Chapter 16
“She was not part of the plan. That was the first mistake. Wanting her was the second.”—The Count of Monte Cristo
JUDE
Her jaw drops. Does she not believe me? She’d been my safe space and ripped it back so fast my head spun, but seeing her there, after my mom’s death.
It would have been a last-ditch desperate attempt to find that safety again.
She would have been my umbrella, and I would have collapsed like a weak pitiful child at her feet.
I should leave. The sane thing to do. Walk away. Do not unpack what doesn’t need to be unpacked but doing so means I don’t get answers. I just didn’t realize the answers would be as painful as this, or that I’d want to comfort her instead of rage and yell.
It’s after hours, and a few students are still in the studio next door.
This one’s empty. I quietly walk over to the door and flip the lock, drop the hammer on the table next to the door and don’t stop walking until I’m right in front of her, directly underneath the light illuminating her project.
Just another project involving me, like the ghost of me before, this is apparently the prince of me in the present.
She takes a step back until she’s pressed against the table. I open my mouth and look down at the damn frog with my tattoo on it like she accidentally etched it in, at this rate she’s going to accidentally shape my face instead of the damned amphibian’s.
Her hands really are her truth, while her words can’t be trusted. Maybe that’s my answer. I hold up my hand then walk over and grab a brand-new slab of clay; I use the string to cut it down to size then carry it over to her.
I stare at the damn frog.
"You went to the funeral?"
Her breath catches.
I don't wait for an answer.
Instead, I walk over to the empty workstation beside hers and slam the clay down onto the banding wheel.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"You said you thought I was dead," I snap.
With the first cut, clay hits the table with a wet thud.
“You thought I was buried.” I slice the block in half with the wire.
"You thought I hated you." Another cut down the middle to the second piece, another slice.
Clay falls apart beneath my hands as I move it to where I want it. “Show me.”
"What?" She frowns. “I don’t understand, I—"
With dirty hands I cup her by the face, my fingers digging into her skin gently.
“The funeral, show it to me. I want to see. I want you touching,” I lick my lips.
“I want you molding. I want you showing me your truth since you’re incapable of using your words, since I’m incapable of trusting anything that comes out of your mouth.
You haven’t earned that sort of trust from me, you might not ever, but this,” I grip her by the chin and use my left hand to point at the clay.
“This is your truth. From every sculpture I’ve seen, you’ve shown a story right down to the one about me, so this I’ll trust. This is going to be how we communicate. Got it?”
Silence ensues. Her eyes go from calm to panicked in seconds. She’s afraid. Good. Let her feel fear. That seems to be the only thing that pulls the truth from her.
“Jude, wait, I think—”
“You’re not allowed.” I shrug. “You want my forgiveness? You want restitution? You want to settle this shit with the devil? Fine, then you confess your sins with your hands. That’s our deal. That’s how you find peace, Lilah.”
I grab another piece of clay. “Show me.”
Her eyes narrow. “You sound crazy.”
"Probably, so why do you look petrified?
" I shrug. “Besides, prison does that to a person, makes them a bit crazy, a bit unhinged, we only get four walls, just in case you were wondering, and for the first few weeks I had exactly one book, and one podcast I could listen to, care to wonder what that was?”
Tears fill her eyes.
“Nope, I won’t feel sorry for you, suck those tears back in and move.” I shove her gently toward the clay. “Create, and maybe I’ll start to forgive. get dirty, Dig in, and maybe…you’ll finally feel clean. I want to see it." My voice lowers. "I want to see what you remember."
The room goes quiet as I slowly turn her toward the chair and urge her to sit.
“I want to feel what you remember. Give me the pain.” I lift her hands onto the clay.
“Give me the horror of what you saw.” I rest my hands on top of hers and whisper, dangerously close to her neck, so close I can almost graze my mouth along the vulnerable skin there. “Tell me a story.”
I move behind her before I can stop myself.
Before I can think better of it. Because it’s not just her story, it’s my story too, I’m part of this whether I like it or not.
I’m torn between wanting her to suffer and feel her pain but also wanting to be the one person she shows it to.
I want her mask to slip, and I want to be the one to see it all.
I want to look her in the eyes and drink her in despite how naked she feels for it.
