Chapter 4
Four
Gentry
Iglance at the clock on the dash, then, begrudgingly, kill the engine and pocket my keys as I step out of the truck. I’ve surprised myself by coming here tonight, but I’m not yet convinced that I won’t turn back around and go home before I even make it inside.
Dr. Kroye’s suggestion to give pottery a try has weighed heavily on my mind for the last few weeks.
I’m mostly on the side of it being a terrible idea that’s going to do nothing but waste my time.
But this week, especially, has been rough, with an unexpected late-season cold front hitting Wolf Creek and trying to get the cattle vaccinated and ready for breeding season in the coming months.
Nothing is helping, and more often than not lately, I’m getting home at night, barely able to close my hand into a fist.
Something has to give. I’m desperate. Which is why I’m walking through the parking lot of the nearly vacant strip mall on the outskirts of town. It’s almost six o’clock, the moon is full and shining bright, and it’s so cold, I can see my own breath.
My stomach is a mess of knots as I pull open the door to Clayful Creations.
I know nothing about this class, other than that it’s for beginners.
I’ve never felt more under-prepared in my life.
I’m a man of routine, a man of structure.
My days look the same for the most part, and I’ve done ranching long enough that I can go through the motions without ever thinking twice.
Ranching is what I know. It’s what I’m good at.
I don’t like things I’m not good at.
And I definitely don’t like learning something new. It’s a sure-fire way for me to walk away feeling inadequate. But, like I said, I’m desperate. If Dr. Kroye is right, and this does help the range of motion in my hands, then I’m willing to try. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to like it.
After I check in, I walk down the hall toward the room it’s being held in.
With my hand on the knob, I hesitate for a moment, my nerves threatening to get the best of me.
When I finally swallow my stubborn nature and step inside the room, my eyes scan the setup and the many people here for the class.
It’s crowded, and I already regret this idea.
My skin crawls and my stomach clenches, but just as I’m about to walk right back out, I spot a familiar face across the room.
What the hell?
There ain’t no fucking way.
An icy chill races down my spine that has goosebumps settling over my flesh. I blink a few times to make sure I’m seeing him correctly. It’d be just my luck that, in addition to my hands not wanting to work these days, my vision would be going out too.
But nope, it’s definitely him.
Remington fucking Buchanan.
And based on the way his mouth curves, slow and unmistakably pleased, I’d say he spotted me. That much is confirmed when he wipes his hands on his apron and saunters in my direction.
“Well, well, well, look who it is,” he drawls, his tone sickly sweet and full of amusement. “You’re just about the last person I expected to walk in here tonight, Daddy Moore.”
I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to tell Remington, yet again, to stop calling me that. It’s pointless. Besides, my utter confusion outweighs the annoyance at the highly inappropriate nickname. “Could say the same thing about you,” I mutter. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”
“I’m the instructor.” Remington’s grin widens as he gestures to the room. “What are you doin’ here?”
“I thought this class was taught by someone named”—grabbing my phone from my pocket, I pull up the confirmation email and check the details—“James.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” He nods, his gaze brimming with mirth. “James is my middle name.”
“Why on earth would you use your middle name?”
“For this exact reaction,” he offers, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a grin he’s clearly holding back.
“It’s always fun watchin’ people realize who their instructor is.
Apparently, being lieutenant of the fire department doesn’t also scream pottery instructor. ” Remington shrugs. “Who knew?”
I exhale a heavy breath through my nose. Un-fucking-believable.
“Does Hollis know you’re spendin’ your free time lurin’ grown men into studios with lies and clay?”
Remington chuckles, deep and warm. “Only the ones who look like they’d rather wrestle a steer than touch a wheel.”
“I would,” I huff.
“Well, lucky for you…” Stepping back, Remington gestures to the wheels behind us. “This is a hell of a lot less grueling than an afternoon on the ranch. Worst thing that’ll happen to you is your hands get a little dirty.”
His gaze drops briefly, yet deliberately, to my hands. My mouth dries.
The urge to take my ass home is strong, but as if on cue, an ache settles in my right hand, reminding me why I’m entertaining this little idea in the first place.
Clearing my throat, I say, “You gonna keep talkin’, or are ya gonna tell me where to sit before I walk out?”
Remington holds my gaze, clearly enjoying this more than he should. “Right there.” He tips his chin toward the only open spot in the room. “Front row.”
My stomach dips, and I grit my teeth, ignoring the dryness in my mouth and the lump in my throat. “Figures,” I mutter.
Walking over to the available spot, I lower myself onto the stool, my pulse roaring in my ears as I beg for the next ninety minutes to fly by quickly. Just as I’m about situated, Remington comes up behind me and leans in, bringing his mouth to the shell of my ear.
“Sure hope you’re good at followin’ directions, Daddy Moore.” His breath is hot against my skin, and his deep, gruff voice rumbles through me. “And before you even think of tryin’ to leave, remember what you told me… Can’t let fear stand in the way of you tryin’ somethin’ new.”
Unease fills me as I grind down on my molars. I hate having my words thrown back at me.
When I don’t respond, Remington finds his place at the front of the class. His amused gaze holds mine for a moment before he addresses the class as a whole.
“Good evenin’, y’all. Full class tonight…
I love it! I’m goin’ to run through a few things before we get started, just to make sure we’re all on the same page.
Whether you’re a pro and have done this a hundred times, or this is your very first time sitting at the wheel, I want everyone to feel comfortable tonight. ”
He claps his hands together, a wide smile overtaking his face that accentuates the dimples on either side of his mouth.
Remington then explains the basics—the purpose of the class, what everything is, how it’s used, etcetera, etcetera.
Luckily, I’m already pretty familiar with everything he’s explaining since I watched a couple of videos on pottery before deciding to come here.
“By the end of class, you’ll either have a beautiful bowl or a lopsided disaster your mom will pretend to love, so we’re all winnin’ tonight,” he says, a round of chuckles from the class following.
“Now, first things first, scoot your butt in close. Real close. If you feel like you’re about to climb on top of the wheel, that’s the right distance.
When it comes to pottery, stability is key.
Elbows on your thighs, folks. We can’t have them hangin’ around like birds flappin’ in the wind. ”
I’ll give it to him… Remington sure is good with a crowd. But he’s always been that way. I don’t think he’s ever met a stranger, and he naturally has this way about him that has people laughing or relaxing in his presence. This class is no different.
Except for me.
I can’t see me relaxing to save my life while I’m still in this room.
“Now we’re gonna center the clay. This is where most beginners start questioning every choice that led them here.
” He chuckles, and so do a few other people.
“Let’s wet our hands. Channel your inner Goldilocks.
We don’t want them too wet or not enough, but just right.
Then push the clay toward the middle. Don’t attack it, and don’t fight it.
Think of it like guidin’ a toddler back to their playroom.
” Remington’s gaze finds mine, a smirk curving his lips before he adds, “Or like corrallin’ a herd of stubborn heifers into the squeeze chute. ”
I huff a small chuckle at the reference.
The clay is warmer than I thought it would be. It’s soft, but dense. Like cold butter that’s starting to melt.
“Let the wheel do the spinnin’. Your job is to shape the motion.
And don’t panic if it starts wobblin’,” he says, right as my clay does just that.
“As the wheel turns, lean in slightly and use your palms to push the clay into a cone, then back down into a puck. Up, and then down. This movement helps align the clay so it behaves for you later.”
Remington pauses, giving the class a chance to put his instruction to use.
I pinch my lips together, my jaw aching from how hard I’m biting down.
Sweat beads across my brow as I can’t seem to get this glob of clay to cooperate.
It hums under my palms from the low vibration of the wheel.
It’s gritty in places, but silky in others.
I’ve barely even begun, and yet my hands are covered, and there’s clay splatter all over my forearms. I don’t bother glancing around to see how everyone else is doing because I’d imagine they’ve all got a handle on it better than me.
This is fucking ridiculous. The only thing this class is doing for my health is raising my goddamn blood pressure.
Walking over to me, Remington places a hand on my shoulder, and somehow, the steady touch works wonders in grounding me.
“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low enough for only me to hear.
“Keep it slow and controlled. Elbows to your knees, palms firm against the clay. You got this.”
It takes a minute—which feels like an eternity—but eventually, it stops wobbling, and I’m able to mold it how I need to.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat, refusing to meet his gaze.
Remington gives my shoulder a quick one-two squeeze before finding his place at the front of the class again.
“Once the clay is centered, we’re ready to open it,” he says.
“With the wheel still spinnin’, take your thumbs and press straight down into the middle.
Keep your hands connected; they’re stronger together.
Make sure you stop about a half inch from the bottom so you don’t puncture through.
Next, we’re gonna widen the opening we made with our thumbs by gently pulling the clay toward you. Keep slow, steady pressure.”
This isn’t as easy as it looks. Remington had it right when he said I’d rather wrestle a steer than sit at this wheel, trying to manipulate this wet, unruly clay.
At least with the steer, I know what to expect.
I know how to gain control. With this, I’m clueless.
No matter what Remington says, I just can’t seem to get a handle on it as well as I should.
And it has nothing to do with him as an instructor because I’ll give it to him…
He clearly knows what he’s talking about, and the way he provides the instruction is clear and concise.
The problem is me.
My brain, for not making sense of what he’s saying, and my hands, for not wanting to move the way they should.
“Alright class, that’s all for tonight,” Remington announces as we’re approaching the final few minutes.
“Take a look at what you made. The crooked bowl, the accidental ashtray, the thing that might be a cup but might also be a hefty paperweight.” A round of low, rumbling chuckles fill the room.
“This is exactly what your first class is supposed to look like. If your piece collapsed or flew off the wheel, that’s okay.
It just means you’re officially doin’ pottery.
Leave your pieces on the shelf with your name on them.
They’ll dry, then we’ll fire them, and one day, you’ll look at your perfectly imperfect piece and think, ‘Wow, I really made that.’”
My nerves are shot.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this on edge.
“Clean your tools and wash your hands, then take a moment to appreciate that, for most of you, you tried something new today. That’s the hardest part, and you did it. Be proud of yourselves.” I feel anything but proud. “Same time next week,” he adds.
I rinse my tools and clean up my area as quickly as I can manage. Once I’m done, I send up a silent thank you to the universe that one of the other students is currently talking to Remington about something so he can’t try and chit-chat with me before I leave.
Hightailing it out of the room—and the building—I swiftly cross the parking lot and climb into my truck.
It’s not until I’m on the main road that I let out the deep breath I’d been holding for the last hour and a half.
Going to that class was a mistake—one I won’t be making again.
There has to be another way to help with the stiffness and mobility issues I’m experiencing.
Something that doesn’t end with me dripping sweat and on the verge of a stroke.