Lukas stares at his hands linked in his lap. “What if I don’t wanna talk about it?”
My heart squeezes. “I get that, kid. Believe me, I do. But what you’ve been through—losing your parent, gettin’ ripped out of the only life you knew, everythin’ changin’ all at once—that’s a hell of a lot for anyone, especially at your age.”
There’s a long moment of silence, but it’s not tense. I give Lukas the space and time he needs to digest what I’m suggesting.
Finally, he meets my gaze. “Yeah, but I don’t know what there is to talk about,” he admits. “Sure, I’m sad that my dad’s gone, but talkin’ about it isn’t goin’ to bring him back. No therapist is goin’ to be able to fix that.”
I see so much of my own journey in Lukas. It gives me chills.
“A therapist isn’t there to fix you, because you aren’t broken. They’re there to give you a place where you don’t have to bestrong, where you can say things you might not even be able to put into words yet.”
His eyes get misty, and my heart aches for him. For what he’s going through.
I push on, knowing he needs to hear this. “If there’s one thing I learned when I lost my dad, it’s that grief has a not so funny way of sneakin’ up on you if you try to avoid it. I went through it all, textbook grief. I was angry, numb, sadder than I ever thought possible. I felt empty. All of it affected every aspect of my life. School, my relationship with my mom, even my sleep.” I take a breath as those moments come back to me. Therapy wasn’t as normalized as it is now, so I had no choice but to figure it out on my own, and let me tell ya…I wish my mom would’ve put me in therapy. Probably would’ve worked through it all a hell of a lot quicker.”
Lukas breathes out a nervous laugh. “That makes sense.” Chewing on the inside of his cheek for a moment, he asks, “Can I think about it?”
“Of course, you can. You ain’t gotta decide anythin’ tonight, or even this week. I’ll be here whenever you figure out what you’re comfortable with, and we can go from there. Deal?”
His shoulders relax a little. “Yeah. Deal.”
I toss Lukas the remote after that, letting him pick something for us to watch. He’s mostly quiet for the rest of the evening, but I expected that. All things considered, that didn’t go half-bad. He didn’t outright shut down the idea. That has to be a good sign. I guess time will tell.
It’s not until later, when I lock up and get ready for bed, that I notice Gentry responded to my text. My body warms as I climb into bed and click on it.
Daddy Moore: Fine.
I re-read the four-letter word about half a dozen times, my skin tingling and my eyebrows clear up to my hairline.
Fine.
Hmph. Not at all what I expected him to say, but I’ll take it.
In less than twenty-four hours, I’ll be all alone with my best friend’s sexy-as-hell dad, giving him a private lesson in pottery…
This sounds like a scenario out of a wet dream, and I’m here for it.
Ten
Gentry
Idon’t know why I’m here.Again.
After the first time, I swore I’d never come back.
I had every intention of sticking to it, but then Remington texted me last night. Normally, I’d brush it off and tell him I’m not doing it. I’m a grown man, and whether he showed up at my house or not, he couldn’t make me do anything. But I still don’t know why there was a little voice in the back of my mind telling me to do it.
Maybe it’s desperation. Needing to find something to relieve the pain that’s coming more frequently. Or maybe it’s because I let a wheel and some goddamn wet clay get under my skin and beat me.
I’d be lying if I said the idea of giving this another shot without an audience and the pressure of performing as well as everyone else in the class didn’t sound like a decent plan. So, that’s what I’m doing. One more try. And if I walk out of the studio in a couple of hours feeling just as overwhelmed andfrustrated as I did the first time, then that’s it. I’ll look for a plan B.
I’m trying to keep an open mind—tryingbeing the operative word—but as I enter the building and walk down the hallway that leads to the studio, my heartbeat speeds up and my palms begin to sweat. I’m rethinking my decision. Just like before, I hesitate once I reach the door. It’s closed, but I can see Remington through the narrow window in the center. His back is to me, thankfully unable to see that I’ve arrived.
After a minute and a few deep breaths, I twist the knob and enter the room. Remington turns around at the sound of the door clicking shut, his gaze bouncing from me to the clock on the wall as a grin spreads across his face.
“You’re late,” he drawls, gesturing to the same station I sat at the first time. “Thought I was gonna have to come drag your ass outta your house.”
Heaving a sigh, I cross the room in long strides. “There was traffic,” I lie.
