Chapter 34: REAL LIFE

“She’s going to be upset that I told you before her,” Bianca said.

“I can act surprised when she tells me.”

Bianca gave me a flat look.

“Or we could tell her honestly and talk through it together.”

She pulled me into another hug. “Are you sure you don’t want a ride back? Jules called a couple of minutes ago. She should be at the Warm Cup any second.”

“I’ll catch up with you.”

I still had to find something for Livia. We weren’t going to leave Cape Lark with matching tattoos after all. Most tattoo artists wouldn’t work on someone who was pregnant, which explained why Bianca had been so against the idea. That didn’t mean I couldn’t bring Livia something that reminded her of this trip.

Jules arrived, and I watched her take Bianca away. Then I ordered another caramel latte, this one iced, and walked past the shops with no plan beyond hoping one of them would give me an idea. So far, the contenders were matching shirts reading GOT CRABS and another pair with a crab in sunglasses beneath the word COASTAL. Neither felt like a gift for Livia.

A shop window filled with lamps and bright tea towels led me around the block to a display of buoys painted into garden decorations. I stopped at the curb to let a dirty Subaru roll through a stop sign. When it cleared the intersection, I looked up and recognized the street.

Easy Lane. The place where we’d fought the night before.

The tattoo studio stood farther along on my left. My first thought was to turn around. Then I saw the gold numbers beside the door of the shop on my right: 125.

125 Easy Lane.

The address sounded familiar for a reason. I walked back to the buoy shop and checked its number. 127. I’d gone the wrong way.

I needed 123.

After another car passed, I crossed the street at a jog. There it was: 123 Easy Lane, the address for my personalized surprise.

A decal on the glass said EARTHEN. The hours were printed beneath it, but the sun made it hard to see inside. I checked my phone. 9:16. If I remembered the schedule correctly, Livia had booked my surprise for nine. I stood there a moment, wondering whether I should go in without knowing what I was walking into. Then I opened the door.

Warm air met me.

“Mara?” a woman called.

I blinked while my eyes adjusted. “Yes. Hi.”

I turned toward her voice. I couldn’t yet see the woman clearly, and I wondered whether she knew that.

“Your space is ready in the back.”

“Great.” It took me a beat too long to realize I could have told her I had no idea why I was there, or even where I was.

She led me down the shop’s main room. Oak shelves held bowls, plates, and cups in bright colors against white walls. My vision cleared as we went. The woman had blunt bangs, wide-legged pants, and hoop earrings that made the whole outfit look decades out of date in a deliberate way. She took me down a hallway into a room twice as large as the front shop.

I stopped short. I’d felt almost as surprised walking into the cottage and finding Rhys there.

“Choose whichever wheel you like,” she said. “No one else has a reservation until four.”

I still hadn’t managed an answer when the bell over the front door rang. The woman glanced back. “Let me know if you need anything,” she said, then left to greet the new customer.

I stood alone, trying to understand what Livia had arranged.

Windows covered the far wall and looked onto the next street. Shelves ran along the walls, full of bowls, vases, and mugs. Aprons in soft colors hung on hooks to my right, stained with clay. A long wooden table stood down the middle of the polished concrete floor, with pottery wheels spaced along it and stools tucked under each one. On the left, a counter held a sink, cabinets, and drawers. Pothos and philodendrons hung from the ceiling. The leaves shifted whenever the wheels turned.

My throat tightened.

I’d mentioned my pottery class to Livia no more than three times. I knew because I was embarrassed to bring it up. I worried people would take it seriously and then be disappointed when they learned how average I was. I was almost as afraid they’d dismiss it with a casual “Everyone needs a hobby,” when it meant much more than that to me.

It wasn’t a career. I wasn’t good enough for that. But it was where I went when I felt trapped inside myself. When I worried that my happiest moments were behind me. When I had too much energy or too little, and the future felt difficult to face.

Since I’d started the class, Livia had asked a couple of direct questions about it during our calls. I’d answered briefly and changed the subject. It was another part of my life I hadn’t been ready to share before this week. Somehow, she’d noticed it anyway. She’d paid attention to more of me than I’d thought she had.

This week hadn’t been about tormenting Rhys and me. It hadn’t only been about keeping the friend group together, either. Even when Livia’s plans had gone badly, she had acted because she loved us and wanted us to be happy.

