Chapter 7 - Jess #2
"I know. But I've seen him—at the bodega, on the street. He moves like someone who's aware of every inch of space around him. It's not anxiety. It's something else."
"Like what?"
I don't have the word. Or I do, and it sounds paranoid: surveillance. He moves like a man who's trained in the art of watching and not being watched. Every position, every angle, every line of sight—it's all calculated.
But I can't say that to Tess without sounding insane, so I say, "I don't know. It's just a feeling."
"Okay." Tess puts the blouse back and gives me her full attention.
"Here's what I think. I think your radar is really good.
It's kept you safe your whole life, and I'd never tell you to ignore it.
But sometimes the radar pings on things that aren't threats.
Sometimes a man in a nice coat is just a man in a nice coat. "
"And sometimes he isn't."
"And sometimes he isn't," she agrees. "But you don't know which one this is yet. So maybe—just keep your eyes open. Don't decide he's dangerous before you have a reason. And don't decide he's safe either. Just watch."
"I'm good at watching."
"I know you are." She smiles and goes back to the rack. "What does he look like?"
"Why does that matter?"
"It doesn't. I'm just nosy."
"Tall. Dark hair. British accent. Expensive coat."
Tess pauses. "British."
"Yes."
"In your neighborhood. In industrial Brooklyn."
"He said he's setting up a space nearby."
"What kind of space?"
"I didn't ask."
"Maybe you should. Next time you see him, ask him a real question. Something that requires more than a polished answer. See what he does." She pulls a dress off the rack and holds it up—dark green, fitted, a neckline that's more open than I'd normally choose. "Try this."
I take it into the dressing room. Curtained corner, spotted mirror. I pull the dress on and smooth the fabric over my hips.
Oh.
I look like myself, but a version I don't often let out.
The green warms my skin. The cut follows the shape of my body in a way that feels considered, intentional.
My arms are bare—the burns, the scars, the muscle—and they don't look wrong.
They look like they belong to someone who works with her hands and isn't sorry about it.
I look at myself and feel something quiet and good. Not for anyone else. Just for me. The pleasure of being a woman in a dress that fits, who's made something extraordinary, who's about to walk into a room and let people see it.
I open the curtain.
Tess's hands go to her mouth. "Don't you dare cry," I say.
"My eyes are watering. There's a difference." She sniffs. "Jess. You look beautiful."
Beautiful. The word lands gently, like a hand on my shoulder.
"How much?"
"Twelve dollars."
"Sold."
We get lunch at a Thai place—cheap, generous portions, a woman behind the counter who calls everyone "sweetheart." I order the pad see ew and eat every bite without doing the math, because sometimes you have to let yourself have things.
Tess talks about her latest painting. I talk about the show. We talk about Ed Wakowski—still humming, still forgetting names, retired to Staten Island. We talk the way you can only talk with someone who's known you since you were fourteen and had nothing.
"I'm proud of you," Tess says over Thai iced tea. "The show. The sculpture. All of it. I know what it costs you."
"It costs twelve dollars, apparently."
She kicks me under the table. "I'm serious."
"I know." I wrap my hands around my glass. "Thank you. For being the person who shows up. Every time."
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Always."
We ride the subway home. Tess dozes against my shoulder, and I sit with the dress in a paper bag on my lap, watching the tunnel lights streak past, and feel something steady in my chest. Not excitement exactly. Something calmer. The feeling of being held up by someone who knows you completely.
That night, I hang the dress on the back of my bedroom door. The good hanger. The green fabric catching the streetlamp light.
I make chamomile tea and sit on my bed. The apartment is small and cold and mine. Lavender on the windowsill. Tess's postcard. The dress on the door.
Two weeks. In two weeks, I'm going to put on that dress and stand in a room full of strangers and let them see the most honest thing I've ever made.
I think about the show. About Nish's excitement and Tess's pride and the way the light falls through the gap and hits the floor.
And I think about what Tess said. Ask him a real question. Something that requires more than a polished answer. See what he does.
If Damien Cross shows up at that gallery—and something tells me he will, because he said I'd like to with the certainty of a man who doesn't say things he doesn't mean—I'll be ready. Not with warmth. Not with hostility. With attention.
I'll watch him the way I watch metal before I cut it. Carefully. Patiently. Looking for the place where the surface gives.
Because everyone has a seam. Everyone has a point where the performance breaks and the real thing shows through.
I just have to find his.
I finish my tea. I turn off the light. The dress hangs on the door like armour disguised as silk.
The show is coming. The gap stays open.
And I'll be watching.