“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.