I chose a pale pink apron from the hooks and tied it around myself. Then I opened the drawers and found a bowl for water, a few tools, a sponge, and a lump of clay.

Usually, beginning a project without a plan went badly. I didn’t care today. The finished object didn’t matter as much as being there, working with the clay. I wanted to get my hands into it and bend over the wheel until my back hurt.

I sat at the stool nearest the windows and rolled the clay into a ball. I set it on the wheel and pressed it flat with the heels of my hands.

When I dipped my fingers into the water and began pulling the clay upward, I relaxed. My thoughts quieted. I pressed the pedal and guided the wet clay as the wheel turned, bringing the lump into the center.

I repeated the motion: up, then down.

I wouldn’t have time to glaze the piece before leaving Cape Lark. Once it was fired, I wouldn’t have room for it in my luggage. I set those facts aside.

Working at the wheel let me think without forcing myself to solve anything. I could focus on my hands and the clay instead of sorting every thought in my head. My body moved through the steps: easing off the pedal, opening the clay, locking my elbows near my sides, pressing my thumbs into the center. The spinning clay opened under my fingers. I curved my thumbs beneath the rim and thinned the sides.

The room smelled of damp earth. Sweat gathered at the back of my neck. My upper spine hurt, but I noticed it without reacting. I didn’t need to fix it or change what I was doing.

The beginning of a bowl took shape. I picked up the yellow sponge and smoothed the ridges at its base. My forehead was damp now. The ache in my spine reached my shoulders.

I held the thick rim and lifted the clay, stretching it as far as it could safely go. Then I moved my hands down toward the base and drew the sides inward.

That was the part I liked most: when the clay had become a steady cylinder and a small touch could still alter it. I liked the risk of losing the shape and the moment when my hands found a way to keep it upright. The clay began to respond to the pressure I gave it.

It reminded me of something Hank had told me years ago about training horses on a ranch. He’d been good at it, he said, because he was patient. He could wait for an animal’s bad mood to pass without getting angry himself. That helped him understand the horse. He didn’t want its anger to turn into fear; he wanted to earn its trust.

There had been plenty of things Hank disliked about ranch work, but he’d liked the moment when he and an animal understood each other. He’d learned when to give it room and when to draw closer.

He’d told me Rhys would have been good at it, too. Rhys had always known how to listen.

At first I thought the wetness in my eyes was sweat. Then I felt tears reach my cheeks and realized I was crying.

It wasn’t the same kind of crying I’d done all week. I wasn’t sobbing or trying to hold back a rush of tears. I was simply overwhelmed, and it showed.

I gave a small, unsteady laugh and kept my hands on the clay. I wanted to keep shaping it, for no reason other than that I liked doing it.

When I looked up, Rhys stood in the doorway. My stomach lifted. My first thought was that I was glad to see him.

I stood, my hands slick with clay and water. “What are you doing here?”

One corner of his mouth rose. “I came to see whether this was the kind of surprise where I’d be expected to get my hands dirty.”

I looked at him blankly.

“I woke up and you were gone,” he explained.

“I went for coffee. Then I remembered Livia had planned surprises for us. It seemed a shame to skip them.”

“I guessed that was it. I went to mine, too.”

I glanced at the clock above the door. I’d spent much longer there than I’d realized. The vase I’d been working on had taken two hours. “How did you find me?”

He tipped his head toward the street. “You don’t forget 123 Easy Lane.”

“Because of the missed opportunity.”

His smile widened a little. “Should’ve been Easy Street.”

“People around here are doing their best to keep the town names from getting too cute.”

He came over to look at the wheel. “What are you making?”

“I haven’t paid much attention, to be honest.”

“Looks like a vase.”

“You might need glasses.”

He raised his eyes to mine. “Is it hard?”

“You have to do less than you think. If you keep worrying about it and try to control every bit, you make it harder. That’s what I’ve found.”

“Life,” he said, with a half smile.

“Want to try?”

He nearly stepped backward. “I don’t want to wreck it.”

“Why would you?”

“It looks good. You’ve put a lot of work into it.”

I crossed to the hooks and chose a pale yellow apron for him. “It’s wet clay. It won’t break.”

“It looks like it could.”

“You could knock it over or press it flat, but it won’t shatter. I can’t finish it before we leave, anyway. We can put the clay back when we’re done. It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? Working on something you can’t finish?” He lifted his eyebrows.

