“No, I trust you.”
That hangs there in the air like a party pinata stuffed with candy surrounded by a bunch of grinning five-year-old kids holding bats. I close my eyes, cursing myself.
Then Declan says quietly, “Thank you.”
At least he’s not gloating.
After I blow out a hard breath, he changes the subject. “What’s a flow visualization?”
“It’s a relaxation practice. When I’m stressed out, I picture myself sitting underneath a big oak tree beside a stream in the country. The weather is warm, and there’s a gentle breeze. I’m wearing some kind of super cool Lord of the Rings fairy queen costume, and my hair looks great.”
Declan snorts. I ignore him.
“Whatever worried thought comes to mind, I just mentally put the thought on a leaf in the stream and watch it flow away until it disappears around a bend. Money? It goes on a leaf and drifts away. My future? I put the words on a leaf. My boss at work? She goes on a leaf. In miniature. It’s fun to watch her screaming and stamping her foot, two inches tall, then disappear. Sometimes I make a big fish come up and swallow her.”
After a thoughtful pause, Declan says, “What do you worry about your future?”
I answer without thinking. “The usual stuff. Cancer. Bankruptcy. Dying alone.”
He sounds disturbed. “That’s a heavy list for someone who isn’t even thirty. You should be worried about what you’re going to do next weekend, not about dying alone.”
“Everyone dies alone. I just want to do it with dignity. But there’s nothing dignified about being so sick you can’t wipe your own ass or so weak you can’t tell the nurse you’re in such agony you don’t want to live another minute.”
Declan rolls me onto my back, props himself up on an elbow, and looks at me. Even in the dark room, I see the soft shine of his blue eyes.
“You’re talking about your mother.”
“How did you know that?”
When he doesn’t answer, I say, “Oh. Right. The background check you ran on me.”
“Aye.”
“It must’ve been pretty extensive.”
“Aye.”
I study his face. In the shadows, he looks very serious, his expression intent. Hesitant, unsure if he’ll tell me the truth, I say, “Was it through a detective agency, something like that?”
“No. Through the NSA.”
“What’s that?”
“The National Security Agency.”
When I only lie there looking at him with a frown, he elaborates.
“It’s the intelligence agency of the US Department of State.”
“Wait. You mean the people who spy on us? Who record our phone calls and emails and stuff for the government?”
“Aye, though I’m sure they’d tell you they don’t do that.”
“I read an article about them not long ago. They’re like Big Brother!”
“No, lass, they’re much worse. They make Big Brother look like Ronald McDonald.”
“Oh my god. And they have information about me?”
“They have information about everyone. No, don’t try to sit up. Stay right there.”
“You want me to remain flat after I found out the government has been spying on me?”
“You’re not special. They spy on everybody.”
I stare at him, horrified. “So you know someone who works there who gave you all this information?”
“Aye. I know your credit card balances, your medical history, your educational background, your driver’s record, that you have no criminal record but you did once talk yourself out of a DUI, everywhere you’ve lived and traveled your entire life, what you buy from Instagram ads, how much money you have in your bank accounts, and, basically, everything else.”
He pauses for a beat. “Including that you had a negative STD test on your visit to your gynecologist last month.”
I clap a hand over my eyes. “Wow, this honesty-and-trust thing is fucking awful.”
“We haven’t even really gotten started yet.”
“I feel sick.”
“I did warn you.”
“You should probably stop talking now.”
He takes my wrist and pins my arm next to my side. “Let’s get back to your worries.”
“Let’s not and say we did.”
Blowing right past that, he says, “I’ll give you money if you need it.”
I turn my head on the pillow and look at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.”
“I also heard you say you knew how much money I have in my bank accounts.”
“I do.”
“So then you know I’ve been saving.”
In his pause, I sense that he’s trying to word something so as not to be insulting. He fails miserably.
“Considering the amount in question, I’d guess you were saving for a weekend cruise to Tijuana. On one of those cheap cruise lines. Where everyone ends up getting diarrhea from tainted drinking water.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“I apologize.”
“Not everyone is rich.”
“No. Especially not you.”
Insulted, I glare at him.
“Don’t take it personally. It’s not about your character. I’m only saying you don’t have much money, which I’d be happy to rectify.”
“Say the word ‘money’ to me again. I dare you.”
“I can see this is a point of pride for you. Let’s move on. What have you been saving for?”
“The laser beam that will blow you into a million tiny gangster pieces.”
He tries very hard not to laugh as I lie there staring murder at him.
“Seriously. Tell me.”
“Why? So you can mock me with your superior finances?”
“No, so I can be amazed by how cool it is.”
I say grudgingly, “It is cool.”
“I know it will be. So tell me.”
Sighing heavily, I turn my head and stare at the ceiling. After a short debate with myself, I relent.
“I’m going to open my own yoga studio. But for kids. Girls, to be exact. It’ll be called Fit for a Queen, and we’ll hand out tiaras at the start of every class, and teach the kids how to feel empowered and proud of their bodies, instead of ashamed. There won’t be any scales. There won’t be any mirrors. There won’t be any asshole helicopter moms in the back of the room watching and wringing their hands over how fat little Abby and Eva are.
“But there will be lots of hugs and encouragement. There will be lots of positive affirmations. There will be lots of tools they can learn to use to help themselves survive in a world that only values what they look like. Because there are way too many little girls who’re being taught to smother their fire and stamp out their light so they can seem smaller to people who are scared of how big they really are. Or how big they could be, if only someone believed in them.”
In the wake of that passionate speech, total silence.
I refuse to break it first. I lie there with my heart pounding, waiting for him to say something, until, finally, he does.
“That’s beautiful, Sloane. That’s bloody beautiful.”