He looks at me, the laugh I love hiding behind his sober expression. His mouth betrays him next, spreading widely and letting his hearty laughter escape.
“I’m so sorry,” I chuckle, shaking my head and handing him back his stone.
He shakes his head too. “No,” he sighs. “I needed that.”
He tucks the stone into the pocket of his jacket and stands, holding his hand out to help me up. Once I’m on my feet, he pulls me into his side. “Thanks for not letting me go through that alone,” he says.
I squeeze his firm torso, but I don’t respond. I hope he never has to go through anything like that alone ever again.
Nick
We arrive at Prism, a local glassblowing studio that sits on the outskirts of New Crescent. From the outside, it seems like a tiny shop that employs maybe one or two people. Once we step through the small steel door at the entrance, we’re transported to a wonderland of glass and fire.
Today we’re making hand-blown Christmas ornaments.
“Hello, Emerson B&B! My name is Lucas.” A short man built like a brick with a long, grandfather-like beard steps in front of the crowd. He wipes his hands roughly with a dingy rag and offers a wide smile. His accent is vaguely Irish, and I wonder how he ended up in a small town on the East Coast of the U.S. This entire town is made up of a unique blend of identities. Once again, the thought occurs that it wouldn’t be so bad to live here.
He gives a brief introduction of his business, then thanks Gayle for inviting us here. A grateful gleam sparkles in his beady eyes when he looks down at her. Gayle throws a delicate hand across her chest, playing bashful. In orchestrating this retreat, she’s brought patronage to several of the town’s small businesses.
Lucas walks us through the process on his own while we watch. Then he does another round, this time, askingfor volunteers at each step. He dips melted glass into an amethyst pigment before walking back to the giant oven-looking contraption. “We’re going to dip this twice. Who wants to help me with the second round?” He smiles at the crowd, face flushed from being close to the heat.
“I’ll do it!” Alex yells, almost lifting off the ground from the force with which he raises his hand. I roll my eyes, shake my head. Krystal snorts beside me, and suddenly my annoyance becomes amusement.
“He’s not that bad,” she rocks into my side.
“Yeah, he kind of is,” I huff, watching him twist the giant pole with the liquefied glass on the end, all animated and excited. Her smile is curious when she looks up at me.
Lucas takes the tool from Alex, taking it to a long, metallic counter and demonstrating again how he rolls the inflamed glass into a cylindrical shape.
“And now, we stick it in the mold. Any volunteers?” Lucas waves to the crowd.
Krystal glances up at me, then back to Lucas. “I’ll go,” she shrugs, working her way through the crowd.
“Alright,” he says, guiding her hands over the heavy rod and helping her press it into the mold. Her face lights up, and when she looks into the crowd, her eyes immediately find me. She’s elated, grinning from ear to ear. My cheeks burn as I mirror her. The feeling is bizarre to me. I have never spent the anniversary of my son’s death like this…out…experiencing something new…happy.
I swallow the lump in my throat as she makes her way back over to me.
“Thank you! I’m sure this ornament will be as beautiful as you, now that you’ve helped me make it,” Lucas winks at herback, unable to see Krystal’s smile fall off her face and the way she rolls her eyes with disgust.
I stifle my laughter, rolling my lips in on themselves.
“Of course, he had to go and make it weird,” she mutters.
Lucas moves forward with the process, showing us again how to blow the glass and form it into the round shape of ornaments. He finishes it off by topping it with a smaller piece of glass that he twists into a hook.
“And…there it is,” He says, holding the cooled ornament up against the light so we can marvel at its beauty. He hands it over to another employee before clapping his hands and saying, “So this is how this will work, you guys can pick any one of these molds to get different patterns on your pieces, then we’ll break into three groups — two couples per group, and one of my apprentices here will walk you through making your own ornaments.”
The crowd immediately disperses, and George and London, who were right in front of us, turn to join our group. “I’m so excited,” Krystal says, wiggling her fingers and looking up at me through her lashes.
“If I’m not mistaken, it seems like someone’s found their Christmas spirit,” I smirk. Her expression neutralizes, her shoulders drop, and I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing. Her brows furrow as if she’s confused by the concept.
“I think…I think you’re right,” she whispers.
I release a breath of air — half relieved, half confused. “You don’t seem to be happy about it.”
She leans into my arm, grasping it and laying her head against my shoulder. “I don’t know…I thought…I thought Christmas was ruined for me, forever. It’s weird to consider howfar the reason I felt that way in the first place is from my mind right now.”
“I hope it stays that way,” I say, hoping the tenderness in my voice doesn’t convey how much I want her to admit that I had a part to play in that, how badly I need her to tell me she wants every Christmas to be like this — me and her.
