Page 70 of I Can't Help It

“That’s between me and my clay,” I whisper back. “You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.”

She rolls her eyes at me before dunking her sponge in her bowl of water, and I do the same.

Well, I don’t roll my eyes. And I use my own sponge in my bowl of water.

The instructor says something about “centering the clay,” which doesn’t make sense because my clay is already on the center of my pottery wheel. Did she forget about telling us to do that?

“Thoroughly wet your clay with your sponge,” she says, showing us what to do, “and then you’re going to turn your wheel on a medium to fast speed.”

Medium to fast? Should the speed be closer to medium or closer to fast?

Everyone else turns on their wheels with ease, so I pretend to be confident as I set the speed closer to medium. I can always increase it, right?

“Now you’re going to place your left palm on the left side of the clay while placing your right palm on top.” The instructor looks around to make sure we all listened to her, and then she nods in approval. “Use your hands to create pressure on the clay. This is how we center it on the wheel.”

She encourages us to add more water as we continue to “center our clay,” but she doesn’t tell us how much extra water we should use. What if I add too much water? That’s a thing!

As if reading my mind, the instructor says, “Just make sure not to go crazy with the water. If your clay is too soft, you’ll have a harder time shaping it afterward.”

I drip a tiny bit of water on my clay and hope that it’s enough or not too much.

The instructor rattles off the next few steps, and I promise that I try to pay attention to her, but I make the mistake of glancing over at Ava. Here I am struggling with the fear of messing up, and she seems to be a natural with pottery. Her hands move with the clay as she lets it form a cone, and then she presses it down to become a mound again, all while adding increments of water in between.

Ava repeats the process a couple more times before digging her thumbs in the center of the clay and working her way out. The movements are gentle, yet precise, and I’m completely mesmerized. I could watch her do this for hours.

Granted, the class is only supposed to be an hour long, but still.

“I see a few of you getting distracted by the progress of others,” the instructor comments with a scolding tone. “Your clay won’t become anything but a gray lump if you neglect it.”

At least she isn’t looking directly at me this time. But now I feel like I’m cheating on my clay since I’ve been watching Ava with hers .

I whisper another sorry to my gray lump as I try to do the steps that Ava did oh-so-effortlessly. Except, my “bowl” collapsed three different times and the brim warped twice before I finally managed to have a decent result.

Decent is being generous though.

My creation is uneven and it’s too shallow. I guess it could be a cat dish.

But I don’t know any cats.

Maybe I’ll see if Dad wants it for the animal clinic.

“Stop looking at it like you’re a disappointed parent,” Ava teases, coming from behind me. “You did a good job.”

Her arms slip around my mid-section, and my body shivers with awareness when she presses a kiss between my shoulder blades. I’ve never wanted to be shirtless so badly before.

“Yours looks perfect,” I pretend to grumble, hoping I’ll get more sympathy.

And my plan works perfectly because Ava gives my stomach a reassuring pat.

I bite back the grin that wants to take over my face.

“Beginner’s luck,” she verbally brushes off my bitter compliment. “What are we doing next?”

IS HE NAKED IN THE NEXT ROOM?

Ava

I can’t be the only person in the world who finds the idea of getting a massage to be incredibly uncomfortable, right? Sloane loves her monthly massage appointments, and she’s been trying to convince me that I need to go with her, but I’ve never liked the idea of a stranger kneading my body like it’s dough. Even IF they are certified professionals.

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