24. Evelyn
24
Evelyn
Time to become pot dealers: Monday, 6 pm – 8 pm @ Make You Mine Art Studio
I stroke my hands up, applying constant pressure along the slick surface. “Does this seem erotic to you?”
“Yes, but I think it’s generally frowned upon to say it out loud,” Garrett groans like I hoped he would.
“Makes sense. Didn’t take you as an exhibitionist,” I say as I lift my hands from the cone of clay I’ve been working to center on the pottery wheel.
I wasn’t exactly paying attention to our instructor, Poppy, when she was enthusiastically walking us through the process. Right now, she’s hunched over helping another one of the attendees on the opposite side of the semi-circle of stations. Her red curls are pulled back with a bandana and her striped overalls are smeared with dried clay.
The studio should be the perfect place to relax. Finished projects rest on shelves along the brick walls. The brown and green earthen hues of the plates and bowls match the plants strategically placed in corners or hanging above the register, vines creeping up to the ceiling. But there’s the simple fact that my best friend and ex-whatever-Oliver-qualifies as are also here. I can’t focus or fully relax the way I want to.
Still, the class structure is working to my advantage. I rarely find advantages to my perpetual tardiness, but tonight it was a convenient excuse to show up right as the class was starting. There wasn’t any room for much conversation other than a standard exchange of hellos. After this morning’s conversation with Garrett, everything is even more uneasy, thus the necessary integration of innuendo.
I should have told him, but I’ve spent years repressing those forty-eight hours. Mostly, I try to forget them because they should never have happened. I never should have been with Oliver long enough to picture forever. It’s taken years to systematically sort through the reasons and lock them into a fireproof safe in the back of my mind.
“I think that is something good to be on the same page about,” Garrett says.
He’s successfully formed his clay into a puck on the mat and is now dipping his hands into the bucket of water at his station. His khaki button-up is rolled to the elbow, exposing the contours of his forearms. He goes silent as his attention fixes on the clay, dipping his fingers into the center to open it up then guiding out the edge. It’s impossible to stop watching the shifting of his muscles. He makes it look so easy, the clay obeying his every touch. He’s in absolute control with his strong hands and laser focus.
My body buzzes and heats, tendrils of electricity collecting low in my stomach. It would be easy to attribute the warmth to the nature of what we’re doing, the imagery of it. But that moment between us yesterday is still raw. And this morning when he came over earlier, I walked away to check on the class because I needed to remember how to breathe around him rather than being upset about him learning about my engagement.
He cocks his head, effectively breaking my trance. “Are you going to try?”
“Hmm?” I ask.
“Are you going to make something now you’ve centered the clay?”
“I think it’s fine as is. Quit while I’m ahead, and all that.” I look at the puck lazily spinning on the mat affixed to my wheel. In this form is pure potential. In the right hands, with the right choices, it could be anything. I’m having a lot of trouble thinking I’m capable of that right now.
“You’re allowed to mess it up.” Garrett’s voice is soft. I think he’s also on edge and trying to figure out what’s safe between us.
“Says you.” I nod toward the bowl he’s formed.
“You think I did this in one go?”
“I think your skill set has more in common with a genetically modified superhuman than the average American, so I don’t think you being able to do that in one try is off the table.”
“There are about ten things you could do in this town growing up. Most of them involved having friends to do them with and I didn’t really meet that criteria. So no, this isn’t my first time here.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
“That’s all you’re here to do.”
I feel his eyes on me as I guide my attention back to the wheel. I wet my hands and place them on the cool clay. It’s an effort to recall Poppy’s instruction, mostly because all that comes to mind is a 4K replay of Garrett’s hands. Eventually, I let the visual take over because I’m a masochist.
Tucking my arms in and leaning over the wheel, I start. Well, I try. I reach the point where I’m pulling the walls up into something cup-like and I’m feeling good. Then without warning the top lip crumples inward and splits, rippling and distorting the entire piece.
“Well, I guess that’s it.” I shrug, trying to play off the bitter taste of disappointment. I just want something, anything, to go right.
“It fell apart one time. Try again.” His voice is so tender. I want to tell him not to feel bad for me, but I don’t think it’s that. I think he wants to be soft with me. He looks up and across the room to catch Poppy’s attention. They make eye contact and he gestures toward me.
“I might be a bit of a lost cause,” I explain as she eyes my piece.
“Garrett, don’t be lazy. Help your girl out.” I watch as Garrett opens his mouth but Poppy stops him. “And don’t say you’re out of practice.” She points at the bowl on his wheel.
