Dear Diary,
Emily’s having fun playing with Henry. That’s nearly a direct quote: “Oh, I’m just having fun playing with him.” Like he’s some young thing with his tongue hanging out of his mouth at the sight of her, and the power dynamic clearly swings in her favor.
Like she’s safe, playing with a man like Henry.
We did lunch today, the three of us, and Jane’s the one who asked her what she was doing. I had no idea, but yesterday it was a bikini on a blanket, and this morning it was a sun dress in a rocking chair right next to him, sipping on a cocktail.
Well. Emily said it was a mocktail, but she only said that to us. Not to him.
I think it’s supposed to be empowering, but it sounds manipulative to me. She says she’s trying to figure out what he’s up to, what he wants, and that made Jane snort into her salad. “Sex, Emily,” she said bluntly. “That man wants sex.”
I’m not so sure. Christian Grey style sex, maybe, where he doesn’t have any idea how to approach consent or what actual BDSM involves. Henry wants the power, but Emily thinks she has the power, so she figures she safe and I’m worried about her playing this guy we know nothing about. We don’t even know his real name, for crying out loud. I mean, if something actually happens (please God don’t let anything happen) and the police get involved, they’ll get his real name and all, even if he runs off. Jonathan would have to give it up in the face of a warrant, right?
Okay nothing’s going to happen that means someone needs a warrant. That’s silly of me. I’m doing my doom thinking, diving directly toward the worst-case scenario, but come on. Emily doesn’t do this kind of thing all the time, does she? Get a high off of feeling like she’s in control of both her sexuality and other people when they’re strangers and who knows how they could react?
Jane pointed at me. “Look, Agatha’s on my side! Don’t poke the wildlife!”
“The wildlife wants to be poked,” Emily protested. “He’s just dying for … I’m not even sure what, but his tongue was practically hanging out of his mouth, and it wasn’t for these.” She grabbed her breasts in both hands, and her dress was cut low enough there was almost a wardrobe malfunction.
“Look, your tits are amazing,” Jane admitted, “so what in the world do you think he wants that has nothing to do with them?”
Emily laughed. “Something to do with mommy issues. He got me talking about kids, and older men, and God, I don’t even know. He’s either got some weird kinks or …”
“Or?” I had my own ideas on how she would finish that sentence.
Emily shrugged, but Jane shifted and cleared her throat until Emily said “Spill!”
“Do you get the feeling that Henry doesn’t hold conversations?” she finally asked, not so much a spill but a dribble. “Like he’s interviewing you?”
That made Emily throw back her head and laugh, and I started to relax, but that wasn’t a Ridiculous! laugh. “That’s exactly it!” she cried, having to wipe at her big blue eyes because of the mirth tears. “God, he was going for a freaking confession!”
“To what?” That was me, even though I didn’t really plan on it. I guess I just needed to hear someone else say it.
Jane took over and grilled her on it: what did he ask? What did he say? Did he seem to be after something specific, or anything that made it seem like Emily was guilty of something?
“Okay, but why?” Emily asked once the questions dried up. “What’s he after?”
Jane tilted her head. “He stopped being interested in me when I …” She blushed, and then Emily had to draw it out of her: “I kind of complained you two seem messed up about men, and implied I’m not.”
“So, what, he’s hoping for a rebound?” Emily guessed. “Some level of guilt feelings just turns him on?”
“And mom-hating,” Jane added. “Hate your mom, don’t want kids, rebound sex … wait, didn’t he say his mom taught him how to knit?”
Emily nodded, and they tried to pull it apart a little more, but I was done with lunch. I had a couple bites left on my plate, but I was done. Mommy issues, abandonment issues, not liking kids, looking for a confession. Diary, I know what I think that adds up to, and the answer is “trouble.”
Rebecca Frost 
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