CHAPTER 6

I SAT DOWN at my computer with a cup of chai, since writing erotica seemed to call for spicy tea. I engaged good posture and stretched my hands to the ceiling to stimulate blood flow. Senses: enhanced. Time to write about people having sex. And really, how difficult could it be? I knew the fundamentals, so this would be a matter of committing those mechanics to paper. No big deal.

I sat, fingers positioned. Waited for inspiration. Typed a few words.

A is for anal beads.

Well now . . . that seemed like an odd start to a story, though possibly a compelling title. I erased it and tried again.

One sunny day, a young woman had her salad tossed.

Was this how it went? I reached for A Back-Door Neighbor. I’d folded the corners of the pages containing sex scenes, and really, why bother? Why not simply fold half the book? So I opened to a page at random:

Tasha sprawled out on the bed with her wrists and ankles tied to the bedpost. Behind her, Cord reached for the lubricant and grinned. “I know what you’re thinking, darlin’, but once I get going, you’re gonna love it.”

Wait, Cord? Who the hell is Cord? I’d thought the hero’s name was Vincent. I sat back in my chair and attempted to orient myself to the text again. By the time I remembered the story line, I’d lost twenty minutes. It was time to focus. I had a few more false starts and stops. The transition from children’s book author to erotic superstar was more difficult than I’d expected. I was writing Duck’s Happy Day but with ball gags.

Focus, Lettie. I closed my eyes, channeling my inner sex goddess. But honestly, I would’ve settled for an inner make-out demigod.

Sally was angry. She hadn’t had a good screw in four months. I paused. No need to make this autobiographical. I changed “four months” to “a year” and continued. Any sex she’d had before then had been lackluster. She was beginning to suspect she’d never had a proper roll in the hay. Shoot—roll in the hay? That wasn’t sexy. I changed it to screw. Better. But then, I was using the word screw twice in three sentences. Dammit!

My tea was cold.

I shut my laptop and stood up. I’d been working for a while, and even if I had only three sentences to show for it, I could stretch my legs and make another cup of chai. Odin followed me into the kitchen and wagged his tail expectantly. “You want to go outside, Odie?” Vigorous wagging.

I could throw him the ball a few times. That would get my blood circulating, and I’d probably be inspired and ready to work after five minutes or so. This was part of the process, and not procrastination. Definitely not.

Writing about sex shouldn’t be so difficult. All I had to do was draw from my life experience and fill in the blanks with my imagination. But my sex life had never been anything worth talking about. In foodie terms, my love life had been a bowl of vanilla ice cream, plain, no sprinkles or whipped cream. Every now and then there may have been a stray chocolate chip, something delicious and unexpected. But that was a fluke, some problem in the ice cream factory. Let there be no mistake: that was a dish of vanilla ice cream. If Dr. Bubbles knew about it, he’d say I had a sex gap.

I don’t care for the phrase losing virginity. Not because of any feminist ideals, but because it makes a hymen sound like Great-Aunt Gertrude’s opal brooch. I prefer the euphemism punching the v-card because that’s more like a frequent-shopper rewards program, and I have positive associations with those. I enjoy feeling like my tenth visit will be on the house, if only I can continue punching my card at the same shop.

I punched my v-card in senior year of college on spring break. Twenty-one years is a long time to go without sex. It’s not like I wasn’t interested, but more like I couldn’t find a willing partner. In high school someone came to talk to us about safe sex and to tell us never to open condoms with our teeth, that it might look sexy but it pokes holes in the latex. She also said that if any woman in the room at any point wanted to have sex, she would instantly receive offers from several men. I knew it wasn’t that easy. I’d never actually announced my desire, but until I was twenty-one years old, no boy or man stepped up to, um, fill that void.

So who was the lucky gent? His name was Art, and he was a friend of a friend. A Filipino American with a Southern drawl. He was completely unexpected. We ended up staying in the same block of rooms at a motel on Daytona Beach. He was cute and he lived in Georgia. He had dark brown hair and golden-brown skin, and he wanted to be an architect. Out of the group of friends we were with, we were the only singles on the trip.

We weren’t about to do the long-distance relationship thing, and we had no illusions about finding true love on spring break in Daytona Beach. It wasn’t a love connection. But we were left alone a lot while our friends hooked up. I spent a few nights on the couch in his room, locked out of mine, and he spent a night or two on the couch in my room, and one night we got fed up with being the only people within fifty miles not having sex, so we did.