“You okay with that?” Garrett asks. He swallows hard and I track the bob of his Adam’s apple. His eyes leap to mine. He’ll have to touch me to help and the fact that it is a completely normal thing Poppy is doing with everyone else doesn’t detract from how it makes me feel like a blushing teenager.
“I don’t want to monopolize her time if others need help.”
He grabs his stool and sets it next to mine. When he sits our thighs press together and I nearly pull away to make room but my legs have nowhere to go with the pottery wheel between them.
“You were putting too much pressure on the walls, that's why they collapsed,” he explains. “I’m going to put my hands on yours. We’ll do it together.”
“Do you always talk people through it?” I tease, hoping it will offset the molten feeling in my stomach.
“Is your mind always in the gutter?” He leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper that breezes across my ear. “But for the sake of our charade, maybe you should know. Yes, Eve, I like to talk through it, all the way. I like it when I can help make sure people get exactly what they want.”
I suck in a breath right as his hands land on mine, and I wonder if he can feel the fire burning right under the surface of my skin. It takes me a full thirty seconds to regain the ability to speak. “Well, if it casually comes up in conversation, then I’ll be prepared to share that interesting fact. Couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
“You seem to have a lot of fun flirting with me, so I thought I’d try it out.” His words are a current tugging inviting me to play with him even more. “Look at the clay, Evelyn. Don’t look at me; you’ll have plenty of time for that later.”
He drags a thumb over my knuckles, as if to direct my focus but it only make me more scattered. I force myself to take in a full breath, and once my attention is firmly on the wheel, he presses his fore and middle fingers down against mine. Controlled and firm, working with the clay, not against it.
“Good. Now we’re going to pull up the walls,” he guides. We wet our hands again and I let him reposition them, one on the inside and the other on the outside. Even with his assistance I wait for the clay to fold in on itself and become useless. “Steady,” Garrett mutters. I release a breath as I match the pressure he’s applying. “There it is. Atta girl.”
The praise thrums through me. I consider failing on purpose to do this all over again and see if he’ll say it one more time.
Our hands leave the bowl, and I gasp at the product. “You did it!”
“I was just the training wheels. You deserve the credit for trusting the process.” He nudges my knee with his.
“Because you’re preternaturally gifted at everything,” I say. “Even before I came here I knew you as an excellent musician and someone who graduated from a top law school. Now I know you fix houses for old ladies and casually can help at a mechanic’s garage.”
“Not to shatter your reality, but I wasn’t good at any of those things naturally.”
“Bullshit,” I call out loud enough a few people look up from their stations.
“I never had much going for me, so I changed that.”
“By being the human equivalent of a Swiss army knife?” I ask, like, come on, seriously?
“I’d rather be the most useful person in a room than be asked to leave,” he explains.
The more I see the full picture of who Garrett is, the more I hate it. I want him to see how extraordinary he is, how he’s like no man I’ve ever met. I want to paint over his self-portrait, show him the way I see him, capturing the details of the resilient, caring, talented man who I’m growing to know.
“Well, I like being in the same room as you. Swiss army knife capabilities or not,” I say, and I hope he believes me. I really want him to see he's worth caring about because of who he is and not because of what he can do for others.
“All right, everyone! If you have a piece you’re happy with, make sure to put it on the wood board next to your contact information,” Poppy calls out, reminding me we’re not the only people in the room.
I look up and there’s a brief moment of shock when I also remember Oliver and Quinn are here. Garrett just draws me in so completely the rest of the world becomes irrelevant. I guess there was something to those mindfulness articles.
The Lost and Found wine bar is far more suited for tourists than The Gas Station. The warm lighting is romantic but it’s so dim that it’s a challenge to properly read the chalkboard menu above the counter. Oliver was the one to suggest a drink because we weren’t able to catch up during the class.
It’s true, but I was half hoping that we’d be able to ignore that. Mostly, there is the fact that there’s only a handful of things that are safe to share with them.
There’s only one table with four seats available and this leads to an uncomfortable moment of deciding who should go get drinks, leaving the others to guard the table. The weirdness stems mostly from the fact that it seems like we’re all doing mental calculations to determine which two of us should stay and which two should go.
In the end, I stay at the table with Oliver.
“So, how are you?” he asks and it manages to sound light and not accusatory. It’s not that I expected it to, but it was definitely a fear.
“Honestly? Tired and homesick.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You sounded excited about the move when you were getting ready for it. I’ve always pictured you as this person who could live anywhere.”
