Alice claims that when you feel like everything is falling apart, making something out of nothing helps the healing process. While it didn’t do exactly that, it took my mind off things for a while during those first few post-break-up months. We made matching polka dot “friendship mugs”; pink for Alice, yellow for Yemi and blue for me. They didn’t actually end up being used for liquid, having too many cracks in them and chips around the edges that cut our lips, but they made perfect decoration for our dull, cramped kitchen.
“Hiiiiii!” Mellie exclaims when she sees us lingering by the entrance. Her green resin earrings bob against her cheeks as she walks over to us, hugging me and shaking hands with Bancroft.
I smile. “Thank you so much for having us.”
“Yes, I’m very excited about the therapy cups,” Bancroft adds self-assuredly with a nod.
Mellie laughs. “I guess you could call them that. I prefer emotional support pots.”
The sun-soaked room is filled with the earthy mix of houseplants and clay. Colorful mugs and bowls sit on wooden shelves lining every wall. It’s surprisingly calm, considering any wrong move could destroy infinite amounts of handmade treasures. The anxiety I felt when I first stepped into this room mirrored my own mental health in a way that was too on the nose to ignore. My mind conjures that version of myself: pale, red eyes encircled with tired bluing skin. One sudden move and whole thing would come crashing down.
After talking through the logistics of the partnership with Mellie, Bancroft and I slide on dark gray overalls that make us look like a couple of naval deckhands. Well, they make me look like a plumber, and they make him look like the most dashing seaman ever to grace the ocean.
We sit down in front of two stained pottery wheels, each cradling a textured lump of brown-gray clay. Like El Turo, we are two of many in the pottery class, but unlike at the restaurant, this session is a lot more free-flowing. Less “add exactly three garlic cloves,” more “go where the clay takes you.” Following Mellie’s instruction, we dip our dry hands in a bucket of cloudy warm water sitting in between us. The backs of our hands briefly slide up against each other as they’re submerged, sending a jolt up my arms straight to my heavy shoulders. I avoid eye contact with Bancroft, hairs from my ponytail falling loose over my cheeks as I focus down on my squishy bundle of joy.
Sensing my lackluster mood, Bancroft rolls his shoulders back and tries to fill the silence. “Do you want to be Patrick Swayze or the ghost?”
“Patrick Swayzeisthe ghost,” I say ineffectually, squeezing the clay to test its durability. The wet substance leaks between my fingers as I slowly push my foot down on the pedal to make the pottery wheel turn under my hands.
“Hey, spoilers!” he says.
“That movie is older than me. How could that possiblybe a spoiler? That’s like saying the ship sinking at the end ofTitanicis a spoiler,” I say, my eyes fixed on the spinning clay.
Mellie, now dressed in lilac overalls covered in clay, heads over to us. “How are you two getting on?” She leans on the wooden utility shelf full of bowls, vases and abstract speckled sculptures behind us.
Bancroft beams up at her. “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands but now I’m not so sure!”
Mellie laughs politely at his dumb joke and snatches a glance at me. “Your boyfriend is funny,” she says before turning back to Bancroft. “Like everything in life, it just takes practice. You’ll get there.” She slaps him on the back. “Grace, we’ll talk again later, yeah?”
“He’s not—” I silence myself before I stop the positive conversational flow with a potential partner. “That would be great, really excited to be working with you.”
I shoot her a believable smile and a muddy thumbs-up. If I nail this, it will be my second locked-in partnership opportunity, meaning I’m currently ahead of Bancroft’s one. I have no doubt he’s going to pull something huge out of his gold-lined bag soon, so I’m enjoying the feeling of singular success while I can.
Bancroft looks up from his wheel, side-eyeing me under his brow. “I like this angle you’re taking, having a mix of local and bigger partners, working with female entrepreneurs. It’s... nice.”
I scoff. “You know, a week ago I would haveinterpreted the word ‘nice’ coming from you as ‘derogatory,’ but since you agreed to a truce I’m deciding to take that as a compliment.”
“Wow. Look at us, getting along,” he replies with a sarcastic smile.
“Practically besties,” I shoot back with a singsong tone, matching his smile.
He clears his throat. “So, since we’re attempting a ceasefire... I’ve been thinking about how we can collaborate more efficiently.”
“Right...” I reply monotonically.
“You need to be taken on a real date,” he says resolutely, nodding his head as though it’s been said and therefore decided.
My lump of clay spins freely until I take my foot off the pedal and turn to him, blinking. “What?”
“You need to be taken on a real date,” he repeats, still focused on his clay, which is beginning to take shape.
“Why?”
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong but have you actually been on a date since...?” He shifts slightly in his seat, his gaze still fixed on his spinning plate.
I realize that he doesn’t want to say William’s name. A button he doesn’t want to press just in case it opens a trapdoor below him.
“Not exactly,” I say quietly, feigning concentration on my clay ball, which I set spinning again. There was that one date when I cried about William in the middle of the restaurant. Practically encouraging the guy topretend to go to the bathroom and leave me with the bill. “I did go on one, but it didn’t work out.” I barely even consider that a date.