Blue
Blue
“Blue!”
I groan when Cam yells my name from the shop’s small front office for the second time. No one here ever needs anyone urgently enough to yell across the shop unless someone is hurt or on fire. Hearing my name yelled twice isn’t a good sign.
“One sec!” I yell back before sighing and shoving the misshapen travesty of molten glass at the end of my pipe into the bucket of wet newsprint. So much for that piece. It’s not like it was taking the shape I wanted anyway; I’ve been fighting it for more than an hour. Maybe Cam has simply saved me a couple of hours of anguish before I inevitably gave up and trashed it anyway. It’s not been a good morning. I woke up too early. My coffee was too weak and plasticky, and I didn’t have time to stop and grab better coffee if I wanted to attempt to accomplish something at the shop before work. I should have stopped to get coffee; the glass has been fighting me all morning. It’s not the first day I’ve felt like this over the last few months, and despite spending the past three weekends wandering through the forest, I can’t seem to either pull myself out of my weird emotional introspection or to get the guy from the coffee shop out of my head. It’s getting hard to convince myself that the two things are unrelated.
“Ya, man, what’s up?” I half ask, half yell from a few feet down the hall as I make my way toward the office in a stumbling sort of slow jog while wiping my hands on my jeans.
“Hey. Emily is here, and her kid is sick, so she needs a ride to…”
Cam’s reply is cut short as I turn the corner and slam into a body that I didn’t expect to find in the doorway.
“Shit.”
“Fuck. God, I’m sor…” I start my apology at the same time the body I ran into curses at having been unexpectedly tackled, but my words evaporate as I look up to find brilliant forest-green eyes and auburn hair standing so close that they fill my field of vision completely.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
Our words overlap a second time, rendering us both speechless for a long, weighted moment as our lips twitch up into small, embarrassed smiles.
“Umm…sorry to interrupt whatever weirdness is happening right now,” Cam interjects, “but Emily’s kid is sick, so I’m going to run her over to the school to grab him. Blue, this is Ethan. Ethan, this is Blue, one of our resident artists here.”
I nod briefly in Cam’s direction to indicate I’m listening, but I can’t tear my gaze away from the eyes the color of pine and the smattering of pale-tan freckles hovering across from me.
“Ethan is the…shit, sorry.” I can hear the cringe in Cam’s voice without looking at him.
“Financial analyst specializing in corporate development and risk evaluation,” Ethan’s deep, smooth voice supplies without hesitation when Cam pauses. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak, and I never want the gentle rumble that vibrates its way across my skin to stop.
“Ya, that.”
Ethan doesn’t look offended, and with a title like that, I’m sure this sort of thing happens to him often.
“The analyst Emerald City Arts has hired to help them out with their plans to buy out a few local studios, including this place. I was supposed to give him a tour and explain what we do here. I mean, obviously, he knows what we do here, but like how the equipment works and the process and everything, but I’m the only one here with a car right now. Can you show him around and answer his questions?”
Most of the hot shop artists, myself included, are thrilled with the gallery’s plans. While we all pay membership dues that go toward rent and utilities and anything else the shop might need, it’s difficult to keep the place running as an artist-funded collective. Rent keeps going up, repairs are always needed, and even basic things like filing taxes always cost more every year. While there are a few members who don’t want to sell because, let’s face it, you can’t ever make everyone happy, I’m glad to see that they’ve brought someone in to help them put together a formal and functional plan to move forward. The fact that it seems I’ll now get to spend the morning giving a tour to the auburn-haired man from the coffee shop in order to facilitate the deal just makes it even sweeter.
This is the closest we’ve ever been, and I find myself mesmerized by the way a few light-tan freckles are dusted across his pale skin. I want to count them or brush my lips across them to see if he shudders at my touch. Why the fuck do I want to do that ? It takes everything I have to tear my gaze away from his, and I shake my head briefly to pull myself together as I glance over at Cam.
“Sure thing, man. ”
Cam glances at Ethan and then raises an eyebrow in my direction.
“No fucking in the shop.”
My laugh and Emily’s snort both burst out loudly enough to echo through the small, cluttered office space.
“No promises.” I grin at Cam before glancing back to Ethan in time to watch a deep blush rise up his neck and spread across his cheeks.
“K, guys, we’re out. Ethan, just text me if you need anything. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Emily grabs Cam’s sleeve and drags him past us toward the door as she says her goodbyes. “Later, Blue.”
“Later. Hope Hugo feels better.”
“Tha…” The shop’s heavy metal door closing behind them cuts off the end of her thank you.
Ethan hasn’t moved since he righted himself after I nearly tackled him to the floor. He’s standing in place, awkward and still blushing, and oh so close to me as I grin and offer my hand.
“Pleasure to finally meet you, cute coffee house guy.” I can’t resist a bit of teasing. I want to see him blush again.
“Likewise.” His palm is warm in mine, his long fingers soft as they wrap and squeeze for the briefest of moments, and when his hand releases mine, I already mourn its loss.
“Cam was just fucking around. I’m not going to ask if I can fuck you in the shop.” Really Blue? That’s the sentence you’ve decided should come right after “Nice to meet you”?
His blush returns with a vengeance, but something bordering amusement crosses his face, pulling a dimple into one cheek as he smiles.
“What makes you think I’m not going to ask if I can fuck you in the shop?”
I’m dumbstruck. I think my jaw is literally sitting on the dirty cement floor. Of all the things I expected to come out of his mouth in response, that wasn’t even a possibility I’d considered.
He laughs awkwardly at my momentary silence. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. That is absolutely not a thing I am going to do, and I definitely shouldn’t have made a joke like that while I’m working. I really am sorry.”
God, he is adorable.
A laugh bubbles out of me. “Well, how about we table the conversation about fucking for later, and I show you around the shop? ”
He ducks his head in embarrassment. “Any chance we could just forget I said that completely?”
Well , fuck . Maybe I’ve misread him entirely, and the stolen glances I’ve noticed when we’re at the coffee shop have just been him wondering about my hair and piercings and tattoos. It’s not like it’d be the first time I’ve misinterpreted someone’s interest, and I can’t help the disappointment that settles in my stomach, even though I know I should be grateful he’s steering the conversation in a more professional direction. I don’t understand why I’ve been so fixated on him. I don’t believe in love and relationships, and I absolutely need to keep reminding myself that by indulging in anything more than friendship, I’m just setting myself up to get hurt. His rejection is for the best, even if he’s rejecting something that didn’t really exist in the first place.
I offer him a kind smile and gesture to the door. “Sure thing. Shall we?”
I take my time as I show Ethan around the shop, pausing at every station and piece of equipment. His eyes are focused and his questions insightful as I explain the way the large furnace works, how we use each tool to blow and pull and shape glass into the form we envision. There are only three other artists in the shop, but he stops and introduces himself to each of them before asking about their work and process and inspiration. He’s attentive and curious, and after about fifteen minutes, I find myself wondering if he might like a more hands-on tour since he seems genuinely interested .
“You want to try?”
He chokes out a startled laugh. “Glassblowing? Me? I’m sure I’d manage to hurt myself somehow.”
“Na. You’ll be fine. I’ll walk you through the whole thing. What better way to learn about the shop than to try it all out? I have a couple of hours before I have to leave for work, so we have plenty of time for a quick lesson.”
His eyes search mine for a moment before he takes a deep, slow breath and smiles.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
I barely manage to bite back a “That’s what she said” comment as I guide him to stand behind the bench. He watches closely as I gather a small blob from the crucible and work through the process of rolling it against the steel table to form a sphere, continuously returning it to the kiln to reheat in order to keep it at a pliable temperature. As I prep the glass, I give him a quick rundown about shop safety.
“Safety rule number one: Always move calmly and slowly because absolutely everything here is time-sensitive, fragile, and extremely…burny…so we move slowly to avoid collisions with the equipment and other artists.”
“Calm and slow. Got it. ”
I throw him a grin. “Safety rule number two: First, learn safety rule number one.”
Ethan’s laugh is loud as it rumbles through my chest and dances around the vaulted metal warehouse, and I'm sure anyone not focused on what they're doing glances our way. It's contagious and gorgeous, and it makes me want to try to get him to laugh throughout his entire visit.
“You got that, did you? Most people don't share my love of obscure one-liners from eighties and nineties movies. You look too young for that one though.”
He’s still grinning as the last of his laughter fades. “I am, but I bet you are too. I guess we just share a love of films made before our time.”
A soft ache settles in my chest at the connection. While I have plenty of friends, some of whom I’m genuinely close to, few people share my quirky interests.
I turn my attention back to the glass, heating it and pressing it into a circular form against the steel table once more before stepping up to the bench. Letting myself get distracted by cute freckles and a vibrant laugh isn’t the best idea while working with a pile of lava. With the pipe in one hand, I gesture Ethan over with the other. I expect him to step close to my side, but for some reason, he doesn’t. He steps in front of me, shifting his body backward so that his back is nearly pressed to my front, and the warmth of his body is somehow hotter than the air in the room, even though we’re only a few short feet from the flames of the kiln. The subtle scent of bergamot and sweet orange drifts up from his hair, reminding me of spiced tea and scarves and long winter nights curled up in front of a crackling fire with a book during the months when the cold salt air is thick enough to sink through layers of clothes and deep into my bones. His fingers brush mine as he takes the pipe from my hands, and I step back quickly, unsure what to make of my racing heart and the way his scent seems to linger even once my body is no longer nearly connected to his.
He spins the pipe slowly for a moment, getting the feel of it in his hand as I move away to press a damp cherrywood block against the glowing orb to round it further. As the glow begins to fade slightly, I point toward the kiln.
“We have to make sure it stays above a thousand degrees, so back in the glory hole it goes.”
Instead of moving the glass back into the fire, he pauses and snickers quietly.
“The glory hole?”
“Mmhmm.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
I wiggle an eyebrow. “I assure you I’m not. Not about this anyway. ”
He flushes once more, his eyes darting around the shop as he searches for someone to verify that I’m not hazing the new guy.
“Ty,” I yell out without bothering to look around. I know he’s here, and I know he’ll answer.
“Ya?” a smooth voice yells back from across the room.
“What is the hole in the furnace called?”
“The glory hole.” I can hear the humor in his reply. It’s not the first time someone has needed confirmation that’s its real name.
I just grin like a child who’s enjoying a stolen cookie as I gesture again. “Don’t let it cool down, or we’ll have to start over. Into the glory hole it goes. Spin it slowly so that it heats evenly.”
Ethan shakes his head with a chuckle, but he follows my instructions.
We take our time as I walk him through the process of spinning the pipe and blowing gently as I use wet newspaper and wooden paddles to shape the glass as it thins and grows with his breath. I choose not to look in his direction when his lips are pressed tightly around the metal, his cheeks bulging ever so slightly while he blows. It’s safer that way because I know damn good and well, after the one brief glance I caught of that image, that if I allow myself to look, I’ll end up staring like a creep. When I ask if he wants to add color, my stupid heart lurches when he says, “The color of your hair,” and then flushes dark red as his embarrassment combines with the shop’s heat to drive even more blood into his pale cheeks.
It’s a simple piece, and it’s easy for him to handle as we add a sprinkle of turquoise dust and work the glass until it’s reached its final size. I heat a second pipe, gather a small bead of clear glass, press it to the bottom of the small vase, and then knock my pliers against the original pipe to detach the glass so I can shape the vase’s opening. He follows my instructions without question, spinning the new pipe and returning the glass to the flame when I tell him to while I work to stretch the piece’s long, thin neck. We work together easily and quietly, and it feels as though we’ve done this for a lifetime. Once he’s settled in, there is no nervousness or fear, and he seems to enjoy the process even though he’s half lost in his own thoughts. His expression is serious, and the tip of his tongue peeks out the same way it does when he’s staring at his computer at the café.
When we’ve finished shaping the glowing bauble, I step close and take the pipe from his hands.
“Why don’t you put on those gloves?” I point to a table near the kiln that holds a few tools and several pairs of giant fireproof gloves as I make my way over to the firebox .
As he steps close to inspect the box, the heat from his body seems to sink into my skin once more.
“I’m going to knock it off the pipe, and it’s going to fall into the box. Then you’re going to carefully pick it up, and we’ll take it to the oven. It will be warm through the gloves, but it won’t burn you.”
He furrows his brow. “You’re going to knock it off the pipe and into this box?” He peers into the pile of wet newspaper scraps. “That won’t break it?”
“I mean, technically, it can. We all lose pieces at every stage, including in the box or the oven. But this isn’t a super delicate piece or anything. It should be just fine.”
He nods seriously and exhales sharply as if his continued survival is depending on this small piece of glass enduring the ten-inch fall into the pile of wet paper. “Okay.”
The piece breaks off cleanly, the paper steaming slightly when the hot glass falls gently into its embrace, and Ethan quickly scoops it up, holding it as if it’s something more precious than a small chunk of crystal. He stares at it as he follows me across the room to the annealing oven and places it gently on a shelf. When he turns to face me and remove the gloves, he’s grinning ear to ear despite the sweat beading across his forehead. A few amber strands are sticking to the skin of his temple, and I fight the instinct to reach out and brush them back .
“I probably should have had you come back when we had time to make something more intricate.” I smile as he hands me the gloves, and I put them back on the table beside the firebox. I’m going to be late for work if I don’t get going, and even though I don’t want our time together to end, I start walking toward the door. He follows without hesitation.
“I’d love to come back again if that’s an invitation. No worries if it’s not, of course. But that was sort of amazing.”
“Ya?”
“Definitely. How long will it be in the oven?”
“Just until tomorrow. Spending some time in the oven helps things to cool slowly so that they don’t crack or shatter. I mean, that still happens, of course, just not as often as it would if we let them cool without the oven.”
“Can I…can I keep it when it’s ready?” His eyes dart away from mine, and he looks almost embarrassed by the request.
“Of course you can keep it. I needed to head out for work like five minutes ago, but I’ve seen you at the coffee shop around eleven a few times. How about I bring it tomorrow, and we can have coffee? You’re new in town, right?”
“Ya. I’ve only been here about a month. I move around a lot for work.” He looks away as he rubs the back of his neck. He seems nervous, almost insecure about being new in town for some reason, though I don’t understand why.
“Okay, so let me buy you coffee, welcome you to Seattle, and maybe we get to know each other a bit. No pressure or anything, but surely someone new in town could always use a new friend, right?”
I worry that I’ve overstepped when he pauses for a moment before pushing his hand through his slightly sweaty hair with a smile.
“I’d like that.”
“Awesome. Feel free to hang out here as long as you’d like, but I really do have to get to work. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven though.”
He nods in response, and I turn, forcing myself not to look back as I open the heavy door and step out into air that feels too cool after hours in the hot shop with Ethan at my side.