I didn’t tell him I was a virgin. I was trying out a party-girl persona for the week: flexible, nonchalant, noncommittal. When we were kissing on his bed and I let Art take off my bra, he said to me, “You’re a pretty cool girl,” and I just about fell over. I couldn’t believe he’d bought the act.

Yes, that was me. I was “cool.” Back home I was straitlaced and working hard to maintain my grade-point average. I didn’t drink or do drugs. I didn’t let men I’d just met touch my breasts. But on spring break, I drank a few wine coolers and got naked. I giggled—another cool-girl move—and said things like, “Hey, I’m down for whatever.” I just wanted desperately to punch my v-card. That first sale is so crucial. When Art told me I was “pretty cool,” I felt that quick buzz of validation before I translated the compliment: “You’re a pretty cool girl . . . for agreeing to have sex with me.”

The sex was quick, not as painful as I’d expected, and not all that awkward until it was over. It was clear that Art had punched his share of cards, so he was skilled in condom management. When it was done, we mumbled some things about keeping in touch, but we never did. It was never like that.

In hindsight, I didn’t have much passion to draw from with James, either. It all sort of melded together, but what I remembered vividly were the arguments about my orgasm—specifically how James took personal offense when I didn’t have one. I got so sick of seeing that look when he rolled off me, sweaty and tired and thoroughly pissed off that his latest technique had failed. “I don’t get it,” he said once. “Do you even have a clitoris?”

We were in bed in his apartment in Cambridge. It was a summer night and the window to his bedroom was open. Two stories down, a man was calling his friend pussy-whipped for texting his girlfriend. It wasn’t exactly romantic, but if we closed the window, we’d melt. As it was, we were both lying there in snow-angel positions, attempting to air ourselves out without touching each other. “My ob-gyn has never mentioned my clitoris, so I guess I can’t be certain I have one. I should have a man confirm its existence.”

“Oh come on. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” James was an enlightened man and a self-proclaimed feminist, and he resented it when I pointed out that he wasn’t acting like either. “Maybe if you tried deep breathing?”

“That makes a lot of sense. Thank you. I’ll just breathe more.”

There was a stretch of silence during which I braced myself. “Don’t you find me attractive?” he said.

His tone was more peeved than pained, otherwise I might have felt bad about it. Instead, I resented that my orgasm was somehow about James’s ego. Things got a little better when I started faking them. I was good at it. Not too loud or dramatic, just little sighs and moans and verbal confirmation that I had climaxed and it was “incredible.” All this time, and the secret was to breathe more. James seemed to buy it at first, but ultimately this may have been the catalyst for our breakup. We were both lying, and both of our truths hurt.

I thought about all of this while I threw the ball to Odin in the backyard. When I returned to my laptop to reattempt to write erotica, I realized I’d never had an earthshaking romance. After Art I went on to have sex with two other guys and then I dated James. None of them spanked me or talked dirty or did anything close to rocking my world. Everything I was reading involved exciting locations, kink, and acrobatics, and my experience to date had all been so . . . missionary.

But it was okay. Orgasms aside, sex was enjoyable. For the most part. I mean, it was fine. It’s a matter of sticking one thing into another. Though, I guess I’ve never understood why there are so many books on sex and relationships. I don’t see what the big deal is. It happens and then it’s over and you’re left to take care of your own needs.

She peered through the curtain as the black Mercedes convertible pulled into the driveway across the street. The driver’s side door opened and he stepped out. Tall. Dark. Handsome. He was a dentist, but she knew he had a kinky side. Whips and chains in the basement. The one time they’d been together, he’d chained her up against the basement wall and entered her from behind, eschewing her silken pocket for her third entrance. She’d never known one could orgasm from anal sex, and the orgasm was unlike any other she’d ever felt in her life. It was like being plunged into hell and tossed into heaven, then falling down a cliff and landing in a sea of pure bliss. He’d kept going so that she came again and again. He must have been magical down there. Then when it was all over and he’d spilled his seed, he’d made her a grilled cheese sandwich and talked for hours about the challenges of dentistry. He volunteered his time at a clinic in the inner city and he confessed to enjoying household chores. “I like to vacuum.” He laughed. “No woman of mine will ever lift a finger in the house!” She’d never known anyone so thrilling.

She was mopping the floors again, bored out of her mind. The kids wouldn’t be home until four. She might as well go over and see if he was up for a roll in the hay. After all, she found him deeply fascinating.

