“But I’m your confidence. Remember?”
“I’ve got this,” I say, unintentionally repeating Roman’s hype phrase for myself.
His chin dips and his head tilts. He studies me. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Now, go before I show them the GOAT trophy you had me make.”
“Hey—it was a masterpiece. I’d still have it. But Mom threw out everything I’d left once she moved to England.”
There’s so much more to that sentence. So much that we need to unpack and discuss. Of course he couldn’t take all his possessions to college. But his mother just threw his things out? My poor Roman. He lost Brice and so much all at once.
I swallow, my hands slipping down the front of his chest an inch. “You don’t need to sit out here for this. I’ve got it. Okay?”
“Okay. If you say so.” Leaning down, he presses one small kiss to my head. “It’s going to be great.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing through his bedroom door.
My pulse races, but I turn back around, trekking back to the living room.I’ve got this.I’ll fake it if I have to. Because the fact is, I want to create and sell pieces. And with that comes customers.
I plaster on a smile for the women on our couch riffling through my photos.
Fran lifts her head, peering up at me. “Where do you work?” Her genuine interest, her kind expression—it all puts me a little more at ease. She isn’t doing me any favors. She wants something made, and she wants to know.
I’ve got this.
“I actually haven’t made anything since we moved in. But Roman set up a space for me on the back porch.” I walk the pair through the kitchen and into the workspace Roman set up for me.
“Wow,” Rosalie says. “This is beautiful.” She peers out the glass at the woods beyond. “It must be inspiring.”
It would be if I’d taken the time to work.
“Is that a pottery wheel?” Fran’s teeth clamp down on her bottom lip as she stares down at my wheel.
“It is. I do some hand-building work as well, but the wheel is my favorite.”
“Where does one get a pottery wheel?” she asks, still studying my equipment. “Do you ever loan this thing out?”
My brow wrinkles as I try to make sense of her words. “Um?—”
“No, Fran,” Rosalie says. “You’re not recreating a potterywheel love scene. No.” She loops her arm through Fran’s and pulls her back one step.
I clear my throat, wanting to laugh at the friends—even if I’m not completely following this conversation. They’re difficult not to feel comfortable around. Willow would like the pair.
“I don’t loan it out,” I say, answering Fran. “This thing cost me a month’s worth of paychecks. I had a starter one my parents gave me when I was a kid, but in college, I upgraded to this wheel. I’d gladly give you my old one if I still had it.”
I watch Fran’s face brighten, then fall with my empty gesture.
“Did you want to learn?” I ask. I never meant to disappoint her. “I could help with that.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Not really.”
I’m about to question what she’d do with a wheel when Rosalie speaks up. “Wait. Are you considering teaching, then? I know at Thanksgiving you said you’d never given lessons before. But I’d love to give a couple lessons to my grandma. She loves learning new things.”
Roman’s voice sounds in my head—if I want to create and sell my pottery, I may need another form of income. This—teaching—is a possibility. One that doesn’t involve horrible hours making minimum wage at a superstore.
“I’d be willing to give it a try,” I say, with absolutely no idea how much one charges for a ceramics lesson.
“Serious?” Rosalie beams. “Here.” She thrusts her phone into my hands. “Add your number. I’ll text you, and we can talk dates you’re available. I’ll need after-school hours, but Gram can do it whenever.”
