Page 93 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
Dead and buried things in her past.
She looked down at her hands and said, “I used to be a ballet dancer.” She could feel his eyes on her, but she kept her head down. “I trained my whole life for it. Turned out it was more my mom’s dream than mine.’ She lifted her knees, draping her wrists over them. “But I still miss it, you know. I miss having a dream, a purpose, even if it wasn’t mine.”
He said nothing for a while, just stared at her like she was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. Then he looked away and said, “You know, you didn’t have to work in that place.” He snatched a quick glance at her. “I mean, not that I’m judging you or anyone who does that kinda thing for a living. I’m just saying…” he trailed off awkwardly, then cleared his throat and tried again. “There’s federal assistance available. The USMS can arrange for you to attend to college, if that’s something you wanted to do one day.”
She said nothing for a long moment. Just listened to the wind and chewed her inner cheek. Obviously, working at Femme Fatale was never her life’s ambition. At first, she told herself that stripping was some kind of feminist power move, that she was making men pay for what they would otherwise just take for free. But deep down, she knew it was less about feminism and more about capitalism. It paid better than waiting tables or cleaning motel rooms, plain and simple.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head like he felt stupid for bringing it up. “It’s none of my business.”
His embarrassment made her want to say something concessionary. Made her want to acknowledge his attempt to give her life advice, even though he had precious little right offering it.
“Dance therapy,” she blurted.
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“I was thinking of becoming qualified in it one day.”When I have my shit together, she added mentally.
“Dance therapy?” he repeated.
She nodded. “After a traumatic event, the brain tries to suppress it, while the body holds on to it. It remains reactive. For years afterwards. And the theory is that physical movement, like yoga or dance, can help. It sort of rewires the brain. There’s all this research that’s proves how effective it is.” She gave him a dry look. “But you probably think that’s a load of woke nonsense, right?”
“No,” he said softly. “I do not.”
She examined his face, but it showed no signs of skepticism. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested. “I mean, I’d need a Master’s degree, and to go through a clinical internship and all that. It’ll be a lot of work.”
He took her hand. The gesture didn’t seem romantic, so much as comforting. “How about I make you a deal?” he said. “If we make it out of this mess, if I get you to Baton Rouge—come hell or high water—promise me you’ll consider it, okay?”
She was amazed that he was invested enough in her life to bother making such a deal. But she nodded and said, “Okay.” Then she smiled and added, “I mean, obviously, I can’t keep stripping forever. I’m over thirty. Getting a little long in the tooth to be prancing around the stage in nothing but a thong, don’t you think?”
The question was meant to be rhetorical, but he seemed to think it needed answering. He turned his head on the wall to look at her and said softly, “Oh, I thought you looked real pretty.” His hand was still closed around hers, his thumb brushing her knuckles. “Matter of fact, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”
He didn’t sound like a lawman anymore. He sounded like a Southern boy in a bar trying to pick her up. And she remembered exactly how he’d been looking at her, standing under the Exit sign while she’d been up on stage. Like he’d strayed into a dream instead of a dingy dive bar.
She had a sudden desire to lean over and kiss him, just to see if his mouth tasted as good as the syrupy drawl that came from it. And she knew now that he’d kiss her back. He’d do whatever she let him do.
She’d read somewhere that when people found themselves in life-threatening situations, the desire to procreate became front of mind. Basically, when everything was fucked, people just wanted to fuck. There was probably something Freudian in it, something about how sex was a coping mechanism, a way of warding off the fear of death. Or maybe it was for the same reason those people left evacuating to the last minute. Maybe it was simply about hope.
She dragged her gaze away, her fingers going to the ring around her neck. Daniel’s memory flared in her mind, and any desire to kiss the marshal flickered out and died.
Crossing her arms over her knees, she said, “What happened with your wife? Since we’re, you know, sharing.”
His jaw clenched, then released. He glanced down at his hand, as if expecting to still see a ring there.
“Sorry,” she said. “I mean, if she died of some awful disease or something.”
“No, it’s just, you know, complicated.” He gave his head a quick shake. “We were together for seven years. We’ve been separated for longer than that now.”
She stared at him, trying to do the math. “Wait, how old are you?”
“Thirty-four.”
“So, you got married when you were…?”
“Seventeen.”
“Whoa. I mean, I know they do things differently in the mountains, but seventeen?”
He shot her a droll look. Then he sighed and said, “I’d gotten her pregnant.”
