The dark grunge decor and booming music juxtapose the vivid brightness we just stepped out of. “Follow me, everyone!” Gayle instructs the group. My head is on a swivel, taking in all the art hanging on the walls and peeking into each booth, the buzz of needles an undercurrent to the heavy metal blasting through the speakers.
Then, through a pair of French doors, we’re led into a sun room, flooded with natural light made to seem even brighter as it reflects off the snow piled up outside. A wall of frosted trees stands a few feet ahead of us, and you can see the hills on the horizon. I pull my phone out and snap a picture for Raegan.
“Hello everyone!” A tiny, ginger-haired girl with a half-shaved head and flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows commands the room. “Welcome to Sweet Ink! I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re primarily a tattoo shop,” she says. The rest of the group chuckles as I take in the rest of the space.
I would love something like this for my Pilates studio. There’s no problem with the private gym I run my classes out of now, but it’s always been my dream to have my own space. One where all bodies, all skin tones, and all incomes are welcome. I want to encourage everyone to move their bodies and to fall in love with the endorphin rush that comes as a result, even if you can only afford one group-funded class a month. I want everyone to enjoy their sessions, work hard, and not have to worry about committing to a two-hundred-dollar monthly membership after.
“My name is Finnlay. The shop used to belong to my uncle, and now it belongs to me. This space is new, and we wanted to add a studio where we could create other types of art. Thus, Sweet Ceramics was born,” she beams. A few people offer sparse applause, then awkward silence falls over us.
At the back of the room, Gayle clears her throat, smiling when we turn to face her. “We’re the first people using this space, and Finn so kindly provided us with the ceramics to paint. At the end of the day, we ask everyone to leave a review on the new Sweet Ceramics business page.” When more silence follows, she adds, “Say thank you!”
I stifle my laugh as the rest of the group expresses enthusiastic gratitude to a now blushing Finnlay. She goes through a few demonstrations, showing us the paints, how they will look after they’re cured. Before we leave, she’ll deliver our finished pieces to the bed and breakfast.
The anticipation in the room is buzzing now as everyone picks their piece and sits with their partner. My eyes bounce from couple to couple as I decipher which one seems like the best fit for third wheeling. Then, in the far left corner, nestled against the window, I spot an empty table. I rest my mug down, then turn to steal an extra stool from one of the others.
After settling with my chosen color palette and tools, I look up to find Nicholas staring at me from across the room. When he doesn’t look away, a hum starts at the top of my head and flows to the tips of my toes. The thought begins to form in the back of my mind.“Is his wife okay with him looking at other women like that?”But I catch myself. I don’t know how I didn’t put two and two together before.
I’m not the only single person here.
I break contact first, eyeing the empty space at the other side of the table — an action he takes as an invitation to join me. My chest burns at the memory of our interaction this morning, how easily he got under my skin, and how much I enjoyed it.
“Here I was, wondering which one of these cornballs was lucky enough to be here with you. Turns out, I’m lucky cornball number one,” He smiles, straddling the stool he drags over and resting all his stuff down on the table.
My cheeks flush, but I try my best not to smile.
Rae might think I need to get under someone, but I need to prevent that from happening at all costs. I just started to learn who I am outside of being someone’s supposed future wife. The last thing I need is for this new version of me to become tangled up, mistaking fleshly desire for genuine intrigue.
“Oh, tough crowd,” he mumbles.
My mouth betrays me, cracking the tiniest bit to let the shadow of a smile through.
“You ever done this before?” He asks, dipping his paintbrush into a bit of dark brown and delicately stroking it across his mug.
“No, have you?” I answer, doing the same with a smaller paintbrush and some black. I’m painting snowflakes of different sizes all over. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit excited about what the finished product will look like, the natural off-white color of the clay contrasting with the black snowflakes. This was a good idea for an activity.
“I have, on a date once,” he nods, his voice earnest as though this is the most important conversation he’s had in a while.
“That tracks,” I hum, adding details to my first snowflake.
Amused, his eyes dance as they slide up to meet mine. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, you said it yourself. You’re a cornball. This is just the kind of corny date someone who drinks black coffee would go on.”
His head falls back with a roar of a laugh, and this time, I let more than the shadow of a smile show on my lips. It’s impossible not to. Many men would have been put off by my attitude already, but his entire face delights in my banter. It’s nice to have someone else here too, to not be the only person here alone.
“Yo,” he sobers, “you’re cold.”
I dip my brush into more of the paint. “Could be colder.”
Comfortable silence settles over us, and I can’t help but wonder what he has in mind for his piece. What he’s doing now kind of looks like a piece of shit, literally. As I work on my own, my eyes keep drifting over to quench my curiosity.
“It’s a reindeer,” he says.
“That?” I point the blunt end of the brush at the brown blob on his mug.
“Rudolph to be exact,” he adds.
“Rudolph should sue.”
