“Zachary!” she says when she spots me, her voice about two octaves higher than usual. My heart does a flip-flop when her smile widens at me.
“Hey,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, instantly charmed by the sheer force of her energy. “You look... really happy about something.”
“I am!” she says, practically bouncing. “You are not going to believe this. So, you know the community pottery studio that rents our kiln time on Tuesdays and Thursdays?”
I nod. “Yeah, the ‘Claymates’ people.”
“Them. Well, their instructor, Christine Thomas, her car broke down. She just texted me, totally frantic. They have to cancel their entire ‘beginner's wheel’ class tonight. They can't use the kiln. It's all pre-heated, it’s paid for, and it’s just... sitting there.”
She takes a deep breath, her eyes sparkling, and steps towards me. “They can’t get their deposit back,” she continues, “so Christine just told me that ifwewant to use it—the kiln, the studio, all of it—we can. For free. It's ours.Tonight. Assuming,” she pauses, her smile suddenly a little shy, a little hesitant, “assuming you know... Want to? I know we didn't have specific plans, but... a full night of free kiln time, Zachary. That's like... I don't know. That's like gold.”
I just stare at her for a beat. Her clutching her phone in her hands that are stained with the orange paint she used to paint pumpkin pictures with kindergartners today, looking at me with so much hope and excitement over a hot, empty, ceramic oven. And my brilliant, clever, perfect plan—my $80 reservation at Canvas & Cork, my “Starry River,” my glass of mediocre cabernet—just evaporates. It feels so small and silly in the face of this. This isherworld. This is authentic. She’s right, thisisgold.
A slow smile spreads across my face. “I... was actually coming here to ask you on a date tonight.”
Her face falls, just a fraction. “Oh. You made plans?”
“I did,” I say, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward her. I stop a foot away. “I made a reservation at that ‘Canvas & Cork’ paint and sip place.”
Her brow furrows. “The place in the strip mall? With the wine?”
“That’s the one,” I say, laughing. “I remembered the paintings in your apartment, and the brushes... I thought it might be fun to experience a little bit of what you love with you. It was the only ‘artsy’ thing I could think of.” I shrug self-consciously.
She looks at me, and her expression softens into something warm. “Zachary. That is incredibly sweet. Genuinely.”
“But,” I say, taking one of her orange-spattered hands in mine. “It is also aterribleplan. Objectively. Compared to yours. Your plan is about a thousand times better.”
The relief that floods her face is so bright it’s almost blinding. “Really? You don’t mind?”
“Mind?” I say, my thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “Maya, I get to watch you in your element. I get to see you happy like this. How could I possibly mind? I’ll cancel the paint and sip. We aredefinitelydoing the kiln. One hundred percent. Just... you'll have to teach me. I have a feeling I'm going to make a... I don't know. A lumpy ashtray?”
She laughs, that low, warm sound that I'm becoming addicted to. “I can work with a lumpy ashtray.”
“It's a date,” I say.
“It's a date,” she confirms with a huge smile lighting her face.
And I know, right then, that I’d do anything she wanted, just to see that smile. This—this messy, authentic, kiln-fired, last-minute, perfect date—is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Chapter Thirty
Maya
The kiln. The word is an electric spark in my mind. It’s been weeks of just… a kind of gray, stressful blur. Finishing the quarter. The doctors. The sheer exhaustion that’s become my shadow. But the kiln? It’s a literal light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.
It’s more than just the kiln and clay, though. The thought of shaping something with Zachary, of getting our hands messy together, makes my stomach flip in that giddy, nervous way. It’s a creative collaboration that feels so much more intimate than a movie or dinner. And, okay, the fantasy of a sexy, pottery-wheel moment straight out ofGhostis definitely lurking, adding a silly, romantic filter to the whole thing.
My creativity has been absolutely surging lately, a flood I can barely contain. I’ve been painting and drawing more than ever, keeping my worn sketchbooks close by. I wake up in the middle of the night with fully formed ideas—a new color palette, a weird angle for a portrait, a concept for a series. It’s a feeling I haven’t had since the frantic, inspired days of my college studio thesis. That intense, almost manic energy is back, and I’m riding thewave. When I heard the art department’s small kiln was free tonight—a rare, coveted slot—a perfect idea clicked into place.
“Okay, so, listen,” I start, practically skipping as we walk around the back of the school to the small building that houses the kiln. The air is cool and crisp—standard late-autumn on Pine Island. I hug my work bag closer. “I have thisamazingidea. You know how you want that pot for our little combo lesson?”
“The beautiful, wheel-thrown masterpiece we’re going to co-create?” he asks, a gentle smile playing on his lips. He always makes me feel like I’m a masterpiece just by existing.
“Yes! That one. Well, I realized… your students. The succulents.”
He nods. “The glorious, nearly indestructible little plants they’ve been studying all quarter. They’re getting big. Soon they have to go home with their owners.”
“Exactly! But they’re in those sad, ugly plastic cups,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “It feels like a weak ending to a really cool project. So, in addition to our pot, I thought… what if we make a small, personalized plant pot for each of your students? Something they can keep. It’s like a functional art piece they take home.”
