”

“Not really. She made her choices.”

“She’s still your mom, though.”

“She was a shitty mother.”

“Oh no! I didn’t realize. Was she . . . was she a drunk or something?”

“No, but she destroyed my dad and broke up her family. She doesn’t get to come back around playing mommy now.”

“Jesus teaches forgiveness, though.”

“And God said to stone adulterers to death. I think not spending holidays with her seems like a good middle ground.”

Yikes.

Steven takes my hand for a moment. “And when I have kids, I won’t want them spending time around a woman who doesn’t know anything about faithfulness or marriage. Would you?”

“I don’t know. My mom has been divorced a couple of times, and she’s a good person. She’ll make a really good grandma.”

“You’re telling me that when your mom was dating and living the single life she exposed you to the best values?”

“I . . .” I’ve thought the same thing about Meg’s mom, but it’s not that simple. My parents let me live through hell, and they’ve never spent a night apart as far as I can tell.

“Exactly,” Steven says. “You were probably molested, weren’t you?”

He says it smugly. Oh, he’s softened his voice to make it sound like sympathy, but I hear the self-righteous lilt at the end. He can tell I was trained from a young age to feel like crap about myself.

I duck my head and don’t answer.

“Who was it?” he asks.

“Come on, Steven. I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Why?”

“It’s shameful.”

“You can tell me. If we’re going to have a future, we have to be honest with each other. And God has already forgiven you. You know that.”

“I know.”

“It wasn’t your fault your mom was living that way. Was it some boyfriend of hers?”

“No.”

“Stepdad?”

I swallow hard and nod. “But it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t that bad, I guess. He just touched me. He didn’t . . . you know . . .”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

“Jesus.”

None of that’s true. It wasn’t a stepdad and it was far more than touching and I wasn’t anywhere close to twelve. I was seven, and it was the gross man who’d rented a room in our double-wide that year. When my mom explained that he’d watch me when she and my dad were out, I was relieved. So relieved. I’d hated it when they up and disappeared for days at a time. But my relief at having another adult in the house didn’t last more than a month.

So, by the time I was twelve, I’d already learned I could use my sexuality against men. I could use it against them or they’d use it against me.