Chapter 7
My own, you appear deep in thought. Or perhaps you
are having a foot cramp.”
“The former,” I
admitted, “and listen, remind me to ask you if you were a
Presbyterian. And what your favorite meal was when you were a kid.
And how old you were when you found out there wasn’t a Santa. And
how you lost your virginity. And if you opened presents Christmas
Eve or Christmas morning. And—and other stuff, when I think of
it”
Sinclair blinked
again. “My love, are you taking a survey?”
“Eventually. But I
gotta stay on track here, because white guys don’t get to tell
blacks or women or Lutherans that they aren’t
repressed.”
“But they are not.
Rather, you are not. I very much doubt Jessica has been repressed
for even half a moment.” He paused, then admitted, “I cannot speak
for Lutherans.”
“So I don’t cook or
clean. Or make beds. Or go grocery shopping except for funsies, or
take my car to the shop. Or take it to get the oil changed. Or
scrub toilets. Or—” Hmm. He might have a point. “But you’re even
less repressed than I am. Let’s see you deny that!”
“This isn’t a way of
distracting yourself from Antonia and Garrett’s death, is it, my
own?”
I abruptly sat down
on our bed. Shit.
And shit
again.