Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66997 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
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.”
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.