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The rain freezes my hair, my clothes, and my bones, yet somehow I’m not cold inside.
He’s my enemy.
He’s also all I have right now and Ineedsomeone.
“I hate you,” I tell him, just in case he misunderstands the situation.
This changes nothing.
“I know.”
Even though I know the answer, I ask the pointless question anyhow. “Will you leave me alone? Please.”
He says nothing at first. When his reply comes, it’s slightly unexpected. “I can’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I play and replay the events of Friday all night and most of the following Saturday.
It’s no longer about the sculpture. I put in a lot of work on it, sure, but there's no point crying over spilled milk—or wrecked clay. I might have worked on it for five weeks, but only for half an hour five days a week—that’s only about a dozen of hours of work. I can make up for it.
I spend most of the day working on another piece that’ll do nicely for my final project. It needs another day or two, given how long clay takes to set, but I’ll get it done in plenty of time now that Mr. Weir's allowed me to work on it outside of class.
What won’t leave my mind is how I let Jasonhugme.
Ugh. Kill me now.
I put it down to shock. Or insanity.
I spend an unhealthy amount of time thinking about his answer to me.
"I can’t." Not "I don’t want to, torturing you is too much fun.""I can’t."
Jason is honest, hopelessly so, and he always chooses his words with care. He thought about it for a good long while before replying, too. He meant it.
"I can’t."
I want to know what he means. I…need to. He’s making my life a living hell. The least he can do is tell me why.
It shouldn’t matter. No reason he might have would be valid. He’s a horrible guy, that’s it.
I can’t stop thinking about it nonetheless.
“Dia, darling?” My mother knocks at my door, and opens it before I invite her in. “You’ve been cooped up in here all day, working. Don’t you want to stretch your legs?”
I grin and lift my eyebrows. “By that, I suppose you mean go shopping with you?”
She nods furiously. “There’s a sale I don’t want to miss at Saks, sweetie. Tell me you’ll come with me.”
She’s nothing if not predictable. Saks isn’t my scene, but I go along.
We’ve made Saturday afternoon shopping trips a new tradition since the start of the year, I suppose. I’m still uncomfortable seeing my mother spend so much money on stuff she doesn’t actually need when she doesn’t work, while Dad seems to live at the restaurant, but the chat we had at the start of the year has put things in perspective. They’re adults. If Dad doesn’t want her money, she can’t make him take it. Their relationship doesn’t seem particularly healthy—or loving—to me, but what do I know? At least they never seem to fight.
Mom tries a dozen of pairs of shoes, modeling them for me. Looking at her strong, long legs and the way she effortlessly sways in her four-inch heels, she looks every bit the ballet dancer.
“Mom, have you ever thought about going back to performing?” She teaches a few ballet classes at a local school, but I’ve seen her dance. She could still be out there touring the world if she wanted to.
She snorts. “I’m a bit too old for professional ballet, sweetie.”
