Chapter 15
The guilty love mirrors. Until someone forces them to look too closely.—The Count of Monte Cristo
LILAH
Ifeel numb the entire way back to my apartment. For once I don’t turn around and look for Jude. I don’t get worried he’s walking after me, I don’t do anything except drive, go to my place, type in my code, take the stairs and walk into the living room.
Charlie’s laying on the couch watching TV. “Dude, social media is still a hot mess today, in other news I think Axel and I are gonna bang.”
“Who says bang anymore?”
“I do. Right now. When talking about hot Axel, and he’s really hot, he’s a good kisser too, not too much tongue when he gets excited and trust me my kiss gets him—” She sits up. “What’s with that look?”
“Long day at work. Life. Pressure,” I offer. “Take your pick. I may not survive this semester.”
“You know what you need?” She says cheerfully.
“What?”
“A good bang.” She bursts out laughing. I’m killing her.
I roll my eyes. “How did I know you were going to say that?” My mind immediately goes to Jude. Stop. I need to stop. “That’s the last thing I need.”
“Just saying, if Evans can no longer provide his services in account he’s an idiot and gone, there are other options.” Don’t say Jude, don’t say Jude.
“Take the best friend—Jude or cousin, whatever, rich as hell, adjunct professor, artist in his own right, and very well dressed.”
“Money does that.” I add. “Makes it easier to dress.”
“Not true, I know loads of rich people who dress like they got ready in the dark.” She pushes to her feet. “My point is, hiding out in your room is not the answer to your stress.”
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
I pat her on the head. “Good talk, I’m going to head to the studio.”
“That’s more work,” she points out. “Not banging. Not fun.”
I manage a small smile. “I know, but it will keep my head in a better space. Plus, my new professor was weirdly specific about frogs.” I smile at the memory.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. I’m gonna head out.”
It doesn’t take me long to get to the studio. I need the clay in my hands immediately.
Need something that listens when I tell it what to do.
Something that doesn't come back from the dead.
Something that doesn't stare at me with familiar eyes and a stranger's face.
The Fine Arts building is nearly empty by the time I unlock the side door.
The scent of wet earth and plaster hits me first, instantly calming some of the frantic energy buzzing beneath my skin.
I can be myself here, I can be anything I want to be.
I house some of my best works here, my dreams, my future, now, I can’t lie, things have shifted, it’s still.
Home.
Or at least the closest thing I have to one.
My mom is busy forgetting the divorce at the bottom of a bottle.
And Dad, well Dad conveniently forgot all the reasons I needed therapy.
It’s like the minute my life freaking ended, his started, with his new job, vacations, all the things, checking in.
He no longer has the burden of a family, he’s finally happy and it just feels like it’s me, alone on this weird island trying to figure out how one life choice left me so unhappy when it was supposed to save the world.
I wonder if that’s how mom feels too but she’d have to be sober enough to have that conversation.
The very dad I was protecting, the very mom I was protecting are totally fine meanwhile I still deal with the emotional aftermath.
Maybe because in my version he walked free instead of died and now? Now I don’t even know what to think anymore.
I toss my bag onto a stool and make my way to my station.
A half-finished figure waits for me.
I mean at least it’s somewhat human.
Broken.
Missing an arm.
Appropriate for now I guess.
I stare at it for a long moment before sinking my hands into a fresh block of clay.
It feels cold and solid beneath my fingertips and I find myself letting out a long, much-needed exhale.
No memories exist in fresh clay, no ghosts, no Jude, especially no Jude, just new creations free of lies, new creations I make with my hands, I can’t count out memories but right now, I can at least rest in the fresh clay. God, maybe I am losing it.
My fingers dig harder into it. The rough shape I've been building caves under the pressure, slumping to one side. I let it.
Perfection is for grades.
Art is allowed to be ugly first and I love that it can be the worst looking slob of dirt on this planet and somehow still turn into something that matters, something beautiful, something dangerous, daring, something that makes you think.
It reminds me that when I look in the mirror and all I see are my sins, there’s still something beneath the surface that the universe sees as perfect as if it doesn’t make mistakes.
