“Okay, so first you have to center it,” I say, repeating Sage’s instructions as I promptly fail to center anything. The clay wobbles violently under my hands like it’s trying to escape.
“You’re fighting it,” Jared says, leaning closer. “You need to be more gentle.”
“Story of my life,” I mutter, and he laughs—a real laugh that makes the failure worth it.
“Here,” he says, and suddenly, he’s behind me, his arms coming around to cover my hands with his. “Like this.”
Every nerve ending in my body goes on high alert. Jared’s warm and solid against my back, his breath tickling my ear as he guides my hands. The clay mysteriously starts behaving itself.
“See? Gentle pressure,” he says, and his voice does things to my insides that pottery class definitely shouldn’t inspire.
“Since when do you know about pottery?” I manage to ask, proud that my voice sounds mostly normal.
“I don’t. But I know about pressure and being gentle with things.” His hands are still over mine, steady and sure.
The clay is forming something bowl-like now, rising under our joined hands. I’m trying very hard to focus on the pottery and not on how Jared’s chest presses against my back every time he breathes.
“I’m going to let go now,” he says. “You’ve got it.”
He pulls away, and I immediately miss the warmth. The clay, sensing weakness, promptly collapses into a sad, lopsided mess.
“Or not.” I stare at my creation. “I think I invented a new shape. I call it ‘abstract disappointment.’”
“Modern art,” Jared agrees solemnly.
We switch places, and it’s his turn at our shared wheel. Watching Jared at the pottery wheel should not be as attractive as it is. The wheels make this rhythmic humming that’s almost hypnotic, broken only by the occasional squelch of someone’s clay rebellion.
Jared’s rolled up his sleeves, and there’s something about his forearms, the concentration on his face, the way his hands shape the clay with the same careful precision he probably uses to start IVs. There’s a smudge of clay on his collarbone where his shirt has pulled aside, and I have to physically turn away to stop staring.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the far wall.
Shit. I look terrible. There’s clay in my hair and streaked across my face.
But there’s freedom in no longer being beautiful.
I hadn’t realized that until now. Old Felix would have been horrified. I would have been checking my reflection in every shiny surface, would have been worried about fixing my hair, concerned about not looking perfect because I was always surrounded by people who judged me based on appearances.
New Felix doesn’t give a damn.
I’m never going to be beautiful now, so who gives a shit if my hair is sticking up all over the place or that I’ve got a streak of clay on my face? I’m not scurrying to find a restroom so I can clean myself up. Instead, I’m just relaxing and having fun.
Jared’s bowl is immediately better than mine. Because of course it is.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“You want help?” he asks, glancing up at me with a grin.
“I’m good. My disaster bowl has character. Besides, this is all about making sure you have sufficient pottery skills to be friends with me, remember?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I take it I’m passing?”
“Yep, I’m now reassured that if we’re ever stranded on a desert island and stumble across a pottery studio and some clay, you’ll be able to make me a bowl.”
His mouth looks like it’s wrestling with a grin. “I can understand why that’s such an important part of your friendship requirements.”
“Listen, when the zombie apocalypse hits and society collapses, you’ll thank me for having such specific friendship criteria. We’ll be the only ones with handmade bowls while everyone else is eating out of their hands like savages.”
Jared’s smile splits open his face, and for a few moments, we just grin at each other.
