Chapter 10
Ten
Gentry
Idon’t know why I’m here. Again.
After the first time, I swore I’d never come back.
I had every intention of sticking to it, but then Remington texted me last night.
Normally, I’d brush it off and tell him I’m not doing it.
I’m a grown man, and whether he showed up at my house or not, he couldn’t make me do anything.
But I still don’t know why there was a little voice in the back of my mind telling me to do it.
Maybe it’s desperation. Needing to find something to relieve the pain that’s coming more frequently. Or maybe it’s because I let a wheel and some goddamn wet clay get under my skin and beat me.
I’d be lying if I said the idea of giving this another shot without an audience and the pressure of performing as well as everyone else in the class didn’t sound like a decent plan.
So, that’s what I’m doing. One more try.
And if I walk out of the studio in a couple of hours feeling just as overwhelmed and frustrated as I did the first time, then that’s it. I’ll look for a plan B.
I’m trying to keep an open mind—trying being the operative word—but as I enter the building and walk down the hallway that leads to the studio, my heartbeat speeds up and my palms begin to sweat.
I’m rethinking my decision. Just like before, I hesitate once I reach the door.
It’s closed, but I can see Remington through the narrow window in the center.
His back is to me, thankfully unable to see that I’ve arrived.
After a minute and a few deep breaths, I twist the knob and enter the room. Remington turns around at the sound of the door clicking shut, his gaze bouncing from me to the clock on the wall as a grin spreads across his face.
“You’re late,” he drawls, gesturing to the same station I sat at the first time. “Thought I was gonna have to come drag your ass outta your house.”
Heaving a sigh, I cross the room in long strides. “There was traffic,” I lie.
“No the fuck there wasn’t.” Remington snorts as he drops onto the stool on the other side of the wheel. “Just like last time, scoot close, elbows on your knees.”
I don’t move.
Remington arches a brow. “I promise, the wheel don’t bite, Gentry.”
There he goes saying my first name again. Why does it stick out so much in my mind?
I huff and inch closer, the wood scraping against the tile. “I don’t even like pottery.”
Fuck, I’m annoying even myself with my stubbornness. I chose to come here, so why am I already being difficult about it?
“How do you know you don’t like it if you won’t give it an earnest effort?”
I clear my throat, but say nothing.
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Remington chuckles, then stands and walks behind me. I catch a whiff of him—soap and something else entirely that, for some reason, makes my mouth water. His hands come to my elbows, adjusting them and taking me by surprise. “You’re tense,” he says.
“No, I’m not,” I lie once again. “I’m fine.”
“Then why are you holding your breath?”
My face heats as I let go of the air trapped in my lungs, annoyed that he noticed something like that.
“Just relax.” His voice is low, his mouth a hell of a lot closer to my ear than it should be. It sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you remember how to center the clay?”
Clenching my teeth, I pinch my lips together and nod.
“Okay, good. Let’s get started.” Remington slides his hands from my elbows down to mine, guiding them. Why is he doing that? “Remember, slow and controlled. Let the wheel do the spinning.”
I can’t breathe. It’s like we’re at the top of a mountain and the air is too thin. The clay is wobbly, clunky, and my pulse kicks up speed. “Goddamnit,” I curse under my breath, frustration bubbling inside of me.
“Relax. Don’t fight the clay,” Remington murmurs, his breath hot as it fans my neck. His hands increase pressure on mine, and after a minute, the clay finally stops wobbling. I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Good. See? You just needed a little help.”
I huff. “I would’ve figured it out on my own.”
Remington releases my hands and takes his seat across from me again. He shrugs and smiles like he doesn’t believe me. “Maybe eventually.”
The clay rises, and with every spin of the wheel, I feel more in control than when I started. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. Or at least it will be once I’m finished.
“How did you get into this anyway?” I ask after a couple of minutes. My eyes stay trained on the clay, but my body is hyperaware of his gaze on me.
“My mom used to go to classes when I was younger,” he explains.
“She’d only go, like, once a month, but her face would light up every time she talked to me about it.
