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 muchpressure 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.”
