The Chicken Sisters - K.J. Dell'Antonia Page 0,117
the fallen tree now, and Mae stopped and faced Jay at the top. “Maybe not, but it was easier to just stick with the script. I’d been telling people my mom ran a restaurant in a Kansas City suburb for a long time before I met you. In my head, all this—the chicken, my mom, the house—it felt like it was following me, all the time. It was bad enough just dealing with all the Kansas jokes—No, we’re not in Kansas anymore. I’ve only heard that a thousand times.”
“So you lied,” Jay said. He was making his way down the path now and didn’t look back at her.
“It wasn’t lying,” she said. “I put a good spin on things. I can see how it looks like lying. And I can see all this differently now, too. But I couldn’t then. And I’m sorry. I really am.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know. I guess. And your mom— I can see why you don’t talk about that, although you could have, to me. My parents aren’t exactly perfect either.”
Mae still saw a pretty big gap between her history and Jay’s, which was at least neat and clean and looked more normal from the outside, but he was right. They’d both had to be their own support as kids. She knew that, but she’d never seen how much it connected them until now.
Jay went on. “So that’s it? Any other surprises? Besides our future as dog owners?” Mae cast a quick look at him, and he smiled. He was kidding about that, anyway, she could tell—probably about all of it—but there was something else she hadn’t told him. Sabrina hadn’t worked her stint as an exotic dancer into any questioning, but she had it. It might only be a matter of time. And she was proud of it, she reminded herself. Proud that she had found a way to support herself.
That really didn’t make this any easier.
Jay was watching her, wary now, his teasing expression fading. Couldn’t she just skip this and accept the olive branch he seemed ready to extend? Maybe later would be a better time—but no. Clear the counter, right? “I also might not have mentioned that I put myself through college working at a place called the Yellow Rose of Texas Gentlemen’s Club.”
Jay’s eyes widened as the implication of the name soaked in. “Working?”
“Onstage. Dancing.” Mae needed to get that clear. “Just dancing. Nothing else, not ever.” As she spoke, it all came back to her—the too-brightly lit dressing rooms, her own very neat costume bag, the other girls, some up for a little more than dancing, but most toeing the line, in it for the money, just like Mae.
Jay stood, gazing at her. Mae didn’t even know what to expect. This was so long ago, before they even met, but it was— Well, if she wasn’t maybe a little embarrassed by it, it would be on her résumé. She smiled weakly. “It was a long time ago.”
Half of Jay’s mouth turned up into a smile, and now she could see—he was trying not to laugh. For a minute, she felt a little pissed—she was telling him important things, here—but she got it, kind of. She smiled a little more herself, and then he laughed, and now they were both laughing.
“That’s kind of hot, really,” he said finally. “I hope you, like, remember some things.”
She punched his arm, then, feeling a little bolder, took his arm and pulled him the rest of the way down the trail. They’d reached the fallen tree, and Jay found a good place to sit on its trunk.
“Amanda and I used to play down here,” Mae said, taking a seat beside him.
“That would be back when you weren’t pushing each other across a big reality TV stage, I expect.”
Mae sighed. “We got a little worked up. Okay, a lot worked up. It’s just—she did things, and I did things, and my mom really needs to win this. This part is bad. She owes money on a mortgage I didn’t know about. She probably has Parkinson’s. And”—Mae put her hands on her knees and stared straight down at the ground—“she’s worried about what comes next. For Mimi’s. For her. For me. She needs me, Jay. And I guess—I need her, and this place. That’s why I said that, about staying, and I’m not sure what I meant, exactly, but I can’t just run away. Again.”
This was hard. Much harder than the rest of it, than the