Page 46 of Riding the Pine

Scott looks up from his plate. “Who’s we?”

I drop my fork onto the plate with a loud clang. “Minorities.” I manage on a sigh. “Those who are oppressed simply because they aren’t a white-skinned person who was born with a dick swinging between their legs.”

He nods in response but falls quiet. It’s not the first time in his friendship with my brothers that I’ve gone off on a rant about the state of the world for people with vaginas. But it’s the first time since Scott and I decided to cross that line into something more than friends.

Is this where my ‘radical feminism’ pushes him over the edge, and he runs away screaming?

Ha.Radical. I almost snort. Like it’s somehow extreme to not want anyone else to be able to tell me what to do with my body.

Why is it that the crotchety old white guys in power are totally fine with ‘my body, my choice’ when it comes to their own demographic but not anyone else’s?

Neither man speaks again for a long time. And, while I’m secure in my views, and only ever want to be with someone who not only has my back in my beliefs but who at leastunderstandsthem and who will champion my right to have them, I admit, I’m kinda unsettled.

Does silence mean they’re thinking about what I said? Does silence mean they’re shrinking into obscurity and want the conversation to change? Does silence mean shut the fuck up talking about your womb fury, Athena?

I have to force down each bite of food with hard swallows but it’s short lasting. I’ve never felt self-conscious about my beliefs before, and if Scott can’t handle being with a strong woman who has strong opinions about everything going on outside the door, then he doesn’t get to have me.

“I knew it was bad, but I guess I’m not sure how to deprogram the pieces of me that have been conditioned without me knowing.”

Despite all my girl power independence, I’m still relieved to learn he’s been thinking about what I’ve said, and not about an emergency escape route out of my apartment. At least, that’s how it seems.

“I’d like to learn a bit more.” He takes a slow and cautious bite of his breakfast keeping an eye on me like he’s afraid I might stab him or take his French toast. Depending on how this conversation plays out, it could go either way really.

“Do you have any resources you could recommend? Like, starting out, not like, academic level. Like ‘am I an accidental asshole, and what can I do about it?’ kind of thing.”

I sit up a little straighter. “I can absolutely recommend a ton of books about the patriarchy and how we should smash the shit out of it.”

He looks at me, his lopsided smile morphing into a grin. “Sounds like fun. I’m in.”

DECEMBER 28TH 2022

“You doing okay?” Savannah sits down across the little table between us and gives me the look. You know, the best friend, I’m-super-worried-about-you look.

I nod, giving cool, calm, and collected vibes, but we both know I’m not fucking okay. And I’m certainly not cool, calm, or even collected.

“They’re both okay, that’s the most important bit.” I pick up my Ariana with an extra shot and blow across the top before taking a small sip. Is there anything more decadent than the perfect cup of coffee?

I stare at her; she stares right back.

“I’ve decided I want to change the world, though.” It sounds fucking stupid as soon as the words burst out between us.

Instead of laughing, she sits forward in her chair and takes my hand. “Tell me what you need.”

There’s nothing stronger than the bond between two best friends, especially women. Need to bury a body? I got you. Extra tampon? Say no more. Want to change the world? What can I do.

It’s a reassuring feeling.

Never having friends who like me or want me for me has left me a little unsure of myself sometimes in my friendship with Savannah. Not because of money, she’s made it very clear that she’s not here for my fortune, and I believe her.

In fact, sometimes I wish she’d let me help her out, but she’s so fucking stubborn, and holding that boundary with all her might, it’s kind of hard not to be impressed by her.

I sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what I want to do in the world.” I sound like I’m middle aged and approaching a milestone birthday, about to have a crisis, but I just want to do good in the world with the privilege I was born with.

Savannah nods then falls silent for a little while. After we both drink more of our drinks, she nudges my foot under the table, her face is serious, like she’s studying me, still worried. The joy of being friends with my darling Savannah Banana is that her poker face sucks. Her expressions give her away one hundred percent of the time.

Scared? Anxious? Depressed? Excited? All right there in her eyes. Or in the subtleties of how her mouth sits as she speaks or thinks. Her ability to go from super pale to pink-faced in a fraction of a second is impressive, too.

“If you could fix anything in the world right now, what would it be?” She holds up a hand. “Don’t think, don’t analyze, just speak.” She points at me.

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