Page 22 of You're so Bad

So we head over to the house to get some work done before Constance picks me up for lunch and our secret mission.

ChapterSeven

Shauna

“Offer stands,” Rafe tells me. “I’ll go to the wedding with you.”

It’s Thursday afternoon, and we’re working in my section of The Waiting Place, called The Clay Place. This warehouse is massive, and it’s arranged with five different stations, mine being one of them. Each has an open front with displays and art for sale and a workshop in the back for classes and for our own work. There’s also The Paint Place, The Jewelry Place, The Glass Place, and The Paper Place, along with a large, open atrium in the middle for visitors to lounge and hang out. Yes, we went for simplistic names. Most people need things spelled out for them, so we figured we’d err on the side of obvious.

The other artists have also been unpacking and prepping for opening next month. I love walking through the hallway and soaking it in—it has the shininess of dreams on the cusp of coming true. I especially like peering in through the plate glass windows of The Glass Place, where our glass artist, Evelyn, has dozens of spinners and glass dragonflies on display, catching the light from the open glass ceiling of the atrium in different shades of purple, green, orange, and pink. It’s magical. It’sours.

Rafe’s helping me unpack a few boxes for my display shelves up front. We’ve already got the bigger pieces unloaded, and I’m setting out a few smaller pieces to catch the eye and inspire students.

My friend has this protective look he gets sometimes, half scowl, half mother hen. He’s a big guy—less big than when we both worked at the gym but plenty enough to be intimidating when he feels like it. But he’s a teddy bear for the people in his inner circle, always has been, and he has the soul of a painter. Which is why he’s running The Paint Place. That, and because he’s screwing the woman who runs this joint. His words, not mine. I’ve known him for over ten years, and he’s always had a talent for phrasing.

“The answer remains no,” I say, throwing a piece of bubble wrap at him after I finish unwrapping one of my favorite mugs—an open maw with teeth along the edges—and place it on a shelf.

This is probably why I haven’t been successful. I make monster mouths for people instead of pretty little nothings. Bianca and Colter might be dicks, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong about me.

Bianca’s recipe for my success was for me to make pretty pieces, inspired by nature. She was so adamant about it that she talked me around to trying.

Okay, she didn’ttalkme into anything. I lost a bet. So for one of the spring craft markets where we had side-by-side booths, I made only pretty stuff. Pieces inspired by the Blue Ridge Mountains. Puff pieces.

I sold out.

A normal person would have listened to the market, but I didn’t enjoy making those pieces. While I’d prefer to make money than not, if money were the most important consideration for me, I would have abandoned clay a decade ago. Clay is my therapy. It’s my way of exorcising my feelings. My demons. Of seeing them as beautiful, even.

Still, I have to admit I’ve been in a creative desert lately. Monsters can be eye-catching and arresting, but the stuff I’ve been making lately is downright ugly. Maybe even scary. There’s a vase with three mouths full of sharp teeth, a mug that would probably give someone a heart attack if they unwrapped it, and a statue of a beast with four clawed legs and a head not even a mother can love.

I’m its mother; I don’t love it.

Those pieces are hidden in the back room, mostly because Rafe and I would be having a different conversation if he saw them. He knows I only put out work like that when I’m in crisis mode—just like I know he’s a grumpy brute when he goes too long without painting.

I’ll probably have to talk the problem through with him at some point. Classes are starting next month, and no one wants to learn how to make vessels so painfully ugly they make people cry. But I’ve decided it’s a problem for another day.

“Is the thought of going to the wedding with me that bad?” Rafe asks, pulling me away from my monsters. “I’m not going to lie. I’d like to punch Colt, but I probably won’t.”

“What good are all of those muscles if you don’t use them?” I ask, starting in on another wrapped piece.

“Do youwantme to punch him?”

“Maybe. But I kind of dig pretending I don’t care. It’s driving Bianca nuts. You know how much she thrives on reactions.”

She always has. Her mother was a cold, reserved woman who always found her wanting; her father was as much of an absence as mine. She cut ties with both of them, and now she goes through life constantly pushing people, acting out, and throwing fits—anything for a reaction. I’ve made excuses for her before, but I’m done with that.

“I shot her down that one time she tried to hit on me,” Rafe says with a knowing smirk. “She’d probably hate it if you brought me.”

It happened years ago, but he’s not wrong—she always talks about him with a hint of resentment, like a woman who’s been rejected and didn’t like it. Still…

“Nope, not happening.” I carefully remove the bubble wrap. This mug’s a couple of lovers wrapped around each other, a crooked arm on either side as a handle. I heave a sigh. “What good would it do, anyway? Colter and Biancaknowwe’re not together. It would be like going to the prom with my brother.”

“So, you’d prefer to go with a conman?”

It shouldn’t irk me. After all, I’m the one who presented Leonard in an unflattering light. But the word feels like an unpleasant prickling along my skin.

“Leonard’s not a conman,” I object. “He’s my grandmother’s friend.”

Rafe puffs out air. Hot air, I’m guessing. “Your grandmother has a screw loose lately.”

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