“I’ve enjoyed it.”

His smile came back. “Then she did a good job.”

“She did. What was your surprise?”

“Kayaking.”

I laughed. “I get to sit still and play with mud, and you get exercise.”

“Want to guess what Bianca and Jules got?”

“They went?” I wondered whether Bianca had spoken to Livia yet.

He nodded.

“Bianca went to an agricultural museum, and Jules went to a hallucinogenic swap meet.”

“Almost. They got a couples’ massage.”

I stared at him.

“You look surprised,” he said.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Now that I know massages were an option, I’m surprised Livia didn’t book one for us.”

“I’m not,” he said. “You hate strangers touching you.”

The thought that he remembered that made my chest tighten. These people knew me in ways I hadn’t expected. They had noticed things I considered difficult or unlikable, even when I hadn’t chosen to tell them.

I swallowed and pointed at the stool. “Sit down.”

Rhys put on the apron and perched on the stool, looking uneasy.

“Relax.” I shook his shoulders once, then dragged the next stool beside his and sat. “It’s like driving. Get your hands a little wet.”

“I never drive with wet hands.”

“That’s why your turns are so cautious.”

“There’s a coastal driving rule about it.”

“I think you just invented that.”

“I did. The rule says you need damp hands before you’re allowed near a wheel.”

“Convenient. I was looking for an excuse to avoid the pedal.”

“You can’t blame the rule if you don’t try.” I looked at him. “I’m not making you do this. I thought you wanted to.”

“I do. I’m stalling because I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.”

“You can’t ruin it. That’s the point. Get your hands wet.” I pulled the bowl closer. With a slight grimace, he put his hands in the water.

“Good. Put your left hand against the side of the vase. Use a little pressure. Your right hand is there to balance it and help keep it upright.”

He set both palms against the clay. “Now what?”

“Ease onto the pedal.”

He did, and at first he handled it well. Then the wheel reached full speed and he pressed too hard. I caught his right hand before the vase could tip.

“Told you I’d ruin it.”

“You’re being dramatic.” I brushed my nose against his neck. “You didn’t ruin anything. We’re changing its shape.”

I leaned across him and put my other hand against the outside of his left, matching the pressure. The vase narrowed, then curved upward.

“You’ve managed to make a mess of my morning without even spilling anything,” he said.

“I’m trying to teach you. I can’t be held responsible for your technique.”

“You could sit on my lap.”

“Excuse me. I’m in charge. The person sitting on the lap is the amateur.”

“So you want me to sit in yours?”

“I don’t have a death wish.”

“Good.”

He looked back at the clay. Somehow, it stayed upright. Its sides widened and narrowed again. The result was lopsided, but it held together.

I looked at him and forgot to answer whatever he’d said. He glanced up at me.

“What?”

“I have to tell you something,” I said quietly.

His foot came off the pedal. His smile faded. “Okay.”

I tried to steady myself. I felt weak. I wished we were in the dark, on opposite sides of the kids’ room. Saying this in daylight felt harder.

I shut my eyes so I wouldn’t have to watch his expression change. “I think I hate my job.”

I waited.

Nothing happened. The earth didn’t split. My parents and coworkers didn’t rush in to condemn me. My phone didn’t ring with all the teachers, tutors, and coaches who had recommended me for school or research work or sent congratulatory notes.

None of those reactions had been likely, anyway.

The person whose response mattered was Rhys’s. The familiar signs of panic started: heat under my skin, a tight throat, and a sudden drop in my stomach.

“Mara,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

His brow was furrowed. His expression was gentle. “Did something happen at the hospital?”

My stomach tightened again. I wished it were that simple, that I could point to one event and say that was when everything went wrong. I shook my head.

His clay-covered hands closed carefully around my wrists. “Then what happened?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Will you try?”

I swallowed. “It’s not supposed to be about me. I’m supposed to help people.”

“This is about you,” he said.

I didn’t know how to explain it in one sentence. There wasn’t one thing I wanted to change. I spent most of my time unhappy, and every effort to push the feeling aside only made it harder to ignore. When I wasn’t at the coast, I felt detached from everything around me. I could be outside on a bright day and still feel as if I were watching it from far away.

“I’m not good at it, Rhys,” I said, my voice breaking.

He moved his thumbs over my hands. “You’re brilliant.”