Page 64 of Over the Edge

“I don’t love him anymore, not like that. I care about him, so yes, if he’s happy with Quinn, I’m happy for them,” she says with fierce adamancy. “He'll always be important to me, but at the end of our relationship I started feeling lost and I’ve been trying so hard to find myself again. Anything else you need to know to make sure you have a clear picture of everything?”

“That’s it,” I say, feeling unsteady with a relief that shouldn’t matter. Even if she doesn’t love him, that doesn’t change who we are to each other.

“Good. Then can you go? I need to check and see if I can edit my reservation for the pottery class I had scheduled for us,” Evelyn says as she gets up from the couch and grabs her phone from the side table and walks away.

24

Evelyn

Time to become pot dealers: Monday, 6 pm – 8 pm @ Make You Mine Art Studio

Istroke my hands up, applying constant pressure along the slick surface. “Does this seem erotic to you?”

“Yes, but I think it’s generally frowned upon to say it out loud,” Garrett groans like I hoped he would.

“Makes sense. Didn’t take you as an exhibitionist,” I say as I lift my hands from the cone of clay I’ve been working to center on the pottery wheel.

I wasn’t exactly paying attention to our instructor, Poppy, when she was enthusiastically walking us through the process. Right now, she’s hunched over helping another one of the attendees on the opposite side of the semi-circle of stations. Her red curls are pulled back with a bandana and her striped overalls are smeared with dried clay.

The studio should be the perfect place to relax. Finished projects rest on shelves along the brick walls. The brown and green earthen hues of the plates and bowls match the plants strategically placed in corners or hanging above the register, vines creeping up to the ceiling. But there’s the simple fact that my best friend and ex-whatever-Oliver-qualifies as are also here. I can’t focus or fully relax the way I want to.

Still, the class structure is working to my advantage. I rarely find advantages to my perpetual tardiness, but tonight it was a convenient excuse to show up right as the class was starting. There wasn’t any room for much conversation other than a standard exchange of hellos. After this morning’s conversation with Garrett, everything is even more uneasy, thus the necessary integration of innuendo.

I should have told him, but I’ve spent years repressing those forty-eight hours. Mostly, I try to forget them because they should never have happened. I never should have been with Oliver long enough to picture forever. It’s taken years to systematically sort through the reasons and lock them into a fireproof safe in the back of my mind.

“I think that is something good to be on the same page about,” Garrett says.

He’s successfully formed his clay into a puck on the mat and is now dipping his hands into the bucket of water at his station. His khaki button-up is rolled to the elbow, exposing the contours of his forearms. He goes silent as his attention fixes on the clay, dipping his fingers into the center to open it up then guiding out the edge. It’s impossible to stop watching the shifting of his muscles. He makes it look so easy, the clay obeying his every touch. He’s in absolute control with his strong hands and laser focus.

My body buzzes and heats, tendrils of electricity collecting low in my stomach. It would be easy to attribute the warmth to thenature of what we’re doing, the imagery of it. But that moment between us yesterday is still raw. And this morning when he came over earlier, I walked away to check on the class because I needed to remember how to breathe around him rather than being upset about him learning about my engagement.

He cocks his head, effectively breaking my trance. “Are you going to try?”

“Hmm?” I ask.

“Are you going to make something now you’ve centered the clay?”

“I think it’s fine as is. Quit while I’m ahead, and all that.” I look at the puck lazily spinning on the mat affixed to my wheel. In this form is pure potential. In the right hands, with the right choices, it could be anything. I’m having a lot of trouble thinking I’m capable of that right now.

“You’re allowed to mess it up.” Garrett’s voice is soft. I think he’s also on edge and trying to figure out what’s safe between us.

“Says you.” I nod toward the bowl he’s formed.

“You think I did this in one go?”

“I think your skill set has more in common with a genetically modified superhuman than the average American, so I don’t think you being able to do that in one try is off the table.”

“There are about ten things you could do in this town growing up. Most of them involved having friends to do them with and I didn’t really meet that criteria. So no, this isn’t my first time here.”

“I’ll try,” I say.

“That’s all you’re here to do.”

I feel his eyes on me as I guide my attention back to the wheel. I wet my hands and place them on the cool clay. It’s an effort to recall Poppy’s instruction, mostly because all that comes to mind is a 4K replay of Garrett’s hands. Eventually, I let the visual take over because I’m a masochist.

Tucking my arms in and leaning over the wheel, I start. Well, I try. I reach the point where I’m pulling the walls up into something cup-like and I’m feeling good. Then without warning the top lip crumples inward and splits, rippling and distorting the entire piece.

“Well, I guess that’s it.” I shrug, trying to play off the bitter taste of disappointment. I just want something, anything, to go right.

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