Page 3 of Captivating His Pupil

She hypes me up the morning of, and she even FaceTimes me to help me pick out an outfit. When both of us are satisfied with what I’m wearing, we say our goodbyes, and I head out of my dorm. Professor Morris’s house is a good way off campus, so I order myself a ride, sending him a text that I’m on my way when I get into the car.

We’ve been messaging each other on and off for the last two days. None of our conversations have been about anything in particular, but it’s been nice. I send him pictures of my sketches, and he offers critiques. I can’t wait to get started on it in class.

When my ride pulls up to his home, I see Professor Morris sitting on his front porch awaiting my arrival. He stands as I exit the car, waving at me politely. As I walk up the path, the nervousness from earlier comes back. I squash it down, though. I’m only here because he’s passionate about what he does. He just wants to foster my newfound love of ceramics.

“Good morning,” he says while I ascend the stairs. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” I say, glancing down at the light-wash jeans and tight black t-shirt I’m wearing. I was a little worried that it would be too simple, but Nicole insisted that it would be perfect. Turns out she was right.

“Let’s get into the studio,” he says, opening the door for me.

“It’s so cool that you have a studio in your house,” I say as I cross the threshold.

His home is minimalist and cozy all at once. The furniture is all soft earth tones mixed with stained wood, and massive windows in the living room provide light for a whole host of blooming plants. It’s the perfect place to curl up with a book. I already wish I didn’t have to leave.

He leads me through the living room and down a hallway, saying, “When I was buying a place, having space for my art was always a priority for me. It gives me something to look forward to at the end of the day.”

“You don’t like teaching, Professor Morris?” I ask, following him into a big room with floor-to-ceiling windows.

“It’s not what I’m passionate about,” he admits, pulling a box from underneath a huge table in the middle of the room and dropping it on the surface. “And please, call me Nick.”

“Okay, Nick,” I say, his first name feeling so much better in my mouth. “So, is it making things that you’re passionate about?”

“You hit the nail on the head,” he says kindly, giving me a fond smile. He opens the box and moves some plastic out of the way before pulling out a giant lump of clay. I’m so distracted by his muscles rippling with effort that I almost don’t hear him saying, “I’m going to walk you through the wedging process right now. You’ll be ahead of the curve when we go over this in class.”

I nod, watching as he slices off two pieces before returning the bigger part to its container. He gestures for me to come stand next to him. When I get there, he demonstrates how to pick the clay up and slam it against the table to get all of the air bubbles out. It becomes so loud in the studio that there’s no chance of us speaking to each other. For someone who’s usually so quiet, the hard slap of the clay on the table is satisfying. Cathartic.

“That should be good,” he says after a few minutes. “I’m going to put mine away now. I only have one wheel, so I’ll use mine after you leave.”

“Sounds good to me,” I say, picking up my clay and following him over to the wheel after he puts the box away. “So, how did you get into this?”

“It’s kind of depressing. I’m not sure you want to hear it,” he says, turning on the wheel.

“If you share your depressing story, I’ll share mine,” I offer, placing the ball onto the center of the machine.

“Okay,” he says as he pushes a stool toward me. “I’ll talk while you throw.”

I nod, settling onto the seat. Experimentally, I press the pedal. It doesn’t look like the clay’s completely centered, so I pick it up and move it until it’s as perfect as I can get it. Then I start shaping it, and Nick starts talking.

“I found ceramics through art therapy,” he says, reaching down to reposition my hands gently. I try my best not to get distracted by his touch; his tone tells me that whatever he’s talking about is serious. Now is not the time to let my crush get the best of me. “My dad passed away when I was ten. He was involved in a serious car accident.”

“That’s awful,” I say, my heart aching for him – I know how he must have felt.

“It was,” he agrees as he removes his hands from mine. “It was a drunk driver. He walked away with nothing but minor scratches, but my dad died on the scene. It really messed me up.”

“That would have messed anyone up,” I murmur.

“That’s the reason my mom got me into therapy,” he tells me. “Talk therapy didn’t really work, though. Art therapy was a last ditch effort. I didn’t really like drawing and painting, but when my therapist pulled out clay, it was like something clicked. I came out of my shell, and I fell in love with making things.”

“That’s beautiful,” I say, stopping the wheel to look up at him. There’s a faraway look on his face, and I wonder where his mind is. “It sucks that such a tragedy happened to your family.”

“It does,” he agrees, coming back into himself. “But now I have a job, and I’ve found something I love to do. Sometimes you have to make the most of something bad or it’ll eat you alive.”

“I guess you’re right,” I say, wondering if I’ve made the most of my own tragedy.

“Now that I’ve told you my sad story, do you feel like sharing yours?” Nick asks, clearly trying to get the attention off of himself.

“You aren’t the only one who lost a parent,” I say, starting the wheel again so I don’t have to look at him while I speak. “My mom got breast cancer when I was thirteen. She didn’t catch it until it had progressed into other parts of her body. By the time she started treatment, it was too late.”

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