“Give me two minutes,” he says. “I’ll move your wheel and kiln out there.”
My heart thuds with gratitude and this feeling that, despite the strange circumstances, maybe Roman is supposed to be back in my life.
Roman’s giving me his porch. I can’t imagine a more inspiring place to work, as it looks right out into the woods.
“And then we can go over those questions.”
My fluttering heart plummets. My light, burden-free head pounds with an ache, reminding me that Roman and I aren’t roommates. We aren’t old friends reunited. We certainly aren’t lovers. We are people who once knew each other. People who’ve made a deal. He’s trying to help me, and I’m just a big fat liar.
The churning in my gut tells me there is no way I’ll be able to work on that porch. Not now. Not ever.
Fifteen
After haulingStella’s ceramic tools onto the enclosed back porch, I’m huffing.
“Aren’t you a professional athlete?” she says, pinching her lips as she stares at me.
I scowl down at her kiln, which she has assured me is a small version. “I’m a soccer player. I have the body of a runner, not a body builder.”
I’m not exactly impressing the new little wife with my strength. Then again, I don’t need to impress her. This isn’t that kind of relationship. “How have you done this alone in the past?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I use a furniture dolly. It’s pretty simple.”
I grind my teeth. “That might have been nice to know.”
“It’s not like I own one. I always have to rent it.”
“It’s fine.” I plop onto the stool behind Stella’s wheel and lean against the wall of the house. “Where are you selling your art right now?”
Her brows, two dark blonde arches, pull together. “Now,as inrightnow?” She clears her throat and fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “So right now. As in nownow, I’m not exactly selling anything. Anywhere.”
“Nothing?”
She shakes her head.
“What about opening an online shop?” I ask, remembering the way she used to talk about her art.
“I did that. Technically, I have one,” she says, and she looks as if she’s about to sell her soul with the words. “I only sold a couple items.” Her jaw clenches. “One to Willow. And one to my aunt.”
I cross one leg over the other and attempt to compute what she’s telling me. That’s it? Two items?
A million questions fire off inside my head. But none that are helpful. None that lack some kind of critique. I’m not sure that’s what she needs right this minute. So instead, I say, “That just means it wasn’t your time yet. You will. What does Rebecca say?” I’m kind of surprised Rebecca hasn’t bought up all her pottery.
“Mom?” Her brows lift and she coughs on a laugh. “Mom wants to know how I’m going to support myself. And she’s right. Thingy-ma-bobs aren’t cutting it.”
“Thingy—what?”
“That’s what she calls my ceramics. Thingy-ma-bobs.”
“No, she was always so supportive. She?—”
“Of Brice, and his desire to teach. Of you, and your obvious skills. But she knew this would be a long shot for me. It only stressed her out. I’m pretty sure the minute I graduated, she switched her focus from grief over Brice to worry over Stella.”
“If Mrs. E knew how important this was to you?—”
“She knows,” Stella says. “She also knows it isn’t practical.” Her tone has softened, though.
That doesn’t sound right to me. But at least Stella has parents who worry over her. I haven’t been in touch with mine in months. No one is worried about me.
