A spectacular crash from across the room makes us both jump—the guy at the next wheel has somehow managed to fling his entire clay creation onto the floor, where it lands with a wet splat.
I blink and try to regain my composure, looking back down at my own lump of clay.
We work in comfortable silence, taking turns at the wheel, occasionally laughing at our increasingly ridiculous attempts at functional pottery. Jared’s perfect bowl is marred when he accidentally puts his thumb through the side of it. I mock him about inventing the world’s worst colander, while he points out that my bowl has developed what looks like a beak on one side, which makes it look like a ceramic platypus.
“Thank you for this,” Jared says suddenly. “It’s exactly what I needed tonight.”
“No worries.” I glance up at him. “Anytime you want distraction, I’m your man.” Then I replay those words in my head and realize how they might sound.
“I mean, distraction in the form of things like ridiculous adventures and a partner for TV-watching,” I hasten to add because I don’t want Jared thinking I’m overstepping the friends thing and hinting at other forms of distraction we could be doing together.
Jared’s eyes are deep as they meet mine. “That’s good to know.”
“And if there’s any time you want to talk about stuff…I am actually more than a pretty face.” I say the last word ironically because we both know “pretty face” isn’t exactly the go-to phrase people use when they see me anymore. More like “brave for leaving the house.”
Jared’s face does this complicated thing where his eyebrows pull together and his jaw tightens before he takes a slow breath through his nose.
“I know you are more than that,” he says softly. Then he swallows, staring down at the clay.
“My job can be overwhelming sometimes. It’s hard to remain detached from people’s suffering,” he continues in the same quiet voice.
“I can imagine. I feel the same way about animals when they’re in pain. I can imagine it’s ten times more difficult with people.”
“Yeah, there are a lot of aspects of my job that are difficult. And when I first started out, it was hard not to see potential accidents everywhere. Every corner became a potential crash site. Every ladder was someone’s future spinal injury. I couldn’t watch kids on bikes without imagining the worst.” He rolls his shoulders back before he meets my gaze directly, and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes.
Down the tomo, Jared comforted me when I was terrified I was going to die, telling me I’d be okay, probably the same lies he told that girl today. Beautiful, necessary lies. Now I want to be the one holding his hand, telling him that carrying this pain makes him extraordinary, not damaged.
But I don’t know how to say any of that without sounding trite. How do you tell someone their pain is noble without diminishing it? That their scars—the invisible ones—make them more human, not less? So I do what I do best: deflect with humor.
“Oh, I totally get that,” I say. “You should see how I drive now after my crash. The other day, I got overtaken by someone on a mobility scooter.”
But then I realize that I want to be honest with Jared. He deserves that. I don’t lift my gaze from my disaster of a bowl as I say my next words. “I actually started seeing someone about it. A therapist, I mean. Figured I should probably deal with the whole almost-dying thing before it dealt with me.”
There’s a pause. Shit, have I overshared? Maybe Jared doesn’t want to know I’m broken inside as well as on the outside. But before I can start spiraling too much, Jared says in a quiet voice, “That’s brave of you. Took me three years to admit I needed help after my first bad pediatric call. The department has counselors, but admitting you need one felt like admitting you can’t handle the job.”
I relax. Because Jared understands. How lucky am I to have found a friend who actually understands? And who can maybe help me with his own experiences and perspective.
“Look at us. Two guys with therapists making terrible pottery,” I say.
“Living the dream,” he agrees, and we smile at each other.
Then we continue to work in silence. But it’s the kind of silence that feels full rather than empty.
And when it’s time to go, we leave our creations to be fired. My abstract disappointment and Jared’s thumb-punctured bowl sit side by side on the shelf like mismatched soulmates.
Chapter 5
The cat’s vein slips under my fingers like it’s determined to make my life difficult.
“Come on, Princess Whiskers,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on her leg while Aroha, the senior vet nurse, monitors the anesthesia.
I readjust my grip and feel for the cephalic vein again. There. The catheter slides in on the first try, and I get that little rush of victory that comes with not screwing something up.
“Nice one,” Aroha says, and I try not to preen too obviously as I secure the catheter with tape and attach the fluid line.
The thing is, I need to nail every procedure for the next few weeks. The owner of this clinic, along with five others across Auckland, is visiting next month. And according to the clinic gossip network, she pays close attention to what the staff says about their trainees.
I really want a guaranteed placement at one of the vet clinics next year. Six months ago, I would have been happy to go to any good clinic, no matter where it was. But now, the idea of leaving Auckland makes my chest go tight.
