But I loved Jethro.
I love him.
“Yeah, your job. We’ve talked about your writing, but you don’t talk much about acting.”
What a funny comment. Had we really never talked about my job? I was sure I’d rambled incessantly about acting at some point.
“My job?”
“Yes.”
An unbidden smile claimed my mouth and my heart skipped a few beats. “So you haven’t looked me up?”
“Nope.” He smiled, clearly pleased I was pleased.
Yep. I love him.
“Not at all? No googling, or yahooing, or binging?”
“I don’t know what binging is, but it sounds like something we should try later.”
“No. We shouldn’t. It’s the shameful receptacle of thwarted hopes, where dreams and searches go to die,” I joked, because I now knew I loved him and thus was nervous.
“We should definitely steer clear of shameful receptacles of thwarted hopes.” He smiled at me even as he studied me, his voice a rich, velvety baritone. I even loved his voice. Actually, I especially loved his voice.
Then he asked, “Does talking about your job make you nervous?”
“No. No, not at all. I guess I can’t believe we haven’t talked about it yet. I mean, it’s usually the only thing people want to talk to me about.”
He clearly didn’t like my offhanded confession because his resultant frown was severe. It was the truth—people usually only wanted to talk to me about my job, my movies, or what it was like to be an actress—but I hadn’t ever admitted the truth out loud, nor had I ever explicitly realized it as a thought.
And yet, with Jethro, we’d known each other for months and this was the first time he’d asked me about it. Actually, there had been one other time, when he’d thought my name was Sarah and I told him I was a writer. Other than that one incident, he’d asked me all manner of questions—what I thought, what I wished for—but never about being an actress or a celebrity.
I rushed to answer his question, not wanting to dwell on the depressing truth of my impromptu confession. “Okay, let’s see. My first film, Taco Tuesday, didn’t have much to do with tacos. It was about a girl who grew tired of the words used to describe women, but hardly ever used to describe men.”
“Like what? Give me some examples.”
“Okay, like feisty. Or buxom. Or dainty, perky, prissy, slutty, bitchy, and prude.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. I can see that. I’ve never called a man feisty, or slutty for that matter.”
“And you wouldn’t. It just isn’t done. A woman is a slut, but a man is a man-slut. Why is the default gender of a slut a woman? Why can’t sluts just be sluts instead of having to differentiate the gender?”
“Yeah. Let them all be sluts.”
“That’s what I always say. I’m very careful to refer to my sex-worker friends as escorts, not man-tramps or men-wenches.”
Jethro laughed, his smile lingering for a long time after his chuckle tapered. I loved the sound of his laugh, and I loved that he laughed so freely, without reservation. I loved how vulnerable he was to happiness, truly open to the possibility of it. His willingness made being around him relaxing, easy. So easy, everyone else’s company felt difficult and challenging in comparison.
When I realized I was staring at him and his charming face, I shook myself, returned my attention to my food, and gathered my wits. “Anyway, this girl, Kate was her name, she grew irritated with how words were used so she started insulting women with words reserved for men—like dickface—and men with words reserved for women—like prude. But then her rant was picked up by the national news, went viral, and she became a reluctant spokesperson for feminism. It was a satire-comedy, like a buddy movie that made fun of both men and women and our first world struggles, feminists and meninists.”
“Meninists?”
“Oh yes. Men’s rights activists.”
The way Jethro both lifted and furrowed his eyebrows told me this concept perplexed him. “You made that word up.”
“No. I didn’t. I swear. They exist and they have twitter accounts and all hate me.”
“What the hell is a men’s rights activist?”
“Well, if you asked Kate, the main character from Taco Tuesday, it’s a coven of dainty, sassy, wee men, who are quite perky, headstrong, and prudish, and who fret about how society is eroding their privilege. But if you ask me, it’s a bunch of guys who don’t have enough to do, suffer from micro-IQ scores, and can’t get laid, so they hate on women.”
“Huh.” I could see his expression still held confusion and disbelief. In the end he shrugged. “So, why did you write it? Why’d you write the script?”