“It's after school, after my double detentions for gym and chemistry, and I'm at Knead, about to begin working on a new piece. I wedge the clay out against my board, enjoying the therapeutic quality of each smack, prod, and punch.As the clay oozes between my fingers and pastes against my skin, images of all sorts begin to pop into my head. I try my best to push them away,to focus instead on the cold and clammy sensation of the mound and the way it helps me relax. But after only a few short minutes of solitude, I hear someone storm their way up the back stairwell. At first I think it's Spencer, but then I hear the voice:"I'm coming up the stairs," Adam bellows. "I'm approaching the studio area, about to pass by the sink."I turn to look, noticing he's standing only a few feet behind me now."I hope I didn't startle you this time," he says."Ha-ha." I hold back my smile."I would have called your cell to tell you I was coming up, but you never gave me your number.""I'm fine," I assure him, unable to stifle a giggle.”

“Ben stands just behind me, and we begin to wedge out a fresh piece of clay. I try my best to concentrate, to ignore the fact that my heart is beating at five times its normal speed. I watch his arms as he kneads the clay—almost a little too hard—and as the muscles in his forearms flex. “That’s good,” I say, in an effort to stay focused. I dip a sponge into a bowl of water and squeeze the droplets down over his hands to keep things moist.After several minutes, Ben lets me take the lead. I place my palms over the clay mound and close my eyes. Meanwhile, Ben’s chest grazes my shoulders, and his clay-soaked fingers stroke the length of my arms.“You’re doing great,” he whispers in my ear.We continue to sculpt for another hour, working the mound down into a flattened surface—until we have a total of four tiles.And until I can no longer hold myself back.I turn around to face him.“Camelia?” He squints slightly.I bite my lip, wishing that he could read my mind, and that he would kiss me until my lips ache. “What are you thinking?” I ask, slipping my hand inside the waistband of his jeans and pulling him closer.”

“I shake my head, knowing that if it hadn’t been for me, Ben wouldn’t have been there in the first place. I try to tell him that, but he swats my words away with his hand and says he wants to show me something.“Sure,” I say, wondering if he’s really as nervous as he seems.He clenches his teeth and hesitates a couple of moments; the angles of his face seem to grow sharper. Finally, he motions to the pant leg of his jeans.There’s a tear right over his thigh.“I know you saw it in the hospital,” he says, exposing the chameleon tattoo through the torn fabric. “I felt you . . . looking at it. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I did this back home, before I ever came to Freetown. Before I ever met you.”“So it’s a coincidence?”His dark gray eyes swallow mine whole. “Do you honestly believe that?”“No,” I say, listening as he proceeds to tell me that a few months before he got to town, he touched his mother’s wedding band—something that reminded him of soul mates—and the image of a chameleon stuck inside his head.“I couldn’t get it out of my mind,” he explains. “It was almost like the image was welded to my brain, behind my eyes, haunting me even when I tried to sleep.”“And you got the tattoo because of that?”“Because I hoped its permanence might help me understand it more—might help me understand what it had to do with my own soul mate.”“And do you understand now?” I ask, swallowing hard.“Yeah.” He smiles. “I suppose I do.”I take a deep breath, trying to hold myself together, desperate to know what he’s truly trying to say here, and what I should say to him as well. I close my eyes, picturing that moment in the hospital when I held his hand and wondering if he would’ve recovered as quickly as if it hadn’t been for the connection between us—the electricity he must have sensed from my touch.”

“I sit by his bed and pull the covers over him. In doing so, I accidently brush against his thigh.And that’s when I feel it.That same electrical sensation I got the first time I touched the spot—in my room, when I begged him to stay the night. The feeling radiates up my spine and gnaws at my nerves. It’s like something’s there, marked on his leg.I run my fingers over the spot—through the blanket—almost tempted to have a look. I close my eyes, trying to sense things the way he does—to get a mental picture from merely touching the area. But I can’t. And I don’t.Still, I have to know if I’m right.I peer over my shoulder toward the door, checking to see that no one’s looking in. And then I roll the covers down.Ben’s wearing a hospital gown. With trembling fingers, I pull the hem and see it right away: the image of a chameleon, tattooed on his upper thigh. It’s about four inches long, with green and yellow stripes.And its tail curls into the letter C.I feel my face furrow, wondering when he got the tattoo, and why he never told me. It wasn’t so long ago that I told him the story of my name—how my mother named me after a chameleon, because chameleons have keen survival instincts.”

“Hi,” I say, stopping right in front of him. “I missed you today in chemistry.”“I got to school a little late.”“But you left my house early,” I say, wondering what time he did in fact leave—if he waited until I fell asleep or stayed until the last possible moment.“I still overslept,” he explains.“I’m sorry if that was my fault.”“I think it was your fault.” He smiles wider. “Once I got home, I couldn’t really fall asleep. Too wound up, I guess.”“Because of all the drama with Adam?”He shakes his head and touches the side of my face, raising my chin slightly to kiss my lips.”

“I roll the covers back up over him and take his hand, noticing how well our palms fit together and thinking back to just after the last time he saved me—when he took my hand and told me that we’d always be together.I lower my head to his chest and continue to squeeze his palm. Tears fall onto the bedsheets, dampening the fabric just above his heart. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him, over and over again.A few moments later, there’s a twitching sensation inside my hand. Ben’s fingers glides over my thumb. ‘Sorry for what?” he breaths. His voice is raspy and weak.I lift my head to check his face. His eyelids flutter. The monitor starts beeping faster. And his lips struggle to move.“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him, searching for the nurse’s call buzzer.“Please,” he whispers, his eyes almost fully open now. “Don’t let go.”“I won’t,” I promise, gripping his hand even harder.”

“On the drive home, Adam glances at me several times, clearly wanting to talk about what’s happened.But I can barely look up from the door latch.Exactly six pain-filled minutes later, he pulls over at the corner of my street and puts the car in park. “Do you hate me?” he asks.“More like I hate myself.”“Yeah.” He sighs. “Kissing me tends to have that effect on women.”“That’s not what I meant.”“Don’t worry about it,” he says, still trying to make light of the situation. “It’s my fault. It won’t happen again.”“I let it happen.”“Yes, but only because you couldn’t help yourself. I must admit, I’m far too irresistible for my own good.”“I wouldn’t go that far.” I can’t help but smile.”