There isn’t a chance I’ll be wasting any opportunities with this woman.
I’ve clearedoff a work table for Avery.
She sits, click-clacking away on her keyboard, while I work on the custom barn door order we got last week. I catch her looking at me. She’s adorable in the safety goggles and ear protection I made her wear. We share a smile, then go back to what we were doing. We repeat this process in ten-minute increments, as if we are teenagers.
Eventually Avery tires of this and gets off her stool. She points to her head, asking if she can take off the safety gear. I nod my yes, and she sets them beside her computer, then walks closer. I set down the jointer I’d been using, and she looks over the pieces of the door I cut earlier.
“Did Joel teach you how to do this?” She sounds impressed.
“Yeah. He’s taught me a lot. Some stuff I learned on my own. The internet can teach a person just about everything.”
“I have a love/hate relationship with the internet.”
I chuckle. “Why is that?”
“It can be intrusive. Grant access to people who you’d otherwise not have access to. And them, to you.”
This opinion had to be formed from experience. It’s too specific.
“What happened?” I ask.
She looks down, gently knocking the tip of her tennis shoe against my steel-toed boot. “I received letters after you went to prison. They were well-meaning, but they were from random people. Mostly women, telling me they were sorry for how everything worked out. Some men”—she pauses, shudders—“offering their services, should I require them.”
“What the fuck,” I mutter, my face scrunching in a mixture of anger and disbelief. The audacity of people.
“It was those stupid articles from?—”
“Domenica.”
We’re quiet for a minute.
“I’m sorry I rained on our parade. I didn’t mean to bring all that up.” Avery grabs the box with my burn tools and machine from the next table, holding it out. “What is all this?” There’s a desperate edge to her voice, a need to change the subject.
“Woodburner.” I point to the machine. “And these are the tips. Each one produces a different effect.”
“Did Joel teach you this, too?”
“I learned wood burning in high school.”
“Were you good back then?” Her inquiry is soft, almost hesitant. “Did you love it?”
“Yes. And yes.”
She reaches into the box. Her hand stills and she sends me a questioning glance.
“It’s ok,” I say, gesturing to the contents of the box.
She pulls out a tip, turning it over and examining.
“Spear shader,” I say.
Her eyes meet mine, then go back to the implement. “Did you start with woodworking and…” She searches for the right word for wood burning.
“Pyrography,” I supply.
“Pyrography,” she repeats. “Did you move on to pyrography when you knew you liked working with wood?”
“The teacher saw I was talented. He suggested something that required more artistic skills. I think he was grateful there was a student who didn’t see his class as a waste of time.”
