9. nine
nine
Nora
I’ve always dreamed of being more than a diner girl .
In my heart, I’m an artist.
The house is quiet, Ollie’s finally asleep, and it’s just me in my studio, listening to the mellow music floating through my headphones. Trent helped build me some shelves and a worktable out of a gorgeous, natural pine. The shelves are crowded with dinnerware, mugs, vases of all shapes and sizes, and candlestick holders I’ve thrown at my wheel. The collection continues to grow as I work to prepare for the Harvest Market in two weeks, the first weekend in October. I put on my favorite clay-splotched apron, light a few candles, turn on some music, and sit at the wheel. The ritual soothes me from the inside out, softening the tension that builds inside me and connecting me to something deeper. The part of me that needs a little nurturing after a long day spent tending to the needs of others.
My linen apron, arms, and bare feet on the floor are speckled white, while my hands are gloved in clay. Earthy, smooth, malleable clay.
The obsession began in high school when I took a ceramics class and found I had a natural gift at the wheel. The slow coaxing of an ordinary, unassuming lump of clay into something that I could put to practical use made my heart happy. It never gets old. I’ve made the plates we eat off of and the mugs I drink from. The vases that hold my flowers and the cork-stopped bottles that house my oils and vinegars. I challenged myself after my divorce to process my consuming grief by transferring it into clay, turning them into something beautiful as the wheel spins rhythmically beneath my hands. My high school teacher actually lets me use the school’s kiln to fire my pieces–after hours, of course.
Tonight, I’m trying to finish a collection of small salad or dessert plates. I release my foot from the pedal and the wheel stops spinning, allowing me to reach for a needle tool so I can create a more precise edge on the plate I’m crafting. Setting the tools aside, I grab the sponge again and press down on the pedal, gently pinching the edge of the plate with one hand and slowly drawing the clay upwards with my sponge in the other.
Once I’m satisfied, I dry my hands and the plate. Then I cut the plate from the bat, a flat disc which attaches to the top of the wheel, with my wire.
I smile to myself, realizing that Brooks and I share this particular tool in common (at least in name).
We’ve been texting nearly every day since last weekend’s game. Believe me, I’m still shocked every time his name pops up on my cracked phone screen. I blink at it in disbelief, then feel a warm, tingly feeling in my stomach that makes my heart beat a little faster as I read his words.
“What do you guys talk about?” Sydney asked me earlier today over the phone. “I’m dying to know. Is he flirty? I’ll bet he’s flirty.”
I’d blushed a little, then, remembering all over again how it feels to be flirted with by someone as charming as Brooks. He’d been the same way in high school. The most irresistible, adorable flirt. I’d had no say in the matter. From the moment we met, I’d been head-over-heels.
There’s a reason Booth Six at the diner has held significance for both of us. It’s where we first met.
Delia herself had started a ridiculous new protocol as she rolled out what she called “Icy Blasts,” a knock-off of a popular fast-food chain’s frozen treats. She required the servers to tip the ice cream sundae glass upside down to demonstrate just how thick the concoction was before setting it down on the table. I never had a problem fulfilling this requirement until the night Brooks Alden and his teammates came into the diner and sat at Booth Six.
“Okay,” I’d said, nervous as all-get-out as I brought their Icy Blasts to the table. “We’ve got a cookies and cream blast and a strawberry blast.”
The boys watched me as I turned the cups filled with ice cream upside down and then burst into laughter as my worst fear played out before me in slow motion. I watched in horror as ice cream plopped out and oozed all over the table. I was mortified.
“Oh my gosh,” I gasped, attempting to scoop the mess up with my bare hands. “I’m so sorry!”
Most of the boys laughed at me while unhelpfully tossing napkins in my general direction, but not Brooks. He slid out of that booth, grabbed some rags from the kitchen, and helped me clean every bit of it up. My eyes were burning with embarrassment, holding back tears as I apologized for my clumsiness.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a kind smile. “I like my ice cream with a little table in it anyways.”
Our gazes had collided then, and I’d been struck by the blue of his eyes, his crooked grin, and the swoop of dark hair that fell over one eyebrow. Oh, boy, was I in trouble.
I hadn’t even noticed his friends slipping out one by one, evading the bill. Brooks paid for the spilled ice cream, despite my insistence that I’d cover the tab since I’d mucked it all up.
And then, in spite of my embarrassing clumsy moment, he asked for my number.
Fast forward nine years, and here we are. Texting again. Single…again.
I throw a few more plates to complete the set, putting them aside with the rest of the pieces I’d thrown throughout the week. Tomorrow is firing day, then I’ll play around with different glazes when I have time next week. I’ve been building up my inventory in preparation for my first market. It was surprisingly cheap to reserve the booth, and Trent, per his own insistence, is building me a couple shelves to display my work.
I’m suddenly startled out of my thoughts by the sound of my phone ringing in my headphones. I answer the call.
“Hi, sister. I’ve got a question for you,” Sydney says. We’ve already chatted on the phone earlier, but she’s never patient enough to just text and wait for an answer. She calls as soon as the idea strikes her.
“I think we should limit your first workshop to eight people. Do you think we would be able to find eight wheels to rent or borrow?”
The thought of dragging a bunch of throwing wheels, messy clay, and brown-tinged water into one of the beautiful cabins Sydney works so hard to maintain makes me cringe.
“I think bringing a bunch of wheels inside one of your cabins might be really messy,” I say. “I guess we could do a hand-building workshop instead.”
“So, no wheels required?”
“Exactly. It would be like going back in time. We’d create something simple using just our hands and a few tools I probably already have.”
“That sounds perfect! Did you set up that Instagram account yet?” Sydney asks.