Blech.

ON THURSDAY, I received a series of missed calls, all from an unidentified number. No voice mail. When I finally picked up, I was at home with Odin, throwing handfuls of noodles into a pot of boiling water. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice replied, “I hear you want a date.”

I fumbled the cell and dropped it onto the tile, where it bounced once and slid. Odin bounded toward it, wagging his tail merrily and pawing at his find. “No, Odie! Leave it!” I lunged for the phone before he could decide whether he was going to obey. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Who is this?”

“Miss Hunter. A mutual friend gave me this number. She said you’d like a session.”

Her voice was cool, almost calm. By contrast, my palms were sweaty and my pulse was skyrocketing. “Yes, right. Sort of. I’m—I’m a writer,” I stammered. “I was thinking I could interview you. For my book. Not a session.”

That’s really what I said. I’d agreed to be open to possibilities, and then in the proceeding days I’d promptly lost my nerve. Unfortunately for me, Miss Hunter wasn’t having it. “I don’t do interviews.”

“Even if it’s off the record?”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.”

I leaned back against the cool black granite of the kitchen counter and chewed on my thumbnail. This was no good. I’d made a few attempts at starting my erotic novel, but it felt like running barefoot, uphill on a sheet of ice. All of the effort was getting me nowhere. “What exactly do you do during a . . . session?”

“We can start with the basics.”

“Which is?”

“That depends on your needs. What do you think those are?”

I scratched at the back of my neck and watched the steam rising off the pot of water. My needs? I thought I’d been clear that my need was to get an interview for a book, so . . . “Maybe you can give me a hint? I’m not totally clear—”

“Our mutual friend tells me that you have trust issues. Is that true?”

“Our mutual friend has a big mouth.” The burner sizzled as water spilled over the top of the pot, and I jumped to turn down the heat. “Okay, sort of? I mean, I guess it depends on how you’re using the term trust issues? But my therapist says I expect the worst of people so that they can never let me down, so there’s that.”

“And you agree with her?”

She was so businesslike, this Miss Hunter. I appreciated that. I imagined her in a full-body black leather suit, taking notes at a desk in her dungeon. “Him, but I guess so.”

“Would you like to meet tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow?” It seemed so soon, but maybe this was one of those things where it was better to just get it over with, like filling a cavity. I paused as I pretended to consult my calendar. “Let me check. Okay, yes. Tomorrow looks fine.”

She gave me the address and the time, and we disconnected the call. By then my dinner had finished cooking, but I’d lost my appetite. I put everything into the fridge and grabbed a book instead. Deep Inside of Me. I made it through the first two chapters before I lost interest. Maybe Mindy was right, and I should get an e-reader. At least then I’d have a better reading selection.

When I went online to browse e-book titles, I realized how little imagination I have. I was plotting a book about a man and a woman who have sex and fall in love, and there were titles about erotic romps with dinosaurs, mythical creatures, and former presidents. “FDR: Ninja Orgy Star. Holy crap, Odin.” I frowned as I read the blurb. Nazis are threatening to blow up Mars, and only FDR and his ninja skills can stop them. But first, this randy president has to make a buxom German spy talk. Can he get her off in time to save the world?

I sighed. I didn’t actually want to write about ex-presidents having sex with German spies, or men with magical cocks. Whatever happened to old-fashioned love stories?

I reached for Deep Inside of Me and curled up on the couch, underneath a purple chenille blanket that Odin hadn’t chewed through yet. I don’t know how much more I read. They were having sex in a field of wildflowers. I must’ve fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the scene, because I dreamed of mosquitoes and mud and sticks boring into my back.

BEFORE MY MEETING with Miss Hunter, Dad and Sadie wanted to have dinner. You know, because my life wasn’t getting weird enough.

Dad and Sadie live on the outskirts of Westborough. It’s not quite Copper Hill, but they built a brick house with a foyer, six bedrooms, and a winding staircase. Sadie signed a prenup. Dad requires it of all his wives and advises it’s just good practice these days.

With Dr. Bubbles’s assistance, I’d started to come to terms with my dad and his serial marriages. First there was a woman named Donna, whom he’d married and divorced before Faye and I were born. Then came Mom, who was knocked up with Faye when they exchanged vows. They never admitted this, but Faye was born four months after they married and weighed seven pounds. It doesn’t take a wizard to piece that puzzle together. I was born a few years later, and Dad left soon after that for another woman named Donna. We call her Donna II. Dad was married to Donna II for a long stretch of time. I think it worked because Donna II turned a blind eye to his girlfriends. Then one of these girlfriends apparently got notions and decided she wanted something more out of life than being a kept woman. So Dad dumped Donna II and married Sadie, who has perfectly round breast implants and a tiny waist. She is two years older than Faye and five years older than me, and she insists the twins call her “Grammie Sadie.”

