Page 18 of Keep Me Safe

His words hang in the air, heavy, almost like he’s trying to reassure himself more than me. I sit there, the weight of his tone settling uncomfortably in my chest. I swallow down the lump that suddenly forms in my throat.

“Oh, it’s fine,” I say, too quickly, trying to sound casual—normal. But there’s a pinch in my voice I can’t hide. I don’t know why I expected anything different, but hearing him distance himself like that stings.“I shouldn’t have climbed onto you like that. It’s my fault, really.”

I force a laugh, but it feels hollow. What did I think he was going to say? I know he doesn’t see me that way, and that should be a relief, right? But something about his words makes my chest ache, and I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’ve crossed some line I didn’t even know existed. He’s Jared’s dad. This was never supposed to happen.

“No, I’m the adult in the situation, and I should have stopped it.”

A small, irritated spark flares up inside me, sharper than I expected.“I’m an adult too, in case you haven’t noticed,” I snap, trying to keep the edge out of my voice but failing. His tone makes me feel small—like I’m some kid who needs protecting. I’m young, sure, but I’m not oblivious.

Noah doesn’t reply, and the silence that stretches between us feels even heavier now.

He shifts the truck into gear, and we head back toward the house, but the air in the cab feels suffocating. The tension in the truck feels like it’s been thickened with every mile. I don’t know if I can stand it.

Each second feels like a reminder of everything I’m not supposed to be feeling. I’m too aware of every little movement he makes, the way his jaw tightens when he turns the wheel like he’s bracing himself against something. Maybe it’s me.

As soon as he parks, I’m out of the truck before he can say anything else, walking briskly through the house and to my room, the door clicking shut behind me.

I climb into bed, but my mind races. I try to shut it down, to push away the image of us on the couch—him holding me, his body warm and solid around mine—but it doesn’t go away. I can still feel the press of his chest against my back, the way his arms felt around me, safe and strong.

The memory makes my skin burn, even now, as I lie in the dark.

And somehow, despite what he said, the silence between us feels louder than before.

When I wake up, Noah isn’t home. I check inside Jared’sroom, and he’s nowhere to be found either. He probably stayed at Jake’s. I shudder at the thought of him. Yes, I was exhausted last night, but I also didn’t want to see Jake again after the party.

I finish unpacking the rest of my boxes, putting everything away, and placing some of my sculptures throughout the space. The room is starting to look like mine, making me feel a bit better. I have to remind myself, though, that I don’t plan on staying here forever. This is temporary.

The last box contains all the mugs I’ve made at the studio. They’re all a variety of colors, mostly neutrals. Some sport floral patterns, others mountain landscapes. These are my babies. I line them up on a wooden shelf above the bed, saving a couple to bring downstairs to use for coffee. With how busy my life has been this last week, I haven’t had time to go to the studio. I miss it.

Well, I know what I’m going to do today.

I throw on comfy clothes and run downstairs, grabbing coffee and my keys.

Darla’s pottery studio, Lakeside Pottery, is only about twenty minutes away in a historic building smack in the middle of Traverse City. I step inside, and the peace I usually feel here washes over me. The space is divided into two sections: the store, where artists sell their finished pieces, and the workshop, where all the wheels and kilns are located.

I look past the shelves of ceramics for sale to the counter, and a tuft of gray hair with a small section dyed purple peaks out. As soon as she sees me, she lights up.

“Hey honey, I haven’t seen you in a while! How have you been?” Darla asks, her voice sweet and warm.

“How much time do you have?” I ask with a sad laugh.

“That bad? Come on, hun, let’s go over to the wheels.”

After wedging our clay, we sit at the wheels facing the large front windows. My favorite spot. The sun shines through them, illuminating the potted plants that line the sill. The view of downtown Traverse City is unmatched, and I sigh as I throw my clay down on the wheel and center it. Darla does the same on hers.

“Alright, baby, tell me what’s going on,” she says.

I do. I tell her everything except the part where I sat on my best friend’s dad’s lap and how he may or may not have enjoyed it. I tell her about losing the apartment and moving in with Jared. She doesn’t make me feel ashamed or like I failed, and I love her for it.

Talking to someone who isn’t directly related to the situation is refreshing. She knows exactly how to comfort me, reassuring me that everything will be okay, and distracts me by telling me about what’s been going on with her life. She talks about her grandkids and how they’re getting too big, earning a smile from me. I love how easy it is to talk to her.

When I finish throwing the vase I’ve been working on, I remove the bat from the wheel and set it on the shelf to dry.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” Darla says, “I want to get the community more involved here, and I was wondering if you would like to start teaching some classes on the weekends? You would obviously get paid.”

“Seriously?”I squeal.“Of course! I would love to do that!”

“Perfect! How does once a week sound?” she asks.

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