Something has shifted in the air. Before, we were casually talking, maybe even enjoying hearing about each other’s likes and dislikes, which is shocking.
This is probably the longest we've gone without arguing. It's not like we're arguing now, but she's managed to slip into an armour of indifference.
Why don't I like that?
I take a deep breath before asking, “Why?”
“That's none of your business.” She spits out coldly. Now, she looks bothered. Gone is her indifferent façade.
That's the thing about Juliette, she doesn't take time with things. It's always zero to a hundred with her—no time to savour, just straight to the rage. There is no purgatory or middle ground, she is like a ticking time-bomb.
“Okay, relax.” I hold my hands up in defence, she just scoffs and goes back to drawing.
I know better than anyone not to pry when someone refuses to talk about something. It's not even my business anyway, so why am I bothered that she isn't telling me? Why is the fact that she doesn't want to share this with me prodding at my chest like an icicle? Maybe I'm just innately a curious person.
“Have you ever done pottery?” she questions me suddenly and I'm shocked she's continuing to talk to me. Jekyll and Hyde have nothing on her.
“I've always wanted to,” I say, sighing, “I've just never had the time.” I shrug.
Besides school and work, I never had the time for much while growing up, especially after Adam went to prison. I couldn't exactly pick up a free hobby, but it's fine, I wouldn't change it. Then again, it does tug at me sometimes when I see things I would have enjoyed doing.
I'm not sure why I'm telling Juliette this though. I'm not sure what it is about this room, but I feel so comfortable, like I could speak about anything and that's… dangerous.
“What else did you want to do?” Her question throws me off guard for a moment.
She sounds interested, like she actually wants to know and it makes my chest feel tight—so tight that I'm unaware how I'm actually breathing at the moment. I shake off the weird feeling and answer her question.
“I always thought learning how to play the piano would be cool,” I admit, ducking my head slightly.
She raises her eyebrows at me like she's pleased with my answer. I don't know how she's looking at me and drawing at the same time, but she's managing to do it flawlessly.
“It's easy once you get the hang of it,” she says absentmindedly, still drawing.
“You play?” I ask, astonished.
Of course, she does. Is there anything she can't do? I guess passing biology would be something, but she's getting the hang of that too.
She nods. “Yeah, Kai taught me.” She smiles fondly when she mentions his name.
I nod in response and sigh. Part of me wants to ask if she could teach me, but I push the thought out of my head just as quickly as it arises.
What is wrong with me? We go about forty minutes without arguing and suddenly, I want her to teach me how to play the piano?
What is happening to me?
“I used to do it with my father,” she says suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“What?” I mumble, confused.
She looks kind of dazed and frozen at the same time, like she's thinking deep and hard about a past memory or just disassociating. I've never seen her this way; she looks so vulnerable.
“Pottery. I used to do it a lot with my father,” she repeats, sighing. “It's not something I like to do anymore.”
My heart clenches at her words and more at the tiny frown she's trying to suppress. I don't think I've ever heard her sound so vulnerable.
I'm not good at comforting people, but I want to comfort her and I'm not sure why. Regardless, I shouldn't—I can't. So, I'll go about this the more logical way—that's what I'm good at.
“Are you good at it?”