Faye and I grew up with Mom, who was mostly normal and didn’t seem too hung up on Dad. If anything, when she talked about his antics, she sounded relieved to be free of him. “It’s just the way men are,” she’d say. “At least I have my girls.” So really, we’ve all lived happily ever after.

Dad didn’t have money until after he and Mom divorced. When he was living with us, he was a young lawyer with law school debt, working for other people and trying to make a name for himself. Then he landed a dog-bite case that everyone said was worthless and returned a half-million-dollar verdict. Then he got another case, this time a slip and fall. One million dollars. Then a products-liability case. Ten million dollars. Soon Dad was this hotshot with all this money, and Mom was clipping coupons and telling us, “At least you shouldn’t have to worry about college.” To his credit, that was pretty much true. Dad doesn’t believe in handouts, though. Making your own way in this world builds character, he said. “If I write you and Faye a check for a million dollars,” he explained once, “then all I’ve done is contribute to a world already overrun with privileged assholes.”

Dad doesn’t look like the lawyers you see on television, all slick and buttoned-up in dark suits, too clever for their own good. He’s handsome in a dad kind of way. When we go out together, I see the way women look at him. They smile a lot and giggle. He’s fit for being close to sixty and he has a lot of money. It’s a combination that women seem to find irresistible. Dad has always gotten more than he asked for, and he likes to take opportunities as they come along and not say no. This is why he’s on his fourth wife.

He’s also a little bit paranoid. Dad’s front door is more like something you’d see on a castle: large and wooden with wrought iron hinges. If an invading army comes to 44 Willow Bend Lane, Westborough, Connecticut, the fortification will buy him some time to escape or dust off the cannonballs he probably keeps in the attic. The front door is always locked—even when he’s expecting company. He says he’s made a lot of corporate CEOs angry with his verdicts, and that it’s like poking a hole in a hornet’s nest. “I’m enemy number one,” he once said. “If anything ever happens to me, I keep a list of probable suspects in the safe.”

After school ended on Friday, I went to a local bakery and picked up a wild-blueberry pie with that woven top. It’s his favorite, and he lit up when he answered the door. “Did you make that?”

It was still in a white pastry box. “No. But if Sadie asks, then yes.”

“Now, now.”

He stepped aside so I could enter the fortress and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Is she catering the family dinner?” I asked sweetly.

“She’s cooking a casserole.”

“Oh, good. I had a large lunch.”

I waited for him to scold me, but he only chuckled softly. Sadie’s cooking is terrible, objectively speaking. She overboils pasta so that it comes out slimy and bloated. Her coffee tastes like how I’d imagine pollution to taste. And she once weaponized a roasted chicken. But normally if I say anything about Sadie’s cooking, Dad takes me to task and gives me the speech he used to give me about Donna II. She’s a part of our family, he loves her, blah blah. You’re too picky, Lettie. Tonight he only said, “She’s trying. Be nice.”

I handed him the pie and followed him across the marble-tiled foyer and into the kitchen. Dad doesn’t cook, either, but the kitchen is a chef’s dream, with stainless steel appliances and wide, soapstone countertops. I would have a wild, hot love affair with this kitchen if I could—it’s that gorgeous. Alas, I can’t even imagine how one would title that particular story. One Hot Night with the Oven, maybe? Or, Deep Inside the Refrigerator.

“Hey, Lettie,” Sadie said brightly as we entered the kitchen. “Nice to see you.” She blew a tendril of blond hair out of her face and removed coral-pink-striped oven mitts. “Dinner should be ready in a few.”

Look, is she a terrible cook? Hell yes. But I only say some things because part of me is brutally jealous. Sadie was a model. Not one of those model slashes. You know, model-slash-hostess-at-Applebee’s. She was a model with an actual career that paid the bills. She did some runway work in New York for a while after high school, pre–breast implants. She’s been all over. Paris and Milan. Hong Kong. Sadie is perpetually en vogue. I looked at her wearing those oven mitts and a matching apron, her hair pulled back into a ponytail that looked messy but I knew was deliberate, and I felt frumpy in my short-sleeve yellow sweater and chinos, both of which were slightly too short for my figure—and I’d actually tried to look polished that day. She is also nearly six feet tall. Sadie turns heads, so her bad cooking is forgivable.

