“No stress,” she says.
I open the door to Roman’s space, and Rosalie hesitantly follows in behind me.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess. Uh, bathroom’s in there.”
Roman stands next to his bed, unsure of how to escape this. He gives Rosalie a small nod as she disappears through the bathroom door.
“Is it weird that we’re just in here, waiting for her?” I whisper. “That feels creepy.”
“That’s because it is creepy,” he says.
“Fine. Then channel your friendly side because you’re about to meet Noreen.” I slip my hand into his and pull himfrom the room. We rush out to the kitchen, where Noreen sits at Roman’s small table for two. “Hi!” I chirp. “Noreen Conrad, this is my husband, Roman Graves.”
Noreen tilts her head. “The honeymooners.”
I wrap one arm around Roman’s back, and in turn, he wraps his arm around me. It’s more natural than it should be. “Yep.”
“I can always spot honeymooners.” Her eyes sweep over us. “They can never keep their hands off one another.”
Thirty-Eight
“We’re still on for tonight?”Roman asks as we watch Rosalie and her grandmother drive away.
My heart patters, and each thump seems to replay Noreen’s words.Honeymooners can never keep their hands off one another.
“Mmm-hmm,” I hum out. “I’m going to work for a while first.” Noreen has my fingers itching to get dirty.
“Yeah—of course. Don’t let me stop you. I was thinking seven anyway.”
I lick my lips, feeling like the temperature has been turned up in this house. “What about six-thirty? I have a little shopping I’d like to do first.”
“Six-thirty it is.”
Because I’m feeling this incessant need to bring Noreen’s words to life, I pop up on my toes and peck my lips to Roman’s.
He wraps one arm around me, his lips meeting mine once more. His heat and tenderness linger only a moment when he sighs. “I’ll let you work.”
Back on the porch, I slip one earbud in, turn on a little British alternative rock, and take in the space. It’s perfect. And I’m a fool for not having used it sooner.
Sitting at my wheel, without a plan, without a sketch, with only a slab of clay from my damp box, I let my hands go to work. I toss my clay onto the wheel, smacking the pear shape on the sides, getting a feel for the clay. I let the music drown out the sounds around me, and I wet my fingers. They slide over the damp clay as I immerse myself in the rhythmic sensation of the spinning wheel. It’s like I never took a break.
I squeeze the slab between my fingertips and the heel of my palm, letting the smoothness and slickness of the clay drag over my fingers. Bracing myself, I pull up the clay, creating a cone shape.
Anchoring my left elbow, I center the vessel. With the pads of my thumbs, I press down, keeping myself rooted in place as I sink a hole through the center, taking in the texture of the mold and the movement of the wheel. I take my time, relishing in the flow of it all. The thump of the base beats in my ear as I move with the music, drawing the clay up and out, creating a bowl-like shape.
I’m not sure what I’m making. But Wolf Alice sings about the beautiful mess that is love while I work my hands over the mud. I let the music, my hands, and impulse create this piece, rather than my mind.
When I’m finished, I have a bowl with a whimsical rim waving like a rippling flag. It’s unique and yet simple. Something that someone might serve salad or breadsticks in. Or possibly use as décor. It’s nothing groundbreaking. But I’ve made it with my own two hands. And while I’ve wondered a thousand times if I’m truly any good at what I do. Something that I’ve failed to recognize is that I love what I do.
Iloveit.
No matter what anyone else thinks, I love it.
And while my mother’s worries and pain are not forgotten, I cannot give this up.
Loving what I do may not pay my bills. But loving what I do does bring me joy. I’ll find a job that supports me. I will. But no matter what it is, I will not give this up.
I can’t.
