Tigers, Not Daughters - Samantha Mabry Page 0,52

a year and a week ago. Apologies and forgiveness were rare and did not come easy in the Torres house, because rarely did anyone deserve them.

Iridian hated emotions because the one she felt the most was shame. It never left, or when she thought it was gone, there it was again, like a hard tap on her shoulder or a sudden stomach cramp or the sound of her name being called when she was sure no one was around. Iridian knew she didn’t deserve forgiveness, but Ana deserved apologies. And Iridian would give them to her until her fingers bled. Ana would see them because she had eyes enough to read and then write on walls.

Jessica

(Saturday, June 15th)

After dropping John back at his house, Jessica sat in her car in her driveway. It was late, but she still didn’t want to go back into her complicated house. Remnants of the block party littered the street. A red plastic cup was wedged in the opening of a storm drain. Several napkins were half stuck to the asphalt, waving feebly in the dull breeze.

Jessica’s left arm was draped out her driver’s-side window, and she was tapping a beat on her car door. Across the street, the light was on in Hector’s bedroom, and she wondered if the boys knew she was out there. Finally, close to midnight, she saw Peter’s truck round the corner and pull to a stop in front of Hector’s. As Peter killed his engine and opened his door, Jessica whisper-shouted his name and climbed out of her car.

Peter stopped, his eyes narrowed. He looked up and down the darkened street and tossed his keys in his hand, as if he was testing their weight and was ready to use them as a weapon.

“It’s just me,” Jessica said. “I swear it.”

Peter came forward, and Jessica saw the short, neat cut between his left eye and his brow. Aside from that, the eye didn’t look so bad. It wasn’t swollen shut and oozing fluid, though the white part was shot through with streaks of red, like some capillaries had burst. She quickly scanned the rest of his face. The light from the street lamps was dim and hazy orange, but she couldn’t see any swelling at his jaw or bruising at his temple. Jessica wished he would smile one of his easy smiles so she could check if he’d chipped any teeth.

“Here to survey the damage?” Peter’s question was an icy snap in the warm night.

“I was worried about you,” Jessica replied.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” Jessica ran her fingers through her humidity-puffed hair and then motioned to the street. “Because of what happened.”

“Why would you be worried about me, Jessica?” Peter urged. His face was uncharacteristically stony, nearly eerie under the street lamps. “I’m just someone you work with.”

Jessica looked to the street, her eyes landing on what used to be a piece of white frosted cake. It was by the curb, smashed and covered with ants.

“I’m sorry.” It was the second time Jessica had said those words that night, but the first time she’d meant them.

Peter stepped closer, and Jessica lifted her gaze from the street just enough to see his hands hanging by his sides. There were bruises on them, across the ridges of the knuckles. Peter flexed his hand, and Jessica wondered how much those knuckle bones still stung, and if anyone had bent over them and cared for them, dabbed gently at them with a cotton ball.

Just inches from Peter’s bruised knuckles, a firefly flashed.

“For what?” Peter said. “Sorry for what?”

Jessica startled and looked up. Peter was angry, but he was giving her a chance. She knew that whatever she said next would ruin something. It would either ruin something for her and John, or for her and Peter. She had to make a choice. It wasn’t simple. Or, it was too simple.

“Do you want to come inside?” Jessica asked. “We can talk inside.”

She could go inside again, if he came with her.

Jessica half expected Peter to glance over his shoulder at Hector’s window, to check to see if