“Did she ever hint at what it was?”
Molly stares at me. “Don‘t go thinking I’m unaware of who you are, Mr. Anderson.”
I put my hands up in surrender. “I’m curious. That’s all.”
“Uh huh.” Molly’s stare feels unending, and I know that I’m being weighed and measured. Whatever she sees is enough for her to add, “And don’t you go asking her questions about the past. Sometimes sleeping dogs bite when you disturb them.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
It’s true, too. I was very careful not to ask about Tess’ past, her secrets, her tattoos, or anything that would make her run. Even when I saw the scars hidden under her clothes, I didn’t ask questions.
I want her to tell me her story of her own volition. I’m letting her direct our contact. I held out my hand to Tess like I would with a feral thing. Now, I’ll wait.
“I’m not cruel,” I tell Molly.
I’m not sure the same can be said of Tess. There’s something about her that’s not as sweet as Molly led me to believe. I don’t know if I should hide it or accent that trait in the book.
“Leave the girl alone,” Molly says before she walks away.
I settle into the odd little bar and muse over the possibilities. Maybe it’s where I am; maybe it’s Tess’ comments about prostitution. Is that why tonight was so peculiar? Is that why Tess has such scars? I imagine stories: Tess as an entrapped prostitute, sold by an alcoholic mother or abusive father; Tess as a run-away, mentally compromised by the horrors of a human trafficking ring. In my book, The Story of A Sparrow, Tess will be younger, of course, but I think she’ll still have some of the tattoos that spiral across her skin. Perhaps, I’ll make her a single mother who had a schizophrenic break when her whole family died. The possibilities roll out as they haven’t since the days when I met with Jorge. Unlike him, Tess is reticent to share her past, but I can be patient. I know in my bones that she’s worth it.
“I like her, you know,” I tell Molly when she comes to bring me a new drink. “She’s a sweet girl. Maybe she just needs a friend, someone to accept her as she is, a girl with no past.”
Molly shakes her head and takes my empty glass.
A Girl With No Past might be a better title. I send myself an email with the two title possibilities and a note that my heroine needs a supportive friend who helps her open up about her tragic past. I think I’ll keep her first name though. Naming her Tess will be a nice allusion to Thomas Hardy’s novel. It’ll evoke sympathy for her, remind readers that she’s a victim. I like that. My protagonist, the victim of a violent teen life, taken in by a seemingly kindly woman who forces her into a life of prostitution so deviant that Tess changes her name to that of Hardy’s character when she flees to safety. I think I’ll make her an English major, too. That feels right for a girl who reads Hardy for pleasure.
She needs a nemesis, though. The person who gave her the scars. I think I’ll call him Edward. It brings to mind all sorts of allusions—Rochester.
Once I hit send on the emailed notes, I tuck my phone in my jacket pocket and enjoy my drink. I’ve got a good feeling about A Girl With No Past.
5
A Girl with No Past
When I met Edward, I was twenty-four, waiting tables at a restaurant and picking up shifts at a bookstore, going to college part-time and feeling a million years older than the sorority girls in my classes. I worked every shift I could, but still lived in a lousy area I could barely afford. Durham wasn’t exactly affluent—which was part of why I was there instead of up in New York or Boston.
He wasn't always a monster, or maybe he was. Maybe I needed a monster. He took me from a place where I had no direction and gave my life purpose, meaning. When someone can do that for you, it's everything. He rescued me. He loved me like I was air. It was addictive. Sometimes people talk about what they'd do differently, but my secret—the thing I don't whisper even now—is that I'm not sure if I would.
Being loved by Edward made me.
It started so blandly. A favor for a roommate. Money troubles. It wasn't a big deal, except it changed everything in my life.
“Tessa?” My sometimes roommate, sometimes friend Elle had a wheedling note in her voice. “You know I wouldn’t usually ask for a favor.”
“But?”
“But I have this great opportunity.” Elle had the game down to a science, and I had to respect her despite the way her choices impacted me.
“Of course, you do.”
She cozied up beside me on our thrift store sofa, ignoring the personal space norms. “You should let me do your hair.”
Whatever her favor was, she was pulling out the extra tricks to get me to agree. I made a keep-talking gesture with my hand and turned so she could more easily reach my hair. I knew she was trying to con me, but that wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying it. I’d been single longer than I wanted to admit. I didn’t have the time or energy to juggle two jobs, school, and a man.
“It’s not like you’ll even need to go every night…”
“Go where, Elle?”
Her fingers worked through the messy braid I had, loosening the strands so they fell around my shoulders. I was overdue for a cut, but spending any money on something so frivolous seemed foolish. I wasn’t going to prove I could make it on my own if I dipped into the accounts my mother’s attorney managed for me. So far, I’d managed one way or the other.
“The Red Light.”
“No.” I started to stand.
Elle’s fingers tightened in my hair, holding me in place. “Tessa . . .”
“Let go, Elle.”
“Just hear me out.” She released the tendrils she had coiled around her fingers.
“I can’t—”
“Just waitress. You don’t need to go on stage.” Elle did that thing where she widened her eyes and pouted. It earned her plenty of bills in her G-string. Something about looking like an innocent girl worked for her.
It also made me want to laugh. “Stop that. You look ridiculous.”
“I do not.” She pouted more, exaggerating it until it looked truly absurd.
“Why do I let you talk me into things?”
Elle launched herself at me, dropping a smacking kiss on my mouth.
“Because you get bored being so smart all the time?” Elle teased as she flopped back with the most honest expression she had.
She spent so much time playacting that it was easy to forget that she was genuinely beautiful underneath the games. I trusted her the way you trust anyone who juggled addictions and bad habits like it was an art—which is to say that I didn’t trust her to do anything other than what was best for her.
“Waitress,” I repeated. “Fully dressed.”
She giggled. “You’ve been to the bar. The uniform isn’t bad. The shoes . . .”
“But your boss knows I’m not going on stage,” I stressed. The first time I’d picked Elle up, the manager tried to convince me to do a twirl around the pole. The topic had become one that was perpetually revisited. I wanted to be clear from go: I was a waitress, not a dancer.