Love always,
Adam
“Oh my freaking word,” Kimmie blurts.
“You know what I want to know?” Wes asks. “How did he even know where to find Ben? And how did he know you guys were an item last fall?”
“The same way people here found out about Ben’s past,” I say. “People talk. Rumors spread.”
“And losers listen,” Kimmie adds. “I mean, obviously Ben was a celebrity in his hometown, or so to speak. The boy probably couldn’t even piss in private without someone knowing the color of his briefs. If they are indeed briefs . . . are they, Camelia?” She shoots me an evil grin.
“I wouldn’t know.”
She makes a grimace, clearly disappointed.
“So, are you going to forgive Adam?” Wes asks.
“Or shall it be the dark and dangerous Touch Boy?”
“Do you honestly think that going back to Touch Boy would be a rational decision for our dear Chameleon?” Wes asks her.
“Love isn’t rational,” she argues. “It’s instinctive.”
“Well, instinct tells me that I’ll know what to do when that time comes.”
“Just be sure to keep me posted,” Wes says. “Otherwise, I’ll be forced to have to deal with my own drama. And, honestly, what fun would that be?”
I look away, thinking about all the loose strands in my life—all the big questions I have yet to answer. “Not very fun at all,” I agree.
61
After coffee with Kimmie and Wes, I head to Knead, hoping some work on the wheel might serve as a diversion to my otherwise complicated life. Spencer’s there, and he’s not alone. It seems he’s already hired someone to fill Adam’s spot.
Svetlana Stepankov is as tall as she is beautiful, with long and loopy almond brown hair, wide violet eyes, and angular cheeks.
Spencer introduces us, explaining how it’ll be my job in the upcoming weeks to show Svetlana the ropes, i.e. to teach her how to fire, how to pull and clean greenware, how to glaze, do the register, set up for classes, and center on the wheel.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, unable to avoid sneaking a peek at the overwhelming cleavage that oozes from her blouse, and the ballerina tattoo that adorns said ooze.
“Yes,” she says, all smiles.
“Are you new to the area? How did you find out about this place?”
“Yes,” she repeats.
“She doesn’t have much experience,” Spencer says, like I couldn’t have figured that out already, “but I think she’ll do wonders for the store. Just talk slowly.” He hands me an English–Russian dictionary.
Needless to say, it’s pretty apparent why Spencer hired her, but I don’t care, because at least this means he’ll stop flirting with me, and maybe I’ll finally be able to leave all drama at the door.
While he resumes showing Svetlana around (and admiring the dancing ballerina as he does so), I throw a ball of clay onto my spinning wheel, eager to create something great.
But then the door jingles open.
It’s Ben.
“Hey,” he says. There’s a bandage over his temple from when I clobbered him in the basement.
“Hey,” I wave, knowing that I should probably run in the other direction. But instead I remain on my stool.
“So, I just wanted to say hello,” he says, walking across the studio toward me.
I look behind me for Spencer and Svetlana, but they must be downstairs.
“How have you been?” he asks.
“Not very well, actually,” I have to admit.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me neither.” He looks as lost as I feel. His eyes are tired; his skin is sallow. He can’t stop fidgeting in his pockets.
“So, I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see again,” he continues.
“Are you leaving?” I ask, feeling myself stand, feeling my eyes well up at the mere idea of him going away again.
He shrugs. “I just thought that maybe—”
“Are you leaving?” I repeat, cutting him off, eager for the answer. My container of sculpture tools topples to the floor.
Ben takes my hands. The clay is moist and slippery between our palms. “You’re here,” he whispers, his eyes tearing up too. “So how could I leave?”
I resist the urge to wilt into his embrace, knowing that this probably isn’t rational, but it’s definitely instinctive.
“So, we should probably discuss your power of psychometry,” he says. “Not to mention mine . . . what you can do, what I can do—what I’m capable of. I’d die if I ever hurt you.”
“You’d never hurt me. I know that now.”
“Well, you do realize we have a ton to talk about.”
“And you do realize you’re touching me right now.”
He nods and moves closer. His breath is warm against my ear: “And this time I don’t ever want to let go.”
I look up into his face, noticing how he’s started to sweat, and how he’s trying his best to control his breath. “Well, I don’t really feel like talking right now,” I say.
“Neither do I.” Ben runs his lips along the length of my neck. And then he kisses me full on the mouth, making my legs feel wobbly and weak.
I kiss him back, resisting the urge to jump into his arms or tackle him onto the floor. He tastes like honey and sea salt.
Ben slides his hands up my back, beneath my sweatshirt, lingering at my waist. His touch is warm and tender.
My pulse races. My head starts to spin. And all I can think of is that maybe Kimmie was right. Maybe in some weird and twisted way, Ben and I really do need each other.
“For always,” he says, as though reading my mind. “For always,” I repeat. I draw him closer, and feel his heart beat against my chest.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my agent, Kathryn Green, for her invaluable guidance and advice; to my editor, Jennifer Besser, who always asks just the right questions. Always. And to Emily Schultz, who helped me delve even deeper.
A special thanks goes to fellow young adult author Stacy DeKeyser, who read pieces of Deadly Little Lies during the drafting stage, and who offered insightful feedback.
I’m forever grateful for the support and encouragement of friends and family members—you know who you are. Thanks also to the online community of young adult authors I’ve befriended over the years, many of whom I’ve met through yanovelists, YAWRITER, at “the Pub,” and/or through The Girlfriends’ Cyber Circuit.
And lastly, to my readers, what else can I say except Thank you? Thank you times a kajillion. I am so very truly grateful for your support, encouragement, and continuous enthusiasm for my work.
LAURIE FARIA STOLARZ is the author of several popular young adult novels, including Deadly Little Secret, Project 17, and Bleed, as well as Blue Is for Nightmares, White Is for Magic, Silver Is for Secrets, Red Is for Remembrance, and Black Is for Beginnings. Born and raised in Salem, Massachusetts, Stolarz attended Merrimack College and received an MFA in creative writing from Emerson College in Boston.
For more information, please visit her Web site at www.lauriestolarz.com
Laurie Faria Stolarz, Deadly Little Lies
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