“Hello, Jessica,” I replied, my voice no better.
I tried to look into her eyes, to communicate with her silently the way really close people can, but she was staring at the ground. I was sure I could communicate with her like that, though we had never truly met. I felt close to her in a way that was completely unreasonable. This was, after all, our first time meeting.
But that didn’t seem to matter. We had had the best sex of our lives. We had shared a magical night. We had danced the Lindy Hop together and we had learned each other’s bodies. Mom didn’t seem to notice me or Jessica after that initial introduction. Neither did Andrew. They were like two teenagers, cheeks flushed red, gazing at each other hungrily, falling deeper in love right there in the restaurant, oblivious that their two children were in a silent situation of their own.
We ordered starters, drinks, and then mains. I ate my starter silently, and so did Jessica, still looking down, unwilling to look up and meet my eye. But then, when the mains came, she did look up at me. Mom and Andrew were huddle close together, fingers interlocked, whispering closely. Jessica looked straight into my eyes, and I saw pleading there. Please don’t, that look said. Please don’t say anything.
I nodded. I won’t, I promised.
And she seemed to get the message.
Jessica
The tattoo! The dagger!
This morning I had thought the wolf and the lion were behind me. I had thought that it was something I would eventually look back on and laugh about. But there wasn’t anything funny about this as far as I could tell. I had been desperate to keep what I had done from anybody, especially Dad. And now I walk into the restaurant to meet his lover’s son and the lover’s son is the lion. When I had reached across to shake his hand, I had felt good, at ease. I had felt like, I suppose, any daughter feels when she has to attend events like this. I was mildly bored, but otherwise content. And then that dagger-painted hand had reached for me, and images had filled my head, and there he had been. He was wearing a t-shirt which showed his muscles, and I could not mistake him.
It was the lion.
I didn’t look up at him for a long time. I was nervous as hell. I kept one hand under the table and fidgeted with the hem of my dress, pinching between my fingernails and pulling loose strands out of the fabric. I ate my food at a steady pace, because if I didn’t Dad would know something was wrong, and the idea of it all coming out now, in public, in front of everybody, caused a lump like a golf ball to rise in my throat. If somebody had looked under my chair, they would’ve seen a small pile of dress fabric, torn away moment by moment.
I built myself up to it, like a bungee-jumper building herself up for the plunge. You can’t avoid looking at him forever, I told myself. You can’t look down forever. If Dad and Annabelle were as close as they seemed (which was about as close as two people could be, from my judgment) then I would see this man again. I reasoned this out over the course of the starter. I was glad Dad and Annabelle were so enthralled with each other. It meant that he wasn’t asking me if something was wrong, or that he and Annabelle were not forcing me and Eli to speak. Eli—not lion.
I took a deep breath and looked up. He was gazing at me. He had a thick black beard which covered his strong jaw, but not completely. His lips were kissable in that beard, but I pushed that thought away. It was not appropriate right now. His hair was black like his beard, and cropped close to his head, styled and swept to the side. I could see the top of his chest and the blue and red tribal tattoo. His eyes were earth-brown. He was hot. I couldn’t deny that. But I also couldn’t deny that what I had done was completely out of character.
I pleaded with my eyes. And then he nodded, and I knew he understood. We ate our main courses, and then Dad leaned over. “Jess?” he said.
I turned as though struck. I had been deep in my thoughts, deep in last night, deep in the dream world with the lion, with the man sitting across the table from me. “Yes?” I asked, as I severed a particular tough strand of fabric between my thumb and fingernail.
Dad, slightly drunk on alcohol, and very drunk on love, didn’t notice my nervousness. “Annabelle and I are going to dance.” He pointed at the dance floor at the far end of the restaurant, where a few children and old couples spun around to the soft lolling music.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah, fine.”