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)
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.