Claire grabs at a handful of the spilled photographs as Jackie weaves through the party, not heading to the kitchen but towards the door to the bedrooms. The pictures are all artfully done, even for such a simple medium—there’s one of a man that Claire is sure is naked, jumping into the pool. There’s one of the conversation pit, blurred with smoke, with couples intertwined on the couch. There’s one of Theo, posing like a model on Jackie’s coffee table.
When Claire looks up again, Jackie is near the kitchen. She’s been stopped by a beautiful woman in a bathing suit. It’s not a terribly strange sight, given the pool party outside, but something about it sours Claire’s stomach. The woman is leaning close to whisper something in Jackie’s ear.
When Jackie smiles at the woman, it doesn’t reach her eyes. Claire could swear, in fact, that her eyes have instead flicked over towards the ottoman where Claire is sitting. But Jackie nods, and together she and the woman disappear through the swinging door towards the bedrooms.
With Jackie gone, there’s no reason for Claire to stay. She leaves the photos where they are, and with one last look towards the door Jackie disappeared through, Claire flees the house back to her own.
~ ~ ~
After the party, Jackie’s car disappears from the driveway for three days.
It’s not the first time Jackie has been gone overnight. She often has photography gigs in the city, and she’s told Claire thatif they go late, she stays with a friend. Claire now assumes that the friend is Theo. But it’s a longer absence than usual, so when Claire finally wakes up to see the blue Mustang has returned to its spot, she’s knocking on Jackie’s door almost as soon as Pete’s car turns the corner.
It takes longer than usual for Jackie to answer. Claire can hear movement behind it, shuffling footsteps, and then the door opens to Jackie squinting into the early morning light. She’s dressed in a black turtleneck despite the warm weather, and Claire doesn’t quite stifle her gasp.
Jackie has ashiner. Her left eye is bloodshot, and the skin around it is a lurid, swollen purple. When she gives Claire a weak smile, her half-healed split lip cracks open.
“Jackie!” Claire says, hurrying forward. Her stomach bottoms out when she reaches out instinctively to touch the bruise, and Jackie flinches. “What on earth—whathappened?”
“Don’t you like my new look?” Jackie says, closing the door behind Claire. Her voice is a little rougher than usual, like she hasn’t been sleeping well. “I’m going for devil-may-care.”
“You look like you’ve been pummeled,” Claire says.
Jackie chuckles lightly, but then winces, her arm going to her ribs. “That’s not too far from the truth.”
“What happened?” Claire asks again. Horrible scenarios all crowd her mind, a myriad of ways that Jackie could have ended up in this condition, only to land squarely on the worst one. “It wasn’t…Jackie, it wasn’t that man, was it? The married one you used to see?”
Jackie doesn’t seem interested in explaining herself. She notices that her lip is bleeding in the reflective surface of one of her photo frames, and makes a small noise of frustration. “Nothing like that. Can we drop it, please?”
“Have you been to a doctor? Gotten yourself checked out?” Claire says, trailing her towards the living room. “You couldhave a concussion. Your lip could get infected, or you could—and what’s wrong with your ribs?”
Jackie sighs, sitting gingerly on the couch. Her posture is stiff. “They’re bruised, that’s all. I already went to the hospital. I’m supposed to take it easy for a while.”
Claire sits beside her, careful not to jostle. The curiosity is burning in her—she can’t conjure a situation in which a woman could end up in this condition if it isn’t by the hand of an angry lover. However it happened, the idea of anyone hitting Jackie sends a surge of anger through her. “At least let me look at your lip. Please?”
Jackie is reluctant, but eventually Claire convinces her to grab the small first aid kit in her bathroom and sit still on the couch. Claire swipes away the blood on Jackie’s lip, cleans it with antiseptic, and dabs some ointment, and then she wraps an ice cube in a clean dish towel to hold against Jackie’s swollen eye.
“I shouldn’t have even opened the door today,” Jackie says, leaning back against the couch cushions as Claire presses the ice to her face.
“I have a key. I would have checked on you eventually,” Claire says. “Jackie, you look like you were in a boxing match.”
“I went to a bar in the city,” Jackie says, after a long silence. “There was an altercation. It’s really nothing to worry about. He only got a few hits in.”
Claire moves the ice away. “He? You got in a fight? With aman?”
Jackie looks disgruntled by the sudden lack of ice, despite all of her complaining earlier. “Less a fight than a beating. I’m not exactly a scrapper.”
The anger rises in Claire again. It’s not like what she feels with Pete, or when the book club ladies speak badly of Jackie—this is deeper. A fierce need to protect. Claire has never even thought about being in a fight, but if someone threatened Jackie in frontof her?Hither? Even if it was a man, Claire isn’t sure she’d be able to stand back and watch.
“Who would do this to you?” Claire says, pressing the ice to Jackie’s face again. It’s wet and cold in her hand, but Jackie makes a pleased noise, so there’s no way she’s going to stop doing it. “Andwhy?”
“Claire, please let it go,” Jackie murmurs. Her eyes are closed, but her hands are twisting together.
“How can I let it go? Did you at least call the police?”
“Wasn’t exactly necessary,” Jackie mutters. “Theo is tougher than he looks. He hit them back, and we ran. It’s fine.”
“Them?” Claire had been imagining some drunk man taking a swing at Jackie in an alley, a one-off freak incident caused by a singular idiot lashing out. Not a group beating. “How many were there?”