“I always thought when I left, I would feel great…you know?” The admission awkwardly slips out of me before I can stop it. I guess I’ve been wanting to say it for a long time now.
“That’s exactly how I felt when we were freshmen. Remember how you guys called my dad for his chicken noodle soup recipe and made it for me on that hot plate you had to hide in your ottoman so the RA wouldn’t confiscate it?” To this day we haven’t revealed that the recipe is just a very specific brand that we had to go to Whole Foods to find. “I was so sure I would love being away from my family and finally not having to fight my sisters for the bathroom. It just made me realize why I loved it so much.” He pauses then looks over toward the bar. “She told me you didn’t want to talk about it until after your vacation, but I have to ask. What are you thinking about the job offer?”
The question momentarily throws me for a loop. Over the last week in Hartsfall I’ve only been worried about music and my outings with Garrett. If I thought that writing would give me clarity on what I should do next, I was wrong.
“I’ll probably at least interview. It’s not like I actually got an offer,” I say, trying to dismiss the possibility so I’m not tempted to grasp for it. Still, Oliver and Quinn are here. Maybe that’s for the best? This could be our chance to work everything out, so if I do take the interview we’ll be good as new. We could go back to the familiar rom-com marathons and after work drinks with a side of office gossip.
“From what I heard, it’s a formality. I don’t want to push. I mostly wanted to say that it would be nice to have you back. It’s not the same,” he says, and my stomach tumbles. I want them to be happy, but knowing they miss me? It shouldn’t feel this good since I know that means they might ache the way I do at the memories.
“It can’t be all bad. You have Quinn. It seems like me being gone helped you guys figure things out,” I say, trying to convince us both.
I can’t help but wonder if they’ve felt something for each other for longer than they’ve been together and were holding back for my sake. Quinn wouldn’t. She’d tell me to my face, but Oliver would. If he can do something to make someone’s life easier, he does. It’s always been a problem for him at work, taking on too many projects or assisting his coworkers when they have any questions. He’s the guy you go to when you’re floundering or just need support. But it also means that he tends to never make himself the priority. It’s why we worked the way we did. Our people pleasing tended to cancel the other’s out, so we found a way to meet our needs without having to communicate all that much.
“Yeah, things are different…” he starts, and the fact that he’s not comfortable enough to say more tells me all that I need to know. Instead he changes subjects. “How’s your brother? Still good?”
“Yeah,” I say, and a true smile forms on my lips. “He’s also great at telling us when he’s not at his best, you know, which is something I never thought I’d be happy about. But the fact that he’s honest about it and not just trying to hide his bad days, it’s a huge relief.”
“You deserve to be happy. I know you’re saying that the city isn’t working out the way you planned but it seems other things are.” He makes it sound so simple.
Garrett and Quinn return, each holding two glasses of wine. Garrett settles in next to me while Quinn slides in right across the circular table next to Oliver.
She takes a sip and hums with approval as she sets it down. “So how exactly did you two go from not talking to this?”
“Quinn,” Oliver snaps.
“I’m sorry, was I not supposed to ask how the guy who didn’t show up to help her move is now on vacation with her?” she asks, brows arching.
“He helped. He sent movers,” I say then take a hasty sip of the pinot Garrett picked out for me.
“Well, the last time we talked, you weren’t all too happy with him,” she says, and it stings. Has it really been that long since we had a real conversation? It can’t be. I do the mental math over and over until I can’t ignore that she’s right.
“Don’t worry, she made me make it up to her,” Garrett says. “Really made me earn it.”
Quinn smiles but it looks more like she’s baring her teeth. “Good.”
The air goes stale as we all simultaneously reach for our glasses.
“As you can see, we’re all good now! What about you two?” I ask, desperate to keep the conversation moving.
Oliver and Quinn share a look then Oliver finally says, “It just sort of happened. Isn’t that right, honey?”
“Yes, honey ,” Quinn says. “But why stop there, tell them the whole story.”
“If you want them to know, why don’t you?” Oliver says as he leans back in his seat.
“Oh, because you tell it better.” Quinn leans forward and props her elbow on the table. “Really, I can’t do it justice.”
“Okay, so there was this concert we went to for my birthday which was a fucking disaster,” Oliver starts.
“And after she saved me from the port-a-potty, and we had missed the entire concert because of it, I had to buy her dinner.” Oliver says then reaches for his wine glass only to find it empty.
The tension in the air split the moment he detailed the panic that gripped him the moment he realized that he was locked into the port-a-potty at the outdoor concert venue.