Before I can think better of it, I get comfortable. I stay. She freezes beneath my touch and then it’s like she realizes I’m not moving, that my hand isn’t moving either. We’re a team now. A unit, and I’m not leaving.
I exhale against her neck.
A shiver wracks her body as goosebumps erupt up and down her skin like an explosion of pleasure I willed by being so close.
I forgot what it was like, touching her, being this close to her, and suddenly my mind is back in my bedroom at sixteen when I kissed her, achingly slow, so slow that I wonder if it even happened or if it was just a figment of my imagination.
The warmth.
The softness.
The familiarity of her.
All of it comes crashing down onto me at once. For one stupid second, it feels like seven years never happened. It feels like ignoring the demons between us is possible, and then the pain returns, slight, sharp, right in my chest, the same pain that appeared the day she lied.
I wonder if I’ll ever be rid of it.
Probably not, but pain is meant to be felt, remembered. I would do good to focus on that, otherwise I’ll never be able to survive what I have to do, I’ll be too focused on her and now, now I’m looking out for me.
I clear my throat. "Clay." My voice sounds wrecked already, it’s raspy, heavy with emotion. “Focus on the clay.”
"Right." Her throat moves. “I’ll focus on the clay with you that close to me, breathing on me, existing in my orbit, easiest thing in the world.”
“You were the one who ejected me from your orbit, remember? Should be easy enough letting me back in since it was such a flippant thing letting me go.”
“You were never mine to let go.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I whisper. “I was forever, always, just yours.”
Her sharp intake of breath is all the satisfaction I need to hear. Good. I hope the truth burns.
Together we push our hands into the center of the block.
The wheel turns slowly—too slow. It’s not fast enough to distract me from my racing heart or from the way her body molds against mine. “What do you remember?”
She doesn't answer immediately. Her fingers are moving, shaping, subconsciously, she’s leaning into me but also forward.
I move with her, fluidly, allowing her space but also selfishly stealing as much as I can at the same time.
I can tell she stops thinking when her muscles tense and then she’s truly leaning forward, hovering over the clay.
“I remember rain, so much, rain, like the world was crying with me. It felt justified that the weather would perfectly match my mood and mourn your life.” My heart clenches.
“I hated there was no thunder though because you always loved thunder, and it seemed unfair that you wouldn’t get that gift, on the day of your funeral. ”
I do love thunder. The fact that she remembers that makes me mile to myself. “What else?”
“The backseat was cold, but I still kind of stuck against it because my clothes were wet. My dad gave me his jacket; it was too big. I put my hands in the pockets because I was freezing. There was a piece of paper. He got angry and ripped it from my hands.”
“What did it say?” I whisper in her ear.
She turns; her mouth nearly collides with mine. “It was a phone number and a name, I don’t remember either one of them. Sorry.”
Her hands keep molding the clay, she looks away from me, another shape forms. I don’t know what she’s creating, but I can’t look away. It’s fascinating.
The piece grows. Not a church. Not a coffin. It’s a car. “My dad wouldn’t let me out. My mom cried the entire time. She kept saying,” Her hands stop for a second. “We needed to leave, that we had to go, and put it all behind us.”
Figures.
“And your dad? What did he say?”
“He agreed,” She forms the car into what looks like a black sedan. She never had a sedan though. They had a van.
I don't speak.
I can't.
Because this isn't a lie.
Lies come fast.
This is memory.
Memory comes slow.
Painfully slow.
Like pulling glass from skin.
"I remember thinking..." Her voice cracks. Her hands still for a minute.
I place my hands over hers. “Thinking what?”
She shudders. "I remember thinking that if I ran across the street maybe I'd see you one last time, maybe I could tell you I’m sorry for lying. I told my dad something like that in the car and got yelled at for even mentioning the trial. He said it didn’t matter anymore.
I guessed it didn’t because you were dead. "
The air leaves my lungs. The sculpture wheel keeps turning. The clay keeps moving.
And suddenly neither of us are in the studio anymore.
We're sixteen. Broken. Afraid. Standing in the rain looking at a coffin. I’m watching my mom get lowered into the ground two cars down and she’s watching who she thinks is her best friend get lowered.
Both of us are broken. Both of us are freezing, lost, confused, stuck questioning adults who refuse to give us answers.
"I waited for you," I confess. It slips out before I can stop it. Shit.