Page 4 of Watching Ames

It was almosta week before I heard anything from Peter. After the bouquet, I expected him to follow up with chocolates or an apology for our fight but it had been radio silence. His assistant hadn’t even been by since the flowers, and I was surprised to find my apartment much too plain without her assortment of technicolor sticky notes plastered against my walls and cabinets. I considered reaching out myself, wondering if my lack of a thank you for the flowers had caused a further rift between us, but my pride prevented me from apologizing for an argument I had no remorse over.

I had realized after our fight that I’d been sacrificing too much of my own personality to appease Peter. When we first started dating, Peter enjoyed my artsy side, drinking his morning coffee out of the mug I made him and encouraging me to cover for June when she was out of town. He had laughed at the skull rug I paired with my black wrought iron bed frame and forest green sheets and when I suggested graveyard tours on Halloween. He had always joked I was part-fairy, as he would bat away the hanging vines from the plants draped in my shower and in my kitchen. But since he made partner last year, he’d twisted himself into a different person.

It started with simple requests: washing my hands to avoid staining his suits with clay, or making sure I bought and wore nicer, more conservative clothes to his work events and luncheons. It made sense to do these things; Peter was a few years older, with a law degree and a high-paying job where he worked with a range of rich, successful clients. At the time, I was a hobbyist potter who hated my job as an accountant at a small, local firm. He needed to make a good impression to fit in with the other partners at his firm, and dressing or acting a certain way for a few stuffy events didn’t feel like a sacrifice, but rather a compromise.

But slowly and quietly the compromises became one-sided, until Peter had me slowly redecorating sections of my apartment to suit his tastes, encouraging me to not wear my overalls or scuffed boots outside of the studio, and shaming me for things beyond my taste in flowers and clothes. It was all too easy to believe that since he came from the right family and had the right job, that what he believed was just inherentlyright. It didn’t help that Peter had such an overwhelming personality, one where he made you believe everything he said and did was important with a capital I.

Since Peter walked out the door after our most recent fight, I’d slowly begun realizing just how quickly I allowed my sense of self to be overwhelmed by a man with such little resistance. While I didn’t exactly blame Peter - the first time I had spoken up for myself and against him was during that last fight - I resolved to no longer cave or apologize for the things I believed in. I was slowly realizing that getting older and getting to enjoy what I always did were not mutually exclusive.

Peter seemed to realize that too, with his most recent gift celebrating those very tastes I’d been hiding away for months. But despite his small gesture of good faith, I couldn’t bring myself to make the first move in reaching out to him. His gift made me feel like he truly understood me for the first time in months, maybe even for the first time since we got together, but I still needed to see that he’d changed, that he valued my opinion and my needs before I could forgive him.

So while I waited for him to reach out, I spent the time working at the studio, continuing to teach my classes part time as I spent the rest of my time working on making a dent in my backlist of orders, both those forMoreland a few of the custom orders I’d received through my online shop. I expected to spend the next couple of weeks throwing pottery, churning out plates and bowls and mugs as quickly as I could after hours in the studio.

What I didn’t expect was to find a large, misshapen package sitting on the welcome mat outside my door. From the end of the hallway, I couldn’t make out many of the features, only that it seemed to be a foot or two tall, with curves and sharp edges, so dark in color that it sat like a shadow against the brightly painted walls of the apartment complex’s hallway. My heart pounded with dread at the unexpected sight. Every horror movie and true crime documentary I’d ever watched ran through my mind as I carefully stepped closer despite my instinct’s reservations.

I’d never been one for taking risks. I applied to three backup colleges senior year, majored in accounting for the job stability, and had been steadily dating a lawyer who came from a nice family for over two years. The biggest risk I’d taken in the past five years was quitting my 9-to-5, and that was only once I had backup plans in place: my job with June, my steadily growing business, and if all else failed, the small pocket of money I received from my parents’ estate when they died, which I’d been saving in case of emergency.

So it surprised me when, despite the mental images running through my head of my apartment becoming a crime scene involving a trash bag full of dead animals or dismembered body parts, my feet kept moving in the direction of the bag, drawn closer to it despite the danger, or maybe even because of it. I felt my heart beat faster in anticipation rather than anxiety, my chest flushing with heat as I inched closer.

My slow steps finally brought me a few feet closer to the object in question, and I heaved a giant sigh when the features that appeared so ominous from afar sharpened into picture-perfect clarity: a basket sitting on the welcome mat outside my door, expertly wrapped in silver tulle and tied with a black bow, the silver so dark it was almost charcoal in color.

The key caught a few times as I tried to open the front door, my attention too firmly focused on the basket at my feet. After a few failed attempts, I finally unlocked the door in an uncoordinated movement, grabbing the basket by the spray of tulle sticking out of the bow. I dragged the basket as I walked into my apartment, hanging my keys on the small hook next to the door before setting my bags on the floor.

As I shuffled my shoes off, I stared at the basket for a few moments, and the same strange, ominous feeling I got when I received the bouquet seeped into my skin as I took in the package in front of me. The basket jutted through the silver tulle, creating a dark shadow throughout the opaque fabric. While the tulle seemed sheer based on the few errant pieces sticking out of the top of the gift, more than one layer had been stacked on top of each other, concealing any hints as to the gifts inside save for vague shapes. A black satin bow tied together the edges of the cloth.

