Life without him is strange. I miss him, but I miss who I was before more, back when I made what I wanted for dinner because it was what I was craving, not because I wanted to entice my husband to come home at a reasonable hour.
I miss the impulse to create, to paint when the light is right, to try something new without fear of judgment. That is why I am here. In a desperate effort to reclaim myself, I signed up for a pottery class. It is a cliché, I know a decision fueled by a lonely evening and a rewatch ofGhost.I wanted the romance of it, the fantasy of Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze’s hands tangling over spinning clay. I wanted to feel that kind of passion again, even if I have to manufacture it myself.
I step into the pottery studio, and the smell of wet earth hits me instantly. The walls are a soft terracotta, the air warm and thick with dust. I glance around at the students, twenty-somethings, retirees, all mixing in this corner of the world whereno one knows I’m the architect’s wife who lost her footing. Today, I’m just Margot.
The studio hums with the clinking of tools and the whir of wheels. The instructor stands at the front, a woman with wild hair and paint-splattered overalls. She looks at us, smiling, and throws a lump of clay onto her wheel. Her hands move with effortless grace. The clay obeys, rising into a perfect cylinder, pliable and alive. It looks easy.
It isn’t.
At my own wheel moments later, the clay is cold and heavy. I press my hands into it, but it fights the spin. It wobbles under my fingers, slipping off-center until it collapses into a wet, gray slump. I exhale, long and sharp.
While I struggle, younger students master the technique. I watch them, feeling the sharp contrast between their ease and my fumbling. “Why did I think I could do this?” I mutter.
I take a deep breath.Focus.I slam the clay down, wet my hands, and press again. This time, I hold steady, clearing my mind. The wobble disappears. The lump stands proud and even. A bloom of warmth spreads through my chest.
I pull the walls up, shaping it. It’s not perfect, but it’s a gentle curve, formed by my own hands.
The instructor walks by. “Beautiful progress, Margot. Keep working that clay.”
“Thank you.”
I stare at the bowl. It’s a tiny thing, humble and gray, but it’s the first thing I’ve made for the joy of it. Rather than to sell or fill the time while waiting for him.
I reach for a towel to wipe the mess from my fingers, my eyes darting toward my bag. The impulse is immediate: take a picture. Send it.Look what I made.
My hand freezes.
For a decade, Ross was the witness to my life. Even when he stopped looking, he was the person I wanted to show things to. The muscle memory runs deep.
But there is no one to send the picture to. Wren, my parents, or sister, would reply with a supportive emoji, but it’s not the same. And Ross... Ross is the reason I’m in this studio, covered in mud.
I pull my hand back, letting it rest on the cool, damp metal of the wheel.
A hollow ache expands in my chest, sitting right beside the pride. It’s a specific kind of loneliness, the silence of a victory with no one to share it with. I look around the room. Everyone else is immersed.
I take a deep breath. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? To be untethered?
I am finally free. But I’m realizing that freedom comes with a price. It’s spacious. But sometimes, it’s cold.
I glance back at the wheel. I can shape my own future, one small bowl at a time, even if, for now, I have to admire it alone.
Chapter 14
Ross
There is a bitter irony to my situation. Apparently, I crave company.
For years, I stayed long after the janitorial staff dimmed the lights, finding comfort in the solitude of a drafting table and an empty floor. I was used to being alone. I preferred it. But now that I am actually alone, truly, devastatingly unmoored, I realize I despise it.
This explains why I am still rotting on Elias’s couch. What began as a six-hour crash landing has stretched into an indefinite occupation. Occasionally, Elias pauses in the hallway, shooting me a look that asks,You leaving, bud?without actually speaking the words. I just shake my head. He never pushes. He hates drama more than he hates a crowded house, so he lets me be.
So I stay.
Analyzing cracks in the ceiling, I find a few that remind me of Margot. One is the exact shape of the line beneath her right eye.Another matches the scar on her wrist. Only when the doorbell rings am I pulled out of it.
Elias trudges to the door. My fingers twitch on my phone, a stupid, reflexive hope that it’s Margot, but the cool February air sweeps in, revealing a courier, not a wife.
A gift basket. Spectacularly lavish, it brims with tins of caviar and bottles of red wine.
