Page 46 of Delay of Game
“No, that sucked. You were miserable,” I said, jamming the keys in the ignition.
“I’ll live.”
What the hell did I do when my day sucked? Not that it compared to a family member forgetting my name, but I usually hit weights, punched a bag, tackled something. None of that would help Astrid now.
But I also had one other coping mechanism in my back pocket.
“What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”
She drew her eyes from the window to me. “Don’t you have practice or to pick up Mila or something?”
“Mom has Mila. I have weights. I can do those at home just as easily as I can at the stadium. No one will give a shit.”
“I’m not in the mood for home renovations,” she sighed, her eyes turning glossy.
“Nope. No home renovations.” I shifted the car into drive and pointed us back to my house. “I’m gonna show you how I cope when things suck.”
SEVENTEEN
GRACIE
Rob parkedthe car and strode out, away from the house and toward the pottery studio. I groaned before pulling myself out of the car.
“I don’t really feel like pottery today,” I said, unsure of why I’d agreed to spend the rest of the afternoon with Rob.
I wasn’t fine, despite what I said. My body felt heavy and unwieldy. My brain foggy. I wanted to climb under the covers and pretend that I hadn’t dragged Rob to meet a woman who didn’t even remember my name.
Despite my request, Rob unlocked the studio. “Nah, fuck that.”
I followed him inside.
“Put these on.” He handed me a pair of safety goggles hanging by the door. I frowned before taking them. He put on his own pair. “How much have you poked around here?”
I shrugged. “A bit.”
“What about this door?” he asked as he approached a door on the far side of the studio, next to the exit leading to the kiln.
I smiled. I’d tried that door. “It’s locked.”
“Because it’s mine.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket and slid one into the lock. The door opened with a dull creak, andhe stepped aside. I slid in beside him, my shoulder touching his chest as I peeked inside.
“Did you make all this?” I asked, taking in the packed shelves of plates and cups and bowls and vases. “Are you planning on firing any of these?”
He shook his head. “Hell no.”
He grabbed a tote sitting next to the door and filled it with armfuls of stacked plates and cups. Once he filled the tote to the brim, he grabbed two large vases and balanced them on top.
Speechless, I followed him as he hefted the bucket up and led me out the door to the kiln yard.
I had only come out here a handful of times. A red brick patio covered by a galvanized tin overhang. On the far end of the patio, two kilns sat protected inside a chain-link fence. The patio faced into the woods and fields.
Rob set down the tote and unpacked the pieces, spreading them out on a rickety metal table. “Pick one.”
“Pick one for what?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, just nodded toward the pile, I picked up a plate. “It’s a nice plate.”
“Smash it.”
“Excuse me?” I stared at him and then the plate incredulously. “Why?”
