“To remind me of something,” Jackie says. She turns her wrist away, taking Claire’s dream of touching the tattoo with it. She goes back to tracing Claire’s palm, switching to the opposite hand this time. “It’s why I pushed to buy this house. I saw the tree there, and it felt like it was meant to be.”
“Maybe it was,” Claire says.
“Maybe,” Jackie murmurs. She traces along the line of scabbed crescent-shaped marks in the meat of Claire’s left palm.The shameful remnants of where her fingernails often dig in. “What are these?”
“A bad habit,” Claire says. Nobody has ever noticed them before. She wants to close her palm, to hide them from Jackie, but Jackie’s tracing is keeping her hand spread open.
Jackie hums. “I have a few of those, too.” She caresses the marks gently. It sends a wave of shuddery feeling all through Claire.
Claire’s eyes wander to the photographs on the wall. She zeroes in on the one that’s so fascinated her since she first noticed it—she stares at the short-haired woman with the cigarette, uncaring now about whether or not Jackie will notice.
She can almost imagine being at the party where the picture was taken. It was probably a lot like Jackie’s housewarming. She can hear the music, the kind of loud rock that Jackie sometimes plays, and smell the hazy smoke on the air. Marijuana and cigarettes intermingled.
Claire imagines, in her very floaty mind, what it might be like to be in that woman’s place. Confident and relaxed, in tight pants and an ascot with her legs spread. Not a care in the world for who might judge. Relaxed. Claire can’t remember the last time she felt truly relaxed, before this moment. Maybe she never has been.
As Claire stares at the photo, Jackie’s word strikes her again.Handsome.
Claire has never been beautiful. If she stands out, it’s for her freakish height. Her bony build, her flat chest. She’s always been a fish out of water. Throughout her tomboyish childhood and awkward adolescence her mother always used to say that Claire was just waiting to bloom, until it became clear that she was as bloomed as she’d ever get.
Coming from Jackie,handsomedoesn’t feel like such a bad thing.
“I’ve never had a friend like you before,” Claire says, swiping her hand through the last of the smoke drifting up to the ceiling. It swirls and churns in patterns she can’t predict.
“Yes, I’m not nearly as high-strung as Martha.”
“Do you think I’m high-strung too?” Claire says.
“I’d say more…buttoned-up,” Jackie says thoughtfully. Her feet swing idly, dangling over the arm of the couch. “But I think there’s an animal in you, just waiting to break out.”
Claire laughs towards the ceiling. “An animal?”
“There’s a lion in here,” Jackie says, tapping on Claire’s chest with a grin. “I know it.”
“Ha! More like a squirrel, maybe. Or a rabbit.”
Claire’s eyes feel sluggish and slow, but still she drags them down to look at Jackie again.
Jackie isn’t handsome. Jackie isstunning. Jackie has full lips and prominent cheekbones and a lovely jawline. Her eyebrows have a gentle arch, thick and well-shaped where Claire’s are light and sparse. Jackie doesn’t need to cover up every feature with makeup the way Claire does—she only emphasizes her natural ones. She wears clothes that show off her figure, rather than hiding it. And she has the softest, most silky hair Claire has ever seen.
Claire wishes that she could draw this moment. She aches to commit this image to paper forever, so she can never forget it. If there was anything in the room to sketch with, she might do it right now on the back of her own hand just to keep this feeling a little longer.
“I’m sorry that Acacia Circle doesn’t have a beach. But I’m very glad you moved here, Jackie,” Claire says quietly.
“So am I,” Jackie says. Her brows knit together. “I wasn’t expecting to find a friend.”
A thrill rushes through Claire, from the roots of her hair all the way to her toes. She doesn’t just want to be Jackie’s friend—she wants to be herbestfriend. She wants to be the person Jackie comes to with her problems. The person she knows she can trust with anything.
The part of Claire’s brain that usually stops her from doing silly things seems to be turned off, and against her usual instincts she gives in to her impulse to touch. She cards her fingers through Jackie’s hair, feeling the silky strands tickle her skin, and giggles again.
“You have such nice hair,” Claire murmurs. With Jackie’s head on her lap like this, it’s hard not to wonder how her hair would feel against Claire’s bare legs. The thought makes something twinge, deep inside her. “How do you get it so soft? Mine is like a Bichon Frise.”
“Your hair isnotlike a dog’s coat,” Jackie says, chuckling. “It’s just curly. Curly hair is lovely. But I use a good conditioner. Hair oil, and no hairspray.”
“You don’t use hairspray?”
“Nope.” Jackie makes a littlepopwith her mouth on the word, and they both dissolve into giggles at it. The laughter makes Jackie curl up a little, but she doesn’t let go of Claire’s hand.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed,” Claire sighs. She tips her head back, resting it on the back of the couch to stare up at Jackie’s popcorn ceiling. “Do you do this all the time?”