After my first year on the force, I needed somethin’ that didn’t involve adrenaline or sirens, and I don’t know…
I decided to give it a shot. Turns out, it was exactly what I needed to unwind and relax.
And the fact that I’m really fuckin’ good at it is a big plus. ”
I nod, quiet for a moment as my hands work. The loud, chaotic buzz that was running through my veins before I walked in here tonight is now gone, replaced with a calming warmth. “How long have you been an instructor?”
“Only a couple of years.” He breathes out a small chuckle, and when I lift my gaze, he’s got a far-off look in his eyes, like he’s remembering a fond memory.
“When I first started comin’ here, I used to dream about having my own studio.
A small place on Main Street, or maybe even a studio I build behind my house. Somethin’ that’s my own.”
For as long as I’ve known Remington, he’s always wanted to be a firefighter.
He wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and make him proud.
Hearing him open up about a dream that has nothing to do with firefighting is interesting.
Intriguing. And I get the feeling it’s not a dream he’s shared with many people, if any.
“You said you used to,” I point out. “Is that not somethin’ you want now?”
“I don’t know.” Rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, he stares down at the clay moving in my hands like he can’t look me in the eye. “It just doesn’t seem very feasible, you know?”
My brows dip. “How so?”
“I’m a firefighter. That’s my career; it’s how I pay my bills and put food on my table.
It’s really all I’ve ever known. And I can’t imagine a small-town pottery studio makes all that much money.
Sure, this place probably does pretty well for itself, but this is a bigger building that offers more than just pottery lessons. ”
“Is this somethin’ you’ve looked into?” I ask, confused about where all my curiosity is coming from.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you know anythin’ about how much you could make or what the margins would be on a place like that?”
Remington shakes his head, breathing out a small huff. “No.”
“Then how do you know you couldn’t make a livin’ doing this?”
He pauses for a moment. “Well, I guess I don’t. But either way, it’s a moot point. I’m a firefighter, and it’s what I’ve always been meant to do. I can’t just up and walk away from that.”
“Why not?”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘why not?’” He snorts. “Because it’s what has always been expected of me.”
I meet his gaze, suddenly feeling like I’m seeing Remington in a whole different light. “But is it the path you want to be on?”
His brow furrows, his mouth down-turned. “Why does that matter? It doesn’t change anythin’. If anybody understands family expectations and obligations, I think it’d be you.”
He’s not wrong. From the time I was a young boy, I knew I’d be taking over my family’s ranch.
It’s what my grandfather did, my father, and now me.
And eventually, when I can’t do it anymore, my boys will take over the business.
It’s what the Moore men do. We’re ranchers; it’s in our blood.
So, maybe I’m being a little hypocritical, suggesting Remington should go after what he actually wants instead of what’s expected of him.
But I’m okay with that.
“You’re right,” I murmur. “I do understand, but that doesn’t mean you should shut yourself off to the idea of somethin’ more…fulfillin’.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Holding up his hands, he says, “My job is very fulfilling. And I never said I don’t enjoy it. I just said it wouldn’t matter either way.”
“Just humor me, Remington… Is firefighting ultimately what you want to do? Or are you only doin’ it because of the weight of the expectations your father left for you after he died?”
He chews on the inside of his cheek, and I can’t decipher the look in his eyes. Clearing his throat, Remington stands and wipes his hands down the front of his jeans. “I’ll grab you some more water,” he says quietly.
I struck a nerve.
When he comes back and sits down, there’s a thick tension between us that wasn’t there before. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it, and who am I to push the subject? Lord knows I wouldn’t want someone sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong in my business.
“You’re doin’ better this time,” he eventually says, his tone even but lacking the usual chipperness. “Still a little impatient, though.”
My chest rumbles with a low chuckle. Hell, I might actually make something worth using this time.
“So, how’s things goin’ with the kid?” I ask.
For some reason, I feel this incessant need to fill the silence.
To talk to him. And not just to avoid the uncomfortability.
I’d never admit this out loud, but tonight hasn’t been terrible.
I’m alone more often than not—I work alone most days, go home alone, spend my evenings alone, then go to bed alone. So, this is kind of nice.