The Book Eaters(57)
Jarrow snorted, throwing his head back against the couch. “Go on. Give me your four definitions.”
“‘Lacking sex or functional sex organs.’” She reddened a little.
“That’s definitely not the problem.” He was laughing, not at all embarrassed.
“‘Involving or reproducing by reproductive processes,’” Devon said, with all the dignity she could muster. “That isn’t what you mean either, is it? You’re not an amoeba or a mushroom.”
Jarrow shook his head, still smiling.
“‘Not involving, involved with, or relating to sex: devoid of sexuality,’” she said, and this time he was silent. Devon added, “Merriam-Webster also specifies, ‘Not having sexual feelings toward others. Not experiencing sexual desire or attraction.’”
“That’s the one. That’s what I am. Uninterested in procreation or people in—in that way men are supposed to be.” He finished off his beer, rolling the empty can between his hands. “I’ve never felt that way for a single person, you know. Never tried to pick up human girls, or wanted to get married, or … Matley used to say I was a deviant. D’you know he has a porn stash?” Jarrow shook his head. “Most of my brothers do. Just not me.”
Deviant: noun. Someone or something that deviates from a norm.
She surprised herself by saying, “I’m a deviant too. For what it’s worth.”
He looked up, still rolling the beer can. “What d’you mean?”
“I like girls.” Devon had never said that to anyone before, not even herself. “I mean. I think I do. But how do you even know, when there aren’t any around, to be sure? It’s just a feeling, from reading about them in books. And the few that I’ve met in real life.”
Jarrow was quiet for a long moment. “Ah, damn. That must make these marriages very hard on you.”
“I don’t know any different, do I? It’s just my life.”
“Just your life.” He crushed the empty can to flatness. “Doesn’t it bother you? The babies, getting married, all that.”
The question unsettled her, an echo of what she’d asked Faerdre, years ago at the first wedding.
Long-lashed Faerdre, pretty and bright and sparkling with her hand on Devon’s thigh as she leaned in for a “social” kiss. Long-suffering Faerdre, bored and lonely and drinking far too much wine at someone else’s wedding.
She gave him Faerdre’s answer, because it seemed fitting. “Well, there’s not anything else, is there? Can’t live with humans, so it’s this or nothing.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he said quietly. “Forget about duty, obligation, whether there’s better or worse options. Do you, Devon Fairweather, mind being a bride who gives up her children?” He pointed at her belly. “You’re pregnant. For the second time. Are you going to mind, giving up that child?”
“It isn’t so bad.” She hated him for asking. For caring. She hated everyone else even more for not asking, and not caring. “I’m lucky. I have a privileged life.”
“What? What?” He turned toward her in a rare moment of expressiveness, eyes wide and nostrils flared. “Dev, you have a daughter! Would you be happy for her to get married like you’ve done? How are you going to feel when she goes through that, in a dozen years’ time? Will you still be saying it wasn’t so bad and telling her she’s lucky?”
“I…” For a brief moment, Devon was struck by a vision of three-year-old Salem, giggling and rolling around in bed while someone pushed her face-first into a pillow and hiked up her skirt.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, because Salem would be much older when she got married, but that still might be her fate, her experience. And why not? It had been Devon’s. She had been willing, more or less, but if her daughter was not, what then? The experience would be nightmarish, as Matley was for her. It might be nightmarish even if Salem was willing.
“I don’t have your choices,” she said, resentment leaking into her words. “We don’t all get to say no. I haven’t got sisters to shoulder the burden. You’re asking me this like I have a say and it’s cruel, Jarrow, really cruel, because for you these things are a choice.”
He flinched. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Of course I mind. Christ! I miss my daughter all the time. I can’t talk about her but I can’t stop thinking about her, either. I hate not having options, I hate how we live. Privileged and oppressed, exotic and dull. I try not to think of her getting married.” She glared at him. “Does that answer your question?”
Jarrow leaned forward, gripping her hand. “What if I could help you have choices?”
“Such as? I’ve tried running away before. I don’t think I even got five miles.”
“You didn’t have a plan, or resources,” he countered. “Look, come with me to the back room. I want to show you something.”
This was a bad idea, but she only had time to kill.
“All right.” She followed after, belly filled with tingling.
The games room held a small storage area that he’d outfitted as a kitchenette: a specialist kettle for boiling inktea, cupboards of graphic novels to snack on.