I lick my lips because he’s right, I heard him just fine. I just am having trouble…hell, here was that pesky word again,believinghim.
“You ready for the next part of our date?” He gets up and holds out his hand to me.
I cock an eyebrow. “I thought this was it!”
“Six hours. That’s the amount of time I have for every date and, baby, I plan to use every minute to make my case.”
He drives us through quiet mountain roads until we pull up to a refurbished red barn with twinkle lights framing the windows, and a rustic wooden sign that reads:Mud & Soul: Pottery for Beginners and the Broken-Hearted.
I am amused—more thanamused. “Pottery class, Aiden?”
“I thought we’d recreate thatGhostmovie scene,” he replies with mock lasciviousness.
I don’t know who this man is because the Aiden Iknew would rather file his own tax returns during audit season than play with clay.
Buthere we are….
Inside, the studio smells like clay, kiln smoke, and eucalyptus.
There are ten pottery wheels arranged in a circle, shelves lined with unglazed mugs and vases, and a bulletin board pinned with notes like:Clay is cheaper than therapyandDon’t aim for symmetry; aim for soul.
There are just four other people on the wheels. Three women and one man. They look just as green as I feel.
The instructor, Laurel, is a curly-haired woman in her fifties, with a peace-sign apron, and fingers stained with earth tones. She greets us like we’re old friends.
“How wonderful to have you here.” As she leads us to our wheels, she peppers us with questions.
Where do we live? How did we find out about her class?
And ultimately, “How long have you been together?”
“This is a first date,” Aiden says as he gives me an indulgent smile.
My lips curve and I flush because the way he says it is…well, it’s sweet.
“How wonderful. I can just see that you’re both going to love this,” Laurel announces.
She gives us overalls that smell faintly of clay and linseed oil—and gestures us over to the wheels.
“You’ll get messy,” she promises cheerfully. “That’s half the fun.”
Our seats are low, the wheels sturdy between our knees.
Buckets of water sit beside each station, and on the table behind us, mounds of moist clay wait like raw possibilities. Laurel hands each of us a heavy, cool lump. It’s denser than I expected, damp but not wet, firm yet malleable in my palms.
“Start by slapping it down hard in the center of the wheel head,” she instructs.
I watch Aiden hesitate, then mimic her demonstration. His clay hits the wheel with a dull smack.
“This is called centering,” she continues. “It’s the hardest part. You’ve got to apply pressure with both hands, press the clay inward and downward while the wheel spins.”
She steps back and lets us try.
The wheel hums before me as I wet my hands and cup the clay, palms braced, thumbs pressing down.
The clay wobbles wildly like it’s alive and resisting. I tense. It’s harder than it looks—keeping steady pressure, resisting the urge to grip or fight it.
“It’s like trying to calm a toddler mid-tantrum,” I mutter under my breath.