“I made him change first,” Quinn adds. “There was no way that I could eat with the smell clinging to his clothes.”
“Okay, so I changed, bought her dinner and never wanted the night to end. That was a pretty good birthday in the end,” Oliver says as he looks at Quinn and reaches for her hand.
We don’t stay much longer. Even though we’re not as on edge, it doesn’t seem necessary to draw out the evening any longer when we seem one topic change away from souring the light mood.
“We should do this again,” Oliver says as we walk onto the mostly empty sidewalk outside the bar.
“When are you guys free?” I ask, feeling more optimistic about the idea than I did when I blurted out an invitation yesterday.
Quinn throws me a look. “Pretty much whenever. Vacation and all.”
“So, tomorrow?” I ask.
“We can go to Bethel. They have a ton of stuff dedicated to Woodstock, and we might be able to catch a concert,” Garrett suggests.
“Sounds good,” Oliver gets out through a yawn.
“Goodnight.” Quinn grabs Oliver’s hand and steers them toward the inn.
I watch for a second before I catch myself and move to walk toward where Garrett is parked. Garrett’s hand lands against the small of my back, stopping me.
“Is everything okay?” I blink up at him. I thought tonight ended alright. But is this too much for him? Quinn has made it clear she’s not exactly his biggest fan.
“I think I should kiss you.”
I sputter. “What?”
“If you were here with anyone else, would you kiss them?” he asks. “It would be normal for you to kiss me right now if we were actually together, right? And they’ll see us, but it won’t be like we’re throwing it in their faces.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me.” I pick up on something dangerously close to desire in his voice. His eyes are hooded, and I want to pretend I don’t see it because I want him to be looking at me like this. I want him to mean it and be able to keep meaning it after this.
“Okay.” I give in because I have an excuse to, and I really want another taste of his touch.
I expect him to just do the damn thing but he pauses to say, “Tell me how it would go.”
“You’d go in for a peck,” I start, testing the waters.
He leans in and brushes his lips against mine. It’s a feather-light whisper of affection. “Like that?” He speaks against my mouth.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“What would I do next, now that I’ve had a taste?”
“You’d come back for more.” Every cell in my body screams please, come back, please!
“How much more?” His voice runs jagged.
All of me. If he asked, right now, I’d give him everything. “As much as you can get.”
“Fuck.” I know he says it, but I don’t register it fully because his lips press into mine, coaxing my mouth open. He steals a breath from me as he nips at my bottom lip.
My hands thread through his hair and my body leans into him. He pulls me even closer as hands skate up my sides. Fingers catch on the hem of my shirt, pushing up the fabric so his calluses drag against my waist.
His tongue slips against the seam of my lips, a question. More?
My mouth opens in answer. Yes, more.
My body arches into him to find that he’s hard, and I do my best to gain more friction. I’m chasing so much. Him. Me. The life I think I still have but might have thrown away. But this right here, the electric current that is looping through me? It’s a reprieve. His palm traces the curve of my spine.
Up. Up. Up.
Then his mouth is gone and I’m still left wanting. Hungry. The inches between us could be an infinity as far as I’m concerned.
“Good?” he rasps.
“Yeah.” I nod and my tongue darts out to wet my lips. He tracks the movement and I’m tempted to do it again. I want to watch him as he watches me. Before I go deeper into dangerous territory Garrett looks up and past me.
“I don’t see them anymore. We should get going now.”
Garrett turns up the radio the moment we get to the car. How can he just move on from a kiss like that? Is that what it’s like for him, a moment of high floating relief and then on to the next? Neither of us say a word until he pulls up my driveway.
“How do you think it went?” Garrett asks.
“I kind of wish I had something to compare it to. Like was that a normal amount of conversation or not enough,” I say as I sag against the car seat.
“If only this was the second time you encountered an ex who was dating your best friend,” he muses.
“If only I were so lucky to be able to repeat this experience.” I throw my hands up in indignation. “At least it wasn't as bad as it could have been, and without you here it would have been worse.”
“I do enjoy when people keep me around to make sure things aren’t worse.”
“Garrett,” I say as I remember our conversation during the pottery class. “I do mean it when I say that I would rather be doing this with you than anyone else.”
“That makes sense. Unlike most fake couples, we’ve already had practice.”
“I wish it were appropriate to send the Barlowes a thank you note for their service. But even without that, I like knowing I can rely on you and that…” I scramble for the right words. “We’re good together. Good at this.”
“We are,” he agrees.
“I—” