“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.
