I look over at him, and he’s prepared two small stools, one closer to the pottery wheel and the other one directly behind it. I shrug my shoulders. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
I sit down on the stool closest to the wheel, slightly intimidated by what’s in front of me, if I’m completely honest. I took ceramics in college one semester, and when I say ‘I took ceramics’, I mean I went to two classes until I transferred out of it. Art wasn’t new to me. I’d painted the typical apple in a bowl and had done some abstract art, which was so abstract to me that I didn’t know what I was doing, but my art teacher informed me I was a genius. I’m still not sure what she saw in me; however, I was thankful for the passing grade.
But ceramics. There was a different rhythm to it, and I had two left feet or, I guess, two left hands.
Boone had already moistened the wheel, and it was spinning, a lump of clay flattened to the wheel to secure it. And that’s about the extent of my knowledge of a potter’s wheel and how to get started.
I feel Boone sitting behind me, the firm warmth of his chest against my back.
“I might mess this all up,” I mumble.
Boone laughs, and I can feel his breath on my neck, sending a flickering breeze of goosebumps down my spine. “Messes happen, Kate. I still make them occasionally, but I promise I’m here to make sure we make something beautiful together.”
I lean back against him. “Are we still talking about mugs?”
I can feel his smile without seeing it in the way his chest softens. Then his mouth finds my jawline, making me sigh before he murmurs, “I could talk about other beautiful things.”
“But then I won’t have a mug to drink the coffee I’m going to make myself when I order that coffee machine off Amazon,” I insist. “And if I don’t have a mug that we made together when I drink my coffee, how will I remember you?”
“I’m pretty sure the part where I saved your life will help jog your memory of me,” Boone says as he smiles against the side of my head.
“Well, I guess there’s that,” I tease.
“But let’s make this mug. Okay,” he says gently as he grabs my hands with his, leading them toward the clay. “When clay isn’t centered, it wobbles. Sometimes you must recenter repeatedly until you get it. Kind of like life.”
I smile at his hands over mine.
The clay feels cold and smooth beneath my hands. His hands move expertly, guiding mine as we push the clay into what appears to be a cone at first. His thumbs push into mine, pushing into the clay. I’m mesmerized by the movement, by the feel of watching the clay turn into something different, something new. Boone adds water as we need it, making sure the clay remains moldable.His breath has been steady against my neck as he concentrates on moving my hands as the clay turns from a cone to a cup.
“This would be easier if you were just doing it yourself, wouldn’t it?” I ask quietly.
“Easier? Yes. But then I wouldn’t get to have my arms wrapped around you, sharing this moment,” he answers without any hesitation. “I like my arms around you.”
I swallow down my honesty in this moment, trying to breathe in what’s happening right now and not what will happen later. Me leaving Boone and not knowing if it’s going to mean for a little while or forever.
Chapter Nineteen
The mug is formed and drying. Boone let me pick out the glaze, a blue as soft and bright as his eyes. He said he’d mail me the mug when it was finished. Time seems to be moving too fast now as the reminder for my flight in the morning dings on my phone.
“Boone.” I sigh as I lean into him. We’re sitting on the couch, sipping on a shared latte, my back nuzzled into his chest and my legs pulled up to my knees.
“Yes?” he asks, his fingers lightly combing through my hair.
“I’m trying really hard to just enjoy the moment, but I can’t help but think about what’s next,” I admit. “I mean, let’s be honest with each other. We’re adults. We have very real, very lived-in lives apart from each other. We don’t really make sense. What if all of this was just meant to be for now and not for longer?”
I feel Boone stiffen slightly, almost unnoticeably, but my nerves are on high alert and picking up on any subtle differences. “What do you want, Kate?”
“It’s not as simple as what I want,” I ramble as I turn to face him. “It’s what we both want, or don’t want, or might not want anylonger down the road.”
“Kate, I think you’re just scared.” Boone sighs.
“Scared of what?” I question.
“Scared that you’ll fall in love with me and I won’t fall in love with you,” he says plainly, a pain point from Santa Secrets the night before.
My jaw drops slightly. “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair, Kate, but just because it’s not fair, doesn’t mean that you don’t try,” Boone argues, without raising his voice. In fact, he’s completely calm and collected, even going so far as to take a sip of coffee.