“Not yet. Ollie was really determined not to go to sleep without a fight tonight.” After the initial bedtime routine, the heathen had required two graham crackers, a cup of milk, and another book before he’d finally let me go.
“I still like the name Noli. Nora plus Ollie…and bonus! It also happens to be a gorgeous city in Italy! What do you think about it?”
“I like it, too,” I agree. “Even though I’ve never been there.”
“Well, not to fear, big sister. I have. What do you want to know about it? I’ll be your personal Rick Steves.”
My jet-setting, travel-blogging sister then regales me with tales from her Italian adventures for a few minutes while I tidy up. I can practically feel the dusty cobblestones beneath my feet, smell the tang of lemon trees, and taste the bite of fresh pesto as she speaks. I’ve never left the Pacific Northwest, let alone traveled to the far-reaching corners of the earth like my sister has. We’re alike in many ways, but where Sydney has a penchant for wandering, I’ve never had the desire to venture far from home. I like it here too much.
“We’ve got to do a girl’s trip someday,” Sydney says. “I’ll be your tour guide. We could find you a nice Frenchman. Or an English aristocrat.”
“Yeah, because men like that would be interested in someone like me. The only cool word I know in French is pamplemousse , and that’s only because of Carol at Brickyard Bakery. She does that grapefruit sorbet every summer.”
“Look at you! You’re practically Parisian.”
“More like primitive.”
“But wait,” Sydney says slyly. “You don’t need an exotic man, do you? You’ve already got somebody else lined up. What was his name again? Something like Rooks Falden? How’s he doing, by the way?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” I lie. Badly. She’s my sister. She can smell a lie before it’s even formed in my mouth.
“Sure. Is it weird talking to him again after all these years? I know he did a number on your heart back in high school.”
It’s true; it had gutted me when Brooks broke up with me senior year. Though Brooks never admitted it, I’d always suspected his dad had something to do with our breakup. He’d never been supportive of our relationship, and I sensed he felt I was holding Brooks back from greatness. When Brooks was initially offered the chance to play college ball at Oregon State, I’d applied, too, thinking we could attend college together. But then I didn’t get in. The odds were against us, and I don’t think it took much for his dad to convince him to let me go.
I was devastated. I felt like he’d chosen his baseball career over me, and I felt horribly selfish for wanting to keep him in Kitt’s Harbor.
I cried for a month when he left, feeling betrayed and confused. Ultimately, he chose what was most important to him, and it was difficult for me to accept the fact that I hadn’t mattered enough for him to fight for me. In my heart, I waited for Brooks to change his mind and come back to Kitt’s Harbor and claim me for himself. But six months passed, and then a year. My hope turned to disappointment, and Brooks never did come back. I had to move on.
Nate was a part of our friend group, so it was a natural progression from friends to something more. Nate and Brooks didn’t remain friends after I started dating him, understandably, but Nate was a big Stormbreakers fan. I was happy when he’d told me Brooks had gotten drafted by the minor team that fed into the Stormbreakers. In leaving me behind, he’d also gone on to achieve his biggest dream of playing baseball at a professional level. It was what he wanted. How could I fault him for that?
Besides, what Brooks did to my heart is practically insignificant compared to the complete shattering I experienced when Nate broke our marriage vows. He tossed me aside for someone else after we’d promised each other forever, and the pain and repercussions of Nate’s choices were incredibly intense at first. Far more intense than getting dumped by my first boyfriend.
“It’s been so long since our breakup. Things are different now,” I finally say. “He’s still really easy to talk to. Just like he was back then.”
Sydney goes quiet on the other line, as if she can hear my line of thinking.
“I’m glad you’re not holding anything against him still. You both were so young. I’m proud of you, Nor. You’ve come so far.”
“Thanks, Syd. I have no idea if I’ll ever see him again, so really, I’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Except maybe your heart.”
I smile. “True.”
After we’ve ended our conversation, I do Sydney’s bidding and reserve social media accounts under the business name we’d come up with for my shop: Noli Ceramics.
One step closer to becoming the artist I’ve always yearned to be.
Brooks texts me just as I’m finishing cleaning up the studio.
Brooks: One of my teammates told me I should start reading more books. Have you read anything lately you’d recommend?
Nora: Let’s see…the last book I read was a real page turner.
Nora: I think it was called The Very Hungry Caterpillar . Wouldn’t recommend reading that one unless you’ve got snacks on hand. Another I’d recommend is an eleven book saga about a little blue truck and his adorable farmyard friends.
Brooks: Adding both to my list. They’re probably right at my reading level.
Nora: I’d offer to let you borrow ours, but Ollie would for sure notice they were missing. Two of his favorites.
Nora: Fun fact for you. Did you know that both of us use bats in our line of work?
Brooks: Don’t tell me the diner has resorted to cooking up actual bats…?
Brooks: How are they prepared? Fried? Poached?
Nora: *crying laughing emoji*
Nora : This is the bat I’m talking about. It helps me be more efficient at the wheel.
I send him a picture of one of the bats that I’ve just washed.
Brooks: Is it rude of me to say I’m slightly disappointed? I was hoping I’d get to tell the guys that next time I visit home I’m trying bat meat.
Nora: *puke emoji*
Brooks: All joking aside, that’s awesome. You’re still throwing pottery, then?
Nora: Yes! As much as I can.
Brooks: How can I order something custom? I’m in the market for a new coffee mug. My friend Miles was over the other day, and he broke my favorite one.
His friend Miles? He has to be talking about Miles Aguilar. The stud of the Stormbreakers hitting lineup.
Nora: A travesty! I could totally make you one. Just send me your shipping address, and I’ll send something your way.
Brooks: I’ll do you one better.