Picturing her as a teenager, a girl in pain determined to save herself, my admiration for her grows even deeper. “That’s when you decided men were desserts.”
“And nothing more,” she says firmly. “Especially since they only paid me attention when I was fat and a source of ridicule and an easy target, or when I was in shape and a source of lust. I couldn’t trust them.”
I tuck her head into my neck, kiss her temple, and murmur, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“What I said to you in the hospital. How I acted like what to do about a pregnancy was my choice, not yours.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you.”
“f**k, don’t thank me. I’m an idiot.”
A seagull flies low over the waves, his wingtips skimming the water. Another one makes a wide, lazy circle overhead, crying a lonely seabird cry.
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