Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
It doesn't sound like his description of his sister. But maybe that's why she loved it. Because she wanted to feel a connection with anyone she could find, even the songwriter.
"Did your sister like guys?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "She always said it was unfortunate. Molly came out young. And our parents… I guess it doesn't make sense, now, how quickly they accepted it, but they did, and I was too young to wonder about the contradiction, how they could support a church that said my sister was a sinner and support her too, but they did."
"Are they close?"
"Molly and my parents? Kinda. She was always headstrong, same as Deidre, but different, you know? Deidre would stand up for other people. Molly would fight for herself."
"I know what you mean."
"She's never said it, but I think she's always felt it," he says. "That divide between their faith and her. She stopped going to church after she came out and they never asked. But now… I wonder if it was their suggestion."
"Parents are hard. With my mom… I know how hard things are for her. I see it. Fuck, I saw her smoking."
"Smoking?"
"Vaping." I laugh. "My stern, totally in control all the time mom… vaping. And she looked sad, scared. I wanted to feel for her. I did. But then all the ways she hurt me came rushing in."
"You feel both at the same time?"
"But my hurt wins," I say. "Or at least… I can't bring it to her. I can't talk about it."
He nods. "I get that."
"Is she okay, you think? Molly?"
"I don't know. She acts tough and she'd never confide in me. She's older. In her early thirties."
"How old was Deidre?"
"Late twenties."
"You really are the baby," I say.
He nods. "Molly sees me that way. It's kind of nice, having a sister who's so much older and wiser. But she knows it too."
"She sounds badass."
"She is."
The singer's voice catches my thoughts. She's hurt, vulnerable, raw. It's commendable.
But there's something else about it—
It feels too easy. She's running toward her big, hard feelings, not struggling to grapple with them.
Do people really process that easily?
Fiona Apple makes more sense to me. Her hurt is laced with self-destruction.
Maybe that's why his older sister likes music by angry guys. It's more honest. Anger is easier for most people, especially men.
"Where are you going, baby?" he asks.
Baby. He's never called me that here. I like it. I like it too much. "I guess I was thinking about your sister. The, uh, softboys. Maybe that's what she liked about it, this guy being vulnerable with her. That's hard to find in real life. It's hard for everyone, I think, to find someone who truly shares with them."
He looks at me funny.
"But men aren't as primed to think about it."
"We're not."
"And so it's easier for women to fall for these guys who share their hearts. Or even… these guys who share their anger. Because it's honest."
"It's fucked up."
"But that makes it feel more honest."
"Don't convince me to respect those assholes." He shakes his head. "I have to hear them nonstop at Inked Love."
"Anything I'd know?"
"Nah. Old stuff. Chase and Forest are older."
"Anything I'd like?" I ask.
"It's no Fiona Apple."
My lips curl into a smile. "I like other artists."
He raises a brow.
"I do."
"Okay. After this, it's your turn."
"Okay, but only if it's your turn next time."
"My turn?"
I nod. "To play me something you love. Not your sisters or someone at the shop. You."
"Can it be something I hate instead?"
I laugh. "If you can't think of anything you love."
"Fair." He offers his hand.
I shake.
And we fall back into silence. For the rest of the album. Then the one I pick.
I go back to an old favorite, something I loved before I realized I wanted to self-destruct. A Michelle Branch album with the perfect mix of honesty and melodic piano.
He listens with me.
I explain how I discovered it. A friend's older sister. She had the best taste in music. She seemed to know everything about boys, clothes, movies, music.
And she did.
But she knew the world the same way I did. Went down her own path of self-destruction. High functioning alcoholism.
I don't mention that.
Or the music I fell for after this.
Instead, I sit with Patrick and remember the girl who played Hotel Paper on repeat, the girl who wanted to share her poetry with the world (not that I ever managed to write decent poetry).
She's still there, inside of me, somewhere.
And being here, in this open, honest space, I want to find her. Only I don't want to share with the world.
I want to share with him.
And that's scarier than anything.
After, I gather my things, we kiss goodbye. I think of Patrick on the drive back to my apartment, as I shower and dress and rush to class.
For an hour and a half, I study micro-economics. I think about my experiment, wonder what the hell this means. Not because I need to save this for posterity.