“Smells good,” I said. “What are you making?”

“Oh, I thought I’d play around. Put some things in a pan, see how it turns out.”

I tried to piece together the casserole ingredients from the rubble on the countertops: red and green pepper tops, a gray carton of eggs smeared with a blotch of liquid, an empty box of egg noodles. A box of sea salt. A bag of bread crumbs. This would not end well. Then again, someone would be spanking me later that evening, and it was probably better that I went on an empty stomach.

The doorbell rang. “That must be Faye and the kids,” Dad chirped merrily and headed to the fortress door.

I helped myself to a glass of water. “What can I help you with?” I asked Sadie.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing, nothing at all!” She wiped her hands on a perfectly white dish towel and hung it over the side of the sink. “You just go and relax. I’m almost done.”

“Grammie Sadie!”

Portia and Blaise flew into the kitchen in a blur of white polo shirts and blue bottoms. They threw their arms around Sadie’s legs, and she laughed and patted their backs gingerly. “My two favorite kids! And look at your uniforms! So stylish.”

Faye entered the kitchen a moment later. Her hair was ruffled, and the bags under her eyes were still evident even through the layers of makeup. She offered me and Sadie a tired smile. “Hey. How’s everything?”

“Hey, yourself,” I said. I glanced over her shoulder. “Is Win coming?”

“He had to work. As usual.” We exchanged knowing glances. “Smells good, Sadie.”

“Thanks. It’s almost ready.” She leaned over to talk to the twins. “Grammie Sadie has something special for you. Do you want to take a walk with me?”

They cheered and followed her out of the kitchen. Faye gave me a look. “Don’t even start,” she said.

“Grammie Sadie.” I giggled softly.

“I can’t even.” Faye pulled out a stool and slumped down, setting her head in her hands. “Dad tells me she wants to be their step-grandmother, and what am I supposed to say?”

“I told Odin he is not to call her Grammie. She’s not even related—”

“Oh, and speaking of grammies.” Faye tilted her head. “Mom sent me a gift from Italy. I assume you’re getting one, too. Brace yourself.”

Unlike Dad, Mom had never remarried. Whenever anyone asked her why not, she’d shrug and say, “No interest.” As a child I’d assumed this meant she’d never met the right person. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood that Mom never remarried because she was fiercely independent. She was not one to compromise on anything—not decor, not weekend plans, not cooking. She’s had a few boyfriends, and I guess she’s quite popular in her over-fifty-five condo community in North Carolina. Sometimes she’ll travel with a new beau, but that has never stopped her from sending me and Faye tacky souvenirs. I have a collection of Prince Charles and Camilla drink coasters that I dust off for company, and some kind of glass object from Amsterdam that I hang on my Christmas tree. I’m almost certain it’s supposed to be used for drugs.

I leaned one hand against the island as Faye rifled through her handbag. “What is it this time?”

She pulled out a small book. “This little gem. Here. Take a look.”

There was a picture of Michelangelo’s David on the cover—but only from the waist down. I flipped through the pages, but it was all the same idea. “Oh my.”

“Yeah.” Faye set her jaw. “It’s a book of penises in Italian artwork. One more thing I need to hide from my children. Thanks, Mom!”

“Well, I hope it’s packaged discreetly. I don’t want my postal carrier to judge me.” I drew closer to her side and lowered my voice. “How are you doing, by the way? With Win.”

Faye avoided my eyes as she tucked the book away. “We had a bad night. It’s complicated—”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here. We can go into another room—”

I stopped short as Dad stepped into the kitchen, holding a digital camera. “I have some pictures from our trip to Scotland. Want to see?”

Faye shot me a warning look and said sweetly, “We’d love to, Dad.”

THE CASSEROLE had burned around the edges, and Sadie had substituted skim milk for whole, and margarine for butter. I added some salt, took a few bites, and concluded that it was probably like eating Styrofoam. Mercifully, there was store-bought bread.

Portia turned to Faye about five minutes into the meal. “Can we be excused? We want to play with our toys.”

Grammie Sadie had given them a new art kit filled with paper, colored chalk, crayons, and stickers.

Faye ran a hand down her daughter’s hair. “Are you both finished eating?”

