Page 49 of Coach
The sun cut through the slats of the workshop windows, slicing golden lines across the bench like it was trying to divide the day into manageable pieces.
It didn’t help.
I’d been standing in front of the lathe for over an hour, pretending I wasn’t glancing at the clock every eight minutes. The block before me was supposed to become round, perfectly round with clean grain.
I’d made six of them.
No, eight.
Every single one ended up in the discard pile.
One was too shallow. Another too warped or too busy or too plain.
My hand twitched on the gouge. The chisel caught, barked across the grain, and bit too deep.
Another ruined edge.
I swore under my breath and pulled the tool away.
“Wow,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “Is this an art installation, or are you starting a collection of round failures?”
I didn’t turn around. “Go away, Stevie.”
She didn’t. Of course.
I felt her nearing before I heard her boots echo across the floor. I glanced back. She stood behind me, arms crossed, silver rings clicking against her sleeves. Her eyeliner was heavier than usual—a strange shade of blue that somehow looked electric—and she’d paired her “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Hexed You” sweatshirt with plaid pajama pants.
It was, well, a look.
“I’ve seen a lot of wood in this shop,” she said. “But this is the saddest graveyard of coasters I’ve ever laid eyes on. What are you even making? These look like the ball part of a ball-and-claw foot, but I don’t see any pieces needing feet . . . and those balls are the size of my fist. The furniture would have to be big as a house for those to work.”
I grunted and reached for another blank, but my hands were stiff. When I picked up the compass, it trembled in my fingers for half a second before I locked my grip.
She caught it.
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t,” I warned.
“Are you—Shane Douglas—nervous?”
I didn’t answer, just tightened the clamps and measured the center again.
“You are.” Stevie let out a delighted gasp and smacked my shoulder. “You’re freaking out. You’ve got pre-date shakes.”
“It’s not a date,” I muttered, even though it absolutely was.
She walked over to the pile of discarded tops and picked one up, examining the edge like a jeweler appraising a cheap necklace. “You’ve made seven of these—wait, here’s another—and you haven’t finished one. Your hands are twitchy, you haven’t said more than ten words since I walked in, and your playlist hasn’t moved past Journey’s Greatest Hits, which means you’ve looped ‘Faithfully’ at least three times.”
“It’s a good song.”
“It’s a coping mechanism.”
I exhaled, hard, and set the chisel down. My hands curled at my sides, palms still tingling.
“Whatareyou making, anyway?”
“It’s nothing.”
