The way she said it made me think she wasn’t just talking about pottery. Like maybe she was hoping to transform herself in the same way.
“What about you?” she asked. “Why pottery?”
“It’s the only thing I’ve ever been goo-good at. My brothers are confident and strong. They-they don’t have a problemspeaking. Dungar can organize anything, Greel can manage people, Sel can charm anyone who walks into his bakery. I’m the quiet one who hi-hi-hides in the barn making pots.”
“Beautiful pots. Don’t talk down about your art. You’re not hiding, you’re creating. There’s a difference.”
The certainty in her voice caught me off guard. “Is there?”
“Absolutely. Hiding is about fear. Creating is about hope.” She gestured around the barn, taking in the shelves of finished pottery, the tourists who’d returned and gotten back to work, the general atmosphere of joy. “Look at what you’ve built here. You’re sharing something amazing and unique with the world.”
Before I could respond to her wisdom, a tourist called for help with a collapsing bowl, and the moment was lost. But her words stayed with me as we worked.
Creating was about hope.
Maybe she was right. All these years I’d thought I was hiding from the world, but instead, I may have been building something real. Creating a space where beauty could exist, where people could come together and make something with their hands. A place where someone like Allie could walk in and immediately feel safe.
I watched her show a male how to smooth out cracks in his clay. She laughed at something he said, and the sound made my lungs ache.
Even if I didn’t know she was my fated mate, watching her work with the tourists, seeing how naturally she fit into my world, would have been enough to convince me she belonged here. The way she remembered everyone’s names after one introduction, how she praised effort over results, the patience she showed when someone made the same mistake multiple times.
She belonged here. With me. In this barn and in this life I was building.
The demonstration wound down and the tourists carefully carried their creations to the drying shelves, chattering about when they could pick them up and whether they’d survive the firing process.
“When will our art be ready?” asked a young mother whose toddler had helped create what might generously be called a bowl.
“Late tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll kiln dry your cre-cre-creations all say.”
“So five-ish?” she asked.
“Yes, before dinner.”
“Perfect.” She took her child’s hand. “We’ll be here. Thank you very much. I think it’s time to take this little one back to the hotel for a bath.”
“Yay, bath,” the youngling chirped.
“Will there be another class tomorrow?” asked the elderly woman who’d struggled with her clay. “I want to make a mug.”
“We’ll be here,” Allie said before I could answer, and I felt another surge of satisfaction at her casual use of “we”.
When the last tourist left, we began the familiar routine of cleaning up. Wiping down workstations, organizing tools, making sure everything was ready for tomorrow. Working beside her felt natural, like we’d been doing this for years instead of only a short time.
“This is nice.” Allie rinsed clay off her hands at the sink. “The routine. Having something to do that matters.” She dried her hands on a towel and turned to face me. “Having people to work with who see value in what I do.”
There was something wistful in her voice that made me look at her more closely. “You haven’t had that for a while?”
“Not for a long time.” Her expression remained distant, but I didn’t sense she was shutting me out, more like taking time to process what she’d like to say. “I’ve had jobs before, obviously.But they were ways to survive. Clock in, do the work, clock out, get paid. This feels different. Like I’m building something instead of only getting by.”
The words sent a jolt of understanding through me. That’s exactly what this was. Building something. Together.
“Hail?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for giving me this job, for being patient with my weirdness. For making me feel welcome. I appreciate that you’re not pushing for answers I’m not ready to give.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