“Yes,” Blaise and Portia replied.

“Then go ahead.” I’d noticed that Faye never pressured her children to eat “one more bite” of Sadie’s cooking.

They scampered off into another room to play. “So, Lettie,” Dad said. “How are your books doing?”

I’d anticipated the question. Dad always asked about my books. “Sales are better than expected.” It was true—I keep my expectations rock-bottom. “But my publisher has been sold, so it looks like that’s the end of Sweet Pea.”

Faye groaned sympathetically. “Just like that? It’s all over?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

“I’m so sorry.” She dragged a floppy noodle across her plate. “So what are you doing now?”

I pressed my lips together. I’d gone back and forth, debating whether to tell Dad, Faye, and Sadie that I was branching out into erotica. I didn’t want to have to explain that I wasn’t writing things like Calvin Coolidge: Karate Sex Master or whatever, but I also wanted to be honest with them about it. I opted for testing the waters. “I’m exploring my options. Looks like my editor is going to be working exclusively on erotica.” I allowed the words to hang in the air.

Dad’s forehead scrunched. “Erotica? Do you want to write that?”

Sadie laughed into her linen napkin. “Oh my gosh. Lettie. Just the thought of you writing that trash.”

My shoulders tensed.

“It’s not trash. Not all of it,” I said. “Women find it liberating to read and write. It’s honest.”

The corners of Faye’s mouth turned up in amusement. “It’s the thought of you writing it. You’re so proper and reserved.”

“I’m not,” I said, feeling pissy. “Just because I have manners. Says the girl who lives in Copper Hill, the capital of uptight.”

But my sister deflected the barb with a laugh. “It’s not an insult. Who cares if I think you can’t write erotica? You write children’s books.”

I lifted one shoulder and frowned at my plate, sulking. “So? I’d probably write it if there was a good reason.”

Faye tilted her head with a grin. “Are you writing erotica now?”

“No. I’m just saying that I could if I wanted to.”

“You could do pretty much anything you wanted to,” Dad said. He was surprisingly nonplussed about the discussion. “But it doesn’t make it a good idea.”

Sadie shook her head, still laughing. “The day you write erotica is the day I’ll polish off a box of doughnuts by myself.”

What a sacrifice. I set my fork beside my plate. “Of course I’m not actually writing erotica,” I said, and forced a laugh. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“That’s my point,” Faye said. “You teach kindergarten. Your books are so wholesome and sweet.”

“Right. Exactly,” I agreed, and balled my napkin in my lap. “It’s just funny that my publisher will now be looking for those books, that’s all. When they used to publish a lot of children’s books.”

Sadie took a sip of her lemon-infused ice water. “Maybe I should write some erotica,” she said, and glanced over the rim of her glass at my father.

I looked at Dad, who had this weird smile on his face. The Styrofoam in my stomach formed a brick. “I would encourage that,” he said. “You’re a very talented writer.”

Then, to me and Faye: “She really is.”

Sadie sat back in her seat with a pleased smile. “I love writing so much. When I was working in Milan, I would bring a journal everywhere in case I had some inspiration.”

“You should hear some of her stories. They’re heartbreaking,” Dad said.

“Sometimes I’d sketch, too. I thought for a long time about starting my own clothing line.”

“You’d be great at that, if that’s what you wanted to do.”

I don’t know why the conversation made my skin crawl. I wanted to stand up and shout, No, I’m the writer in the family! like a petulant child. Sadie had taken my dad, and she was competing with my mom for the role of favorite grandma, and she was gorgeous, and apparently she designed clothing—did she also have to be a writer? It was all I had, and I was barely clinging to it as it was.

Faye must have noticed that I’d withdrawn, because she changed the subject a moment later, and before I knew it, we were clearing the table for dessert. With some smug satisfaction, I noted that no one had taken seconds of the casserole.

I left soon after I finished my piece of blueberry pie. For the rest of the evening their words burned in my chest. My role in the family was cemented. I was the good, plain one. I was the one who wrote stories about saying “please” and “thank you,” and this was all I was capable of. I was the kindergarten teacher, the uglier sister, the frumpy stepdaughter. What would I know about sexy and exciting? What could I possibly have to say about being desired by an attractive man or feeling that desire myself?

As I set off for my session with Miss Hunter, I resolved to prove how wrong they were about me. I was edgy, and sexy, and passionate. Underneath it all, I was. All I had to do was dig deep and find those parts of myself.