“Yeah.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I want so much to take some of his pain away. The emotional intensity of that desire surprises me. Jared and I are just getting to know each other. Why does comforting him matter so much to me?
Maybe it’s because of how much time I spent in a hospital bed thinking about my rescuer in the dark, comparing him to the parade of medical staff who treated my body like a puzzle to solve.
Jared had definitely seen me as a person first, patient second. Now here he is, carrying the weight of all the people he tries to save.
I squeeze his hand, noticing the warmth of his palm.
He’s just such a natural caretaker. I’ve seen him with Sophie and Emmy. I’ve experienced it being his patient.
But who looks after him?
“What normally helps you decompress after a shift like this?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. Distraction, I guess?”
I bite my lip. “Well, I actually had this whole thing planned for tonight. But if you need to just stay here and process, we can absolutely do that instead.”
He looks at me. “What thing?”
“Remember when I talked about the training process for being my friend?” I say. “Well, this is training for you to master another skill.”
“What kind of skill?” he asks suspiciously.
“The kind that involves getting messy and playing with mud like we’re five years old.”
The frown on his forehead doesn’t fade, so I stumble on. “It’s just a pottery class. But seriously, only if you’re up for it. No pressure.”
He’s quiet, considering for a moment. “You know what? Getting out of my head might be exactly what I need.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. But I’m warning you, I have zero artistic ability.”
“Perfect. Neither do I. We can be disasters together.”
That gets a tiny smile, barely a quirk of his lips, but I count it as a victory.
The pottery studiois exactly what I hoped for—small, cozy, and run by a woman named Sage who wears so many crystals she clinks when she walks. It smells like a weird combination of wet earth and lavender incense.
There are only four other people in the class, coupled up, which makes me extremely conscious of how close Jared and I have to sit at our shared workstation next to our pottery wheel.
“Welcome to Clay and Chaos!” Sage announces. “Tonight, we’re going to learn the basics of throwing on the wheel. Don’t worry about making anything perfect. This is about the journey, not the destination.”
“The journey of clay,” I murmur to Jared, and see him struggling to hold back a smile.
Sage demonstrates the technique on her wheel at the front of the class, making it look effortless as she transforms a lump of clay into a perfectly centered cylinder. “Remember, it’s all about steady pressure and keeping everything wet.”
I can’t hide the smirk that wants to climb up my face at that because I’m twelve years old, apparently. I determinedly don’t look at Jared.
“All right, beautiful souls!” Sage claps her hands, sending crystals tinkling. “Time to get intimate with your clay. Remember, it’s all about the connection between you and the earth.”
Jared gestures to our wheel. “Do you want to go first?”
“Sure,” I say. “Though I feel like someone should document this for insurance purposes.”
I plop down at the wheel. The clay feels weird under my hands—cold and slimy and absolutely nothing like the Play-Doh of my youth.
