Ember breathes out a small laugh, crossing her arms over her chest. “Gee, I’ve never heard that one before.” Then she adds, her stare burning up my face. “Care to tell me the truth now?”
“Not really.” Even as I say it, the words don’t sound all that convincing. Part of me does want to tell her what happened to relieve the weight that sits on my chest. And maybe so I can breathe for the first time in days. Something stops me though, and instead, I stare out at the bushes lining her front yard. “Those are some seriously fucking perfectly-trimmed bushes.”
“Right. It’s none of my business. Sorry I pried.”
“No, it’s not that. I’d just—”
“Rather talk about my perfectly-trimmed bushes.” She taps her forehead with the heel of her hand, her rosy cheeks turning crimson. “I can’t believe I just said that.” Gesturing toward the trees with her chin, she explains. “My mom is an interior designer so all that visual stuff is really important to her. She’s really into the whole balance thing.”
“That’s cool.” I cover my injured hand with my good one so she’ll stop glancing at it. “And what about you? What are you into?”
She flattens her palm, making circles as if she’s wiping a window. “Sculpting.”
“Oh yeah?” I shift my body toward her, resting my elbow on the back of the bench. “What do you sculpt?”
“Whatever comes to mind, really. Sometimes it’s people’s faces. Other times it might be parts of the body or an object. I typically just sit with the clay and get inspired. It’s actually really…,” her gaze reaches up to the sky, “therapeutic.”
I twist my earring around, studying her face. It’s a nervous habit that I’ve never been able to shake. Being around Ember doesn’t necessarily make me nervous. It unsettles me somehow. I’m not sure what to make of her. Though I can’t deny there is something about her that makes me want to talk, but also makes me feel inadequate. Perhaps it’s her brutal honesty. Guilt fastens itself to my chest and tugs hard. I know I need to tell her the truth about Mom, but the words seem to get lost on the way out. Books however, books I can talk about.
“I kind of feel that way about reading.” Her green eyes pop with interest and encourage me to continue. “It’s more like an escape for me, I think.”
She leans back on the arm of the bench, drawing her knees up to her chest and offering me her full attention. “What are you trying to escape from?”
“Life I suppose.” I answer honestly, my mind veering off to Mom and my reality. My shoulders stiffen and I roll my neck from left to right to ease the building tension.
“Ah, the dreaded life escape.” She presses her lips together on a half-smile. “So what got you into reading?”
“My mom, actually. I’m pretty sure she started reading to me when I was in the womb. Or at least that’s what she used to tell me. I remember she’d always ask me to play and I’d say, ‘no, read.’” My heart warms and I crack a smile. “Then when I learned how to read, that’s all I wanted to do.”
“That’s awesome. I’m not much of a reader,” she offers, winding her fingers down the weathered link chain holding up the swing. “But I can definitely appreciate why people do it. I think I was too into art so I went that way instead. That reminds me….” She hits the flat of her hand on her thigh. “I’d still really like to talk to your mom about her painting, if that’s okay.” My stomach sinks to the ground and I want to fucking run. “Whenever I meet another artist, there’s just something about it. Like we’re kindred spirits.”
Emotion balls up in my throat, the need to be alone overwhelming. “I should go.” I stand abruptly, the swing rocking back from the force. “I’ve got… stuff to do.”
“O-okay.” She’s probably got whiplash from my sudden mood swing. Her eyes dart between mine—like if she could bypass me and dive into them—she could find the answers. The truth is, I don’t have any answers. I wish I did.
She follows me down the steps and to the sidewalk. I should have known she wouldn’t let me make a clean getaway. That’s not her style. She stops, fumbling with the edge of her pajama top, her stare unwavering. “Are you all right? Did I say something to upset you?”
I fist a hand on my hip, my next breath coming out louder than I’d intended. “No. You didn’t. It’s just that I…,” another pause, another big breath, “I’ve got some things I need to work out. But it’s not you,” I insist. “I….” My fingernails dig into my palms, the effort to smile exhausting. “I like… talking with you.”
“Man, that was hard.” She nudges my arm with her elbow. Without realizing it, I back up a step and her expression falters.
“What was?”
“Admitting that you like me.” The furrow between her brows indicates I might have offended her and I immediately want to set it right.