I wondered momentarily who would’ve sent me a gift, mentally thumbing through important dates that I could have overlooked, but nothing came up. Finally getting my boots off my feet, I headed into the kitchen, setting the basket next to the bouquet that continued to live on in the middle of my kitchen island. The blooms had grown in size, petals unfurling as the buds opened further, and after a week of tenderly caring for the bouquet my apartment was filled with a lightly floral scent I already dreaded losing once the flowers all died off.

Sitting next to one another, it was obvious who the gift had come from, and I gently smacked myself on my forehead for not making the connection immediately. They both gave off the same dark, gothic vibes, especially the large satin ribbon topping the basket. It was only when I bent down to untie the bow that I saw that it had the same card as the bouquet, my name written tidily across the front in the same script that had become familiar to me. I’d seen it dozens of times, every time I glanced at the card that I’d inexplicably been carrying with me for the last few days.

I’d never been one for sentiment. Most gifts Peter gave me had been jewelry. I wore the pieces occasionally, particularly to events where expensive jewelry was expected of the guests, but not at the studio where my hands, face, and clothes were often covered in clay. The gifts he had given me in the past usually felt impersonal; jewelry and small trinkets his assistants had likely picked out and gotten professionally wrapped just before our anniversary or birthday dinner.

But the flowers were different. Maybe because they came in just when I needed them: when I was tense and worried just before my pitch. Maybe because they gave me the confidence to later win that same pitch. Maybe because they were the first gift I’d received in years that made me feelseenas a person, made me feel like someone understood and cared about what I enjoyed. Maybe it was the card: the precise lettering and short words paired with the easy hugs-and-kisses that were scribbled across the bottom edge of the card that somehow felt sensual, making my blood heat every time my fingertips traced over the slight indent the words left on the cardstock.

Regardless of what it was, I wasn’t able to let go of the card. It had made its way from pocket to purse to car to the studio all the way back to my apartment each night. I rushed to unwrap the gift, excitement making my fingers fumble with the knotted ribbon for a few tense moments until I could calm my racing heart. I slowly peeled back the layers of tulle, revealing a vintage-looking black basket, with curling loops wrapping around the edge. Inside the basket was an assortment of my favorite snacks - junk food and candy bars and chocolates - the ones I usually ate on special occasions or during long study sessions in college.

Sticking out of the back of the basket was a rectangular leather-bound book. I opened it to find dozens of blank pages, my thumb flipping through the thick, textured pages perfect for sketching or watercolor. There wasn’t a note on the sketchbook, but it was clear to me what it was intended for: the designs that I usually drew on loose pieces of computer paper because it felt presumptuous to buy myself a sketchbook when my struggling business had me feeling like a fraud of an artist.

Despite wanting to immediately start sketching my next ideas, my eyes were drawn to the last item in the basket, a square-shaped pastry box wrapped in twine, reminding me of the cupcake shop my family used to visit when I was younger. Our family was picky about our desserts; I liked chocolate, Bex hated it, my mom was gluten-free, and my dad only liked fruit flavors. My sister and I, at nine and eleven respectively, thought it was blasphemy to put any type of fruit inside of or remove any type of gluten from a cake, and we refused to compromise on cake at either of our birthdays, meaning that we instead went to a local cupcake shop and picked out our own cupcakes for each celebration.

It was a tradition I had followed for years, even after my parents died, until Peter started throwing me extravagant birthday parties at his parents’ house, with caviar and wild-caught salmon and champagne, always followed by a multi-tiered cake in a neutral flavor that all the guests could enjoy.

But that was easily forgotten as I pulled out the small box, pulling the twine to unravel the bow. The string fell easily from the box and I opened the top, revealing a perfectly iced chocolate cupcake inside. There was a small “congratulations!” topper on the cupcake, stuck into the perfectly piped swirl of icing covering the slightly domed top of the cupcake.

I felt my eyes grow glassy with tears and reached down to grab the card that fell to the side when I unwrapped the layers of tulle. I opened the small envelope in a swift movement to distract myself from the tears crowding into my vision, but within moments they spilled over, racing down my cheeks as my eyes took in the words scrawled across the card.

Proud of you.

XO

Even though the card only contained those few short words, the emotion clogging my chest felt heavy. I thought back to the times that Peter had sung my praises at business dinners and political events for his father. One of his favorite jokes involved some iteration of: “Ames is a very talented artist, creating gorgeous pottery. More importantly, she knows how to do our taxes.”

I always thought it was funny until I decided to pursue my pottery full time, when Peter stopped making the joke and instead started saying that I was “taking time off work to focus on his career.” It was another small jab I had let slide at the time, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t accept those white lies and subtle digs at my newfound career any longer. But it looked like I wouldn’t have to, since Peter had obviously heard about my collaboration withMoreland was proud of me and my business.

I imagined us going to those same business dinners and political events together like always, with Peter at my side as the ever-successful senator’s son and partner at his law firm. But this time he would introduce me as “Ames, my girlfriend, who runs a successful pottery business.” He would show them pictures of my work and brag about the local businesses I worked with, proud of my accomplishments rather than embarrassed by my hobby.

I smiled again as my eyes drifted back down to the note, slipping it into my purse alongside the first, shamelessly hoping that my collection would continue to grow.

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