If Colin were here, instead of with his fucking fiancé, he would say that I only spin pottery when I’m angry. Just the same as how he’s pointed out that I paint when I’m sad, I sketch when I’m content, and I sculpt when I’m horny.
It makes me even more irate to think about him pointing that out—like I need that sort of self-awareness. I was just fine before I knew that.
I douse the clay with water and start forming it into shape without any plan in mind. It topples in my hands more than once, and not because I’m clumsy when I’m mad, but because I like it when it breaks. I take some strange enjoyment in seeing how perfect I can form this vase or bowl or cup or whatever the fuck it is, just to break it down to a clump of wet clay again.
Is this what Colin did with me? He built me up year after year after year, only to break me down again.
Or is that what I did to him?
“Declan!” a deep voice hollers at me through the music. I don’t have to turn to see my brother standing in the doorway to know he’s there.
“Fuck off,” I grumble to myself, focusing only on the clay on the wheel.
Killian smacks me across the back of the head before punching the off switch on the speaker so the room goes instantly silent save for the sound of the pottery wheel spinning.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m not allowed to be in a bad mood in my own bloody house?” I reply, chucking a piece of wet, muddy clay at his face.He dodges it, and it instead splatters against the ruined black canvas.
“How’s the wedding going?” Killian asks, ignoring my tantrum.
“Piece of cake,” I reply.
“Anna told me who it was.”
“Of course she did,” I mutter to myself.
My brother’s features harden for a moment, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he meanders around my studio, and I struggle with the desire to toss him out and tell him to fuck off again.
If anyone would understand the need to brood alone, it’s Killian. He spent nearly a decade in this house without ever leaving. He buried his problems in sex and alcohol until an American woman came along and gave him a reason to give a shite.
“So what was that like?” he asks. “Seeing your old mate again.”
I shrug. “It was fine. We’re not friends anymore, though.”
“Right,” he mutters as he rubs a hand over his beard. I hear the concern in his voice, but I don’t look up from the wheel as I form another vase, only to shove it down into a messy heap.
“What?” I growl.
“Let’s call off the bet for this wedding,” he says, stepping closer.
“What?” I reply with shock.
He grabs a stool from the other side of the room and drags it close to me. As he places it on the floor and drops his ass on the seat, I slam the hunk of clay against the wheel again.
“Killian, stop looking at me like that,” I bark. I despise his pity, and I refuse to accept his concern. I am fine. Nothing is wrong with me other than a sour mood and a bloody bad week.
“Listen, if you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine. But I’ve been a stubborn arse too, and I nearly lost the love of my life because I was too proud to admit when I needed help.”
I wipe my clay-covered hands on the front of my apron. I’d rather eat this clay before having this conversation with my brother.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say, trying to force my voice to stay light. “One of the grooms just happens to be someone I knew from uni. That’s all. We don’t get along great now, sure, but I can still manage this wedding, and I am not going to just forfeit this deal.”
“The deal is off.”
My foot releases the pedal of the wheel, and I stare up at my brother with vitriol. “No, it’s not.”
“Why are you being so bloody stubborn about this?” he asks.