As a sculptor everything has a purpose, I’d like to think humanity does too.
And on my darkest days it’s one of the only things that got me through.
I spin the banding wheel and smooth my thumb over the damaged section, adding clay where I took too much away.
I don't know what I'm making yet or where I’m even starting. It’s pure chaos. All I know is that I have something brewing beneath the surface trying to claw its way out and it’s my job to make it happen.
Good enough. Good enough.
The pressure in my temples eases with every scrape of my sculpting tool. Every push. Every carve. Every imperfection.
For once, I'm not thinking about Jude.
Or prison.
Or funerals.
Or lies.
Just clay.
My fingers dig harder as I manipulate it over and over again, it collapses beneath the pressure of what I’m doing.
The clay breaks down beneath the pressure of the clay molding and pushing, I don’t know what I’m doing yet but I know something is brewing and that’s enough. It’s enough that I feel the pressure of my work, and it’s enough that it takes the pain from my temples away.
"Good," I mutter and sigh. “It’s good.” Like I’m talking to the clay itself, maybe in a way I am, since I can’t trust anyone else in this world.
It breaks and breaks beneath my fingertips, yes, right now I want to break something too. It feels right. I don't know how long I work. Ten minutes. An hour. Maybe both.
The world narrows to clay beneath my palms and the rhythm of my breathing.
Push, shape, destroy, start over. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I spent the last few years keeping to myself, pushing everyone away, not even really going to parties.
He was dead so I lived like I was already dead too.
I had a single goal a single focus and now it feels useless, like what did I actually accomplish by doing that?
I spent seven years grieving a dead boy, blaming myself, barely even allowing myself to do anything with my life, keeping my head down, working my ass off only to be alone in a studio questioning everything, being threatened by some weird list that may or may not know my past sins and thinking about his mouth of all things.
I had no business thinking about any part of Jude’s body and yet here I am, doing exactly that.
Why does it matter anyways? The guy hates me. He sees me and sees a reminder of what I did, he sees betrayal. I already have a hard enough time looking in the mirror I can’t imagine what he feels when he sees my face. I’d want to choke me.
So, basically the guy who ruined me for all other guys would never touch me anyways, so I’ve been comparing him to everyone only to actually have him in real life but not really have him. God, I’m losing it.
A laugh escapes.
Sharp.
Humorless.
"Congratulations, Lilah, you’ve singlehandedly ruined your life twice, the second time without even realizing it. At least the first time you knew you were making that choice."
The clay’s cold beneath my fingertips as I shape and shape some more, muscles burn. “You officially broke your heart twice. Really, really, impressive, even for you.” I keep adjusting the small hand and freeze when I hear someone behind me—no I feel them.
“Agreed.”
I freeze.
Because that voice doesn't belong in my head, though how many stupid times did I think I heard Jude when it was just the wind? My nightmares? My own memories/
It’s coming from behind me, the deep voice, the heady presence, the smell of him wraps around me until I’m afraid to breathe.
My throat tightens.
“Tell me everything.” He whispers. “Start at the beginning, leave nothing out. Shape, work, let the clay become what it will, I want to hear your words while you work, it’s hard to lie when you create art, it’s easier to create your truth and confess your sins than you’d think.
As if it were that easy.
As if I knew where to start.
His body wraps up around me. My back to his chest. I don’t move a muscle as his hands cover mine. Warm. Steady. Tempting and oh so dangerous.
I stare at the frog I’ve been trying to manipulate for the past hour and then I realize that I’ve added a tattoo onto its arm in the last half hour. The same words I saw on Jude.
WAIT.
WATCH.
REMEMBER.
The words blur. What the hell was I doing? Thinking of Jude. Thinking of the frog. I sure as hell can’t lie about it now can I? Of course, everything I create is based off of what I so effortlessly destroyed. That’s life, right?
A shiver runs down my spine as he moves my hands toward the bottom part of the sculpture and helps me smooth the clay down. “I really did think you were dead. Gone from this world. And that it was my fault.”
The confession slips out before I can stop it.
His hands go still.
Completely still over mine.
For a second I wonder if he’s even breathing.
"I know."
