“Give me the phone,” I tell her quietly.
For a moment there, I’m certain I have her. She’s crumbling in my hands. Putty to be molded. A soft, warm, wet—
Then she takes a seat on her L-shaped sofa and props her feet up on the table.
I’m secretly proud. It would have been a much less interesting night if she had just caved under pressure and given me what I asked for.
“If you’re hungry, there’s some leftover coq au vin in the fridge,” she tells me. “It’s good. I made it myself.”
I sit down at the opposite end of the sofa and throw one foot up to rest on the edge of the coffee table. She tenses slightly, but she keeps her expression neutral, bordering on unconcerned. Again, I have to admire her bravery. This one has fire.
“What do you think you’re proving right now?” I ask. “I’m genuinely curious.”
She gives me a shrug. “You’re a bully. I’ve dealt with bullies before.”
“Do tell.”
“I switched schools when I was eight,” she tells me. “Mom and Dad decided I would benefit from a private school education. There was a group of girls who hated me. Honestly, I don’t even know why. I don’t think they needed a legitimate reason. I was new, and they had each other, and so they just picked me as the enemy.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Or maybe it was because I had buck teeth and a bowl cut.”
“Hardly a punishable offense.”
“Neither is being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she points out. “And yet here we are.”
I suppress my smile. “Finish your story. What happened?”
“I endured,” she tells me. “I waited them out. I faced them head-on sometimes and even if I got my ass kicked, eventually, they realized something: I was made of stronger stuff.”
Her eyes grow cloudy, but not with tears. She made peace with her past a long time ago. She can refer to it without breaking down. She doesn’t let fear rule her.
“What were your parents like?” I ask.
Jessa frowns. “Is this an interview?”
“It’s a question.”
The war in her eyes rages for a moment over whether or not to indulge me. It’s strange: her childhood shouldn’t be of any interest. And yet, I want her to continue talking. I want her to tell me all the stories that contributed to creating the woman she is now. I want to see what shaped her, if only so I know what kind of history I’m destroying when I bend her to my will.
In the end, she gives in. They always do.
She purses her lips and sighs. “We don’t have much in common. My mother saw me as a chore. Dad worked a lot to make sure he could afford the private school he sent me to.”
“You said he was a police officer?”
She nods. “He worked really hard all his life. I think that was his way of showing me that he loved me, since God knows he never said it much. It took a beat, but I figured it out when I was about eleven. With Mom… it was just different with her. She worked, too—part-time because she claimed she wanted to be at home when I came back from school. But she never actually spent any real time with me. You know what she said to me the day after my almost wedding?” she asks.
“She told you that you should forgive Dane.”
Jessa looks momentarily impressed. “How’d you know?”
I shrug. “I just know the type.”
“She told me I should have gone through with the wedding and dealt with things later. I told her that I wasn’t about to forgive Dane or Salma for what they did to me. You know what she said to me then?”
“Something judgmental and superior, no doubt.”
Jessa smiles at that one. “Sure you haven’t met my mother?”
“I’ve been lucky enough to avoid it thus far.”