I flog him with my words instead. “I can’t believe you’re actually defending what you do. You’re shameless.”
He’s quiet for a beat, eyes narrowed, considering me. “You seem to be harboring some sort of personal grudge against me, but as a reminder, I haven’t done anything to you.”
“Oh no? Then I guess I must have just imagined the guy who told me last week that he couldn’t attend my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party because ‘Saturdays are for the bros,’？” I spit with derisive air quotes. “But I suppose that’s not your fault, either, right? You’re not responsible for any of the harmful ideas you put out on the internet to your little band of brainwashed sycophants.”
My insult doesn’t hit its target like I thought it would. In fact, Jack’s eyes soften—and when I realize why, I immediately regret revealing that detail of my personal life. I don’t want his pity.
“For the record, that guy sounds like a dick.” He pauses, as if to gauge whether his comment will thaw my iciness any, but I throw my shoulders back and raise my chin in a clear message: I don’t need your sympathy. He sighs. “But you’re blaming me for something that has nothing to do with me.”
“Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw; his control’s starting to slip. Not used to women talking back, are you, Jack? I inject that satisfaction directly into my veins; it fuels my outrage better than gasoline and a match.
“You know, the whole idea behind Sacred Saturdays was to give men a day to just be men, to recharge with their friends. I can’t help it if some guy weaponized it as a way to dodge his obligations.” His voice is razor-sharp.
I scoff, wishing I hadn’t ditched my glass of wine. I could throw it in his face and it would be so satisfying.
“Wanting to drink a beer and watch the game isn’t a crime, you know. In fact, I fail to see how it’s any different than women having a ‘girls’ night out,’ but somehow it’s only wrong when guys do it.” He’s gaining steam now, clearly riding his own wave of self-righteousness. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy vilifying us for it, you’d see that a little downtime actually makes men better partners.”
Does anyone actually buy this BS? “So you’re doing it all for us, then? I suppose we should thank you for your service? Wait, let me guess—your publicist fed you that line for situations just like this. When someone calls you out, just spew some crap about how you’re actually helping women. Spot-on delivery, too. But hey, it’s not a lie if you believe it, right?”
Nat drains the dregs of her cocktail in one long, judgmental slurp.
He cocks his head. “Have you ever actually been to our site, or are you just parroting back what you’ve heard about it?”
“You ran an editorial titled ‘Why women should be seen and not heard.’？”
“It’s called satire.” His words are clipped. “As a writer, I’d think you’d be familiar with it.”
“Your logo is a set of boobs.”
His eyes go a hard, wintry gray, like brushed steel, cold to the touch. A frisson of pride shivers down my spine that I’ve managed to get under his skin after all. Perhaps I should take his shift in demeanor as a warning to reel it in some, but I can’t retreat now. I’ve got him on the ropes.
“Our logo is a B. For ‘Brawler.’？” His voice is arctic.
“Turned on its side.”
We glare at each other, our gazes warring for victory as we wait to see who will back down first （or, more likely, just end this by leaving）。 The flinty resolve in his eyes tells me Jack isn’t used to losing, though.
Well, news flash, Jack: Neither am I.
Nat breaks in. “Okay, you two. I’m not gonna lie, this has been really entertaining, but I think it’s no longer constructive.” She tugs on my arm, shooting me a pointed look.
I’m grasping for the perfect witty-yet-biting parting shot when one of the article’s tips pops into my mind uninvited: Never ridicule his masculine achievements or show contempt for his ideas. Building him up should be your highest priority.
I cringe as I realize that Gran’s meddling advice and those stupid tips seem to have infiltrated my brain against my will—but almost as quickly as the thought dissolves, a new one materializes in its place:
Use him.
The idea breaks through the clouds like a wartime airdrop; a sudden, providential gift delivered into my outstretched hands on a clear, sunny day. It’s a brilliant beyond brilliant idea. Maybe the best one I’ve ever had.
But one thing’s for sure: To pull it off, I’ll need to perform the about-face of a lifetime.
“You know what?” I say, making my tone appropriately sheepish. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“What?” Jack and Nat say in unison.
I lock eyes with Jack and pray my face conveys regret rather than duplicity. “I don’t know what I was thinking, blaming you for what happened with Brett. You’re absolutely right, it has nothing to do with you. It’s obviously still pretty raw—I must be looking for a scapegoat.” I drop my head and look away, feigning embarrassment, and hear Gran’s voice echoing in my head: Men want to pursue, provide, and protect. They want to feel needed.
I peek up at him from beneath my lashes, doe-eyed and repentant. He looks stupefied and more than a little suspicious. Take pity on me, you big, strong man. I’m a delicate flower.
“I took my frustration out on you, and that was wrong of me. It was probably that fall—I must’ve hit my head.” I chirp a laugh like a potential concussion is hilarious. “I’ve been out of sorts. Nat will tell you.”
I turn to Nat and she’s gaping at me like I’ve just morphed into a werewolf. I send her a pleading message with my eyes: Just go with it.
She blinks and turns to Jack. “It’s true,” she continues seamlessly. “Brett was a total shit to her and she’s been on the warpath ever since. Wild mood swings, snapping at people. It’s like twenty-four-seven PMS. Don’t take it personally.”
I shoot her a look: Really, was that necessary? She splays her palms like, What?
I grind my teeth and turn back to a still-shell-shocked Jack. “Anyway, I apologize. I let a silly work feud get the best of me, but that’s really between you and Cynthia. And also”—I lean into him like I’m confessing a grave sin—“I probably shouldn’t admit this, but that recent piece you guys posted on equal work in the bedroom? It was actually really funny.”
Just saying that last part burns my throat like bile. Frankly, I’m amazed I could even vomit the words up. Please God, do not smite me for speaking with such a forked tongue.
I pause to gauge my progress, assessing his body language to see how I’m faring. He’s studying me carefully, his expression inscrutable. He hasn’t spoken a word since I flipped the script on him, so I have no idea if he’s buying this in the slightest. He probably thinks I have multiple personality disorder.
I don a coquettish smile. “I hope I haven’t scared you off.” I bite my lip and Look at me, I’m pleasing and submissive and exactly the type of woman you want. I lightly brush my fingertips along his forearm, and his eyes flare. “I’m still game for that date—that is, if you’re still offering.” I stop, my case rested, on tenterhooks now as I wait for his final verdict.