My eyes burn. I will the tears to stay where they belong. God knows I’ve shed so many over him in the last few years.
"No, I don't think you do." I whisper. “There are levels of death, you know? Accidents. Sickness. Disappearances. Emotional deaths. This was different, this was life altering, this was the death of my best friend, the boy I loved.” He curses under his breath.
I have nothing to lose at this point. “The only one I trusted.”
“And yet you lied.” His voice was raspy like he’s been yelling or maybe he’s just trying not to lose his temper?
I swallow hard, it’s painful, like somethings stuck in the back of my throat and refuses to leave, maybe it’s just a permanent rock of pain. “Your dad came to our house after the trial.”
The room falls silent, and then all I hear is the slow hum of the heat and feel the steady beat of my heart as it slams against my chest. “I wasn’t allowed to see you at all.
” I shudder. “I wasn’t allowed to call.” I lick my lips.
“I kept asking questions and nobody would answer them and if they did answer it was that I needed to let the adults take care of everything.” The clay squishes beneath my fingers.
“My mom finally told me to stop talking about it, she said I did my job and that’s all I can do.
” His hands tighten a bit over mine like he’s holding back.
Too much pressure will damage what I’m trying to build but I wonder if he doesn’t want to stomp out my entire piece. I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
It would be deserved.
And I’d take it to my grave that I liked the feeling of the pressure of his fingertips and that I’d memorize every single angle of his body behind me.
He leans in, his lips near my right ear as he uses his left hand to pull me back against him. His hands are covered in clay, so it gets all over my smock, not that I care. He holds me there, steady. Can he feel my heart beating? Is he angry? His right hand stays on mine. “Keep talking.”
It’s hard though, with him this close, sharing space with him, air, trying to keep a clear head. There’s no escaping, and even if it hurts, I don’t want to, not anymore. I’m tired of running away from my choices, from his ghost.
"I thought you hated me." His voice is rough. “It was the only thing that made sense when you didn’t visit. I was on house arrest at the time anyways but you didn’t even text.”
“Mom said it was against the law since I was testifying.”
“Lying.” He corrects.
I let out a broken laugh. “Does it matter now? I thought you were buried deep in the ground.”
That finally gets a reaction. His hands leave mine. I hate the emptiness immediately. He moves back, creating distance rather than pulling me closer.
"Who told you I was dead?" He’s there, but he’s not touching me, not anymore. I hate it.
I close my eyes. “My dad.”
“Fuck.” He says it under his breath then curses again.
I don’t turn around but the sound of something hitting the wall makes me nearly jump out of my skin, and then the sound of a hammer getting taken to a sculpture fills the room.
I squeeze my eyes shut until he’s finished. Pieces of clay go flying by my feet.
I wait and then I finally turn around. He’s staring at me like I’ve just handed him a loaded gun. His blue eyes are wide with fury; he’s gripping a hammer with his right hand. Instinctively, I step back like my sculpture is somehow going to protect me.
"I went to your funeral." I confess. “It was raining.”
His jaw flexes. “What?”
My voice cracks. "I wasn't allowed out of the car, I ran anyways. I ran across the street and stood behind a tree." The memory of the rain pelting my hair assaults me. I’d been freezing.
All the color drains from his face. He’s white as a ghost as I talk. "I watched people dressed in black with black umbrellas talk about you but I couldn’t make out the words, I couldn’t hear anything.
I wipe angrily at my eyes. "I thought one of them was carrying you but it was impossible to see all the details because of the rain. Because it was mixed with my tears and my vision was blurry and because I was a coward hiding behind a tree."
The silence between us is unbearable.
“They lowered your casket into the ground. People dropped white roses onto the casket—white roses and purple—”
“Lilies,” he whispers. “Because the person they were burying wasn’t me, it was my mom.”
“Yes, I know that now because you told me. But I didn’t know then.”
“I was there too. In the car. They wouldn’t let me out because of the trial. Had I known you were there…” He falls into silence.
“You would have killed me,” I say for him.
He shakes his head. ‘I would have run.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“To you. I would have run to you. And like the rain that day, I wouldn’t have stopped.”