Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,27

. . . What?”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” John leaned in. Jessica felt the heat of his breath, oily and unwanted. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about that?”

“There’s nothing to find out about,” Jessica replied. “My car needed a jump, and he helped me out.”

“You should’ve told me.”

Jessica was all of a sudden very, very tired. It was late, and she thought that maybe the lack of sleep was making her hallucinate. There were fireflies in the yard. They flashed and dimmed, flashed and dimmed—in a rhythm, in time with one another. Like a song.

“You shouldn’t hide things from me,” John added.

Jessica was so worn out she thought maybe John was right. She could stand to be more open. It would hurt: to crack open her chest and pour out what little was there. But she was feeling bold, deliriously optimistic.

Jessica spun around. “Have you ever heard me sing?”

She went on before John could interrupt: “Before my sister died, I used to sing. I was in choir and pageants and stuff. I was really good. My teachers would tell me I was a natural.”

Jessica mustered a smile, and in that bizarre, hopeful moment, she believed in the impossible. John had never heard her sing, not really. The only times he would’ve had the chance were in the car, along with the radio, or if she was listening to something on her headphones and thought she was alone.

John had glitter-gold eyes. He was beautiful when he wanted to be. A couple of nights ago, she’d asked him to fly away with her. It wasn’t too, too hard to imagine them together in their little studio apartment. They wouldn’t have furniture, but they would have each other. He would listen to her sing.

John said nothing, and Jessica realized he didn’t know how to answer. She’d made a mistake. She’d wanted to give him a sliver of something rare and good about herself, and, instead, she’d backed him into a corner. She wanted her rare goodness to be a gift, but her timing was all fucked up.

Jessica knew her timing was all fucked up because John finally replied by asking, “Are you making fun of me?”

“What?” Jessica balked. “No. No.”

“John!” Jenny called out from the idling Buick. “John. Let’s go!”

John held up his hand, silently commanding Jenny to wait. His gaze remained pinned on Jessica.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out about what happened with the car?” he asked, steering the conversation back. “With Peter?”

“Nothing happened with Peter,” Jessica insisted. “You know I wouldn’t do that to you. My battery was dead, and I needed help.”

Help. The word tasted like shame, bitter like ash ground between her molars. She looked across the street at Hector’s. Peter’s truck wasn’t there. There were no lights in the upstairs window. In her yard, the fireflies had stopped flashing.

John reached out and grabbed Jessica’s wrist. He knew how to do it so it looked like a gesture of affection. He pressed his long fingers into her pulse point, then past it to where the tendons scraped against the bone.

Jessica winced, grinding her teeth. She didn’t want to give in. She didn’t need to apologize for this. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

John pressed harder.

“I’m sorry,” Jessica gasped. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be mad. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the Buick, but Jenny was looking down, focused on her phone. Then she glanced to the house, to her upstairs window. Something—a fuzzy flicker of darkness behind the curtain—had caught her eye. It was barely there, then gone.

“Please,” Jessica said. “I’m sorry, and I’m very tired.”

John released his fingers, and then brought Jessica’s wrist up to his lips. This was what mothers did: kiss away the hurt. He was disgusting. Jessica was ashamed that she’d ever wanted to give anything of herself to him. Her nails were so close to his face. She could tear across his skin, into his eye.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

John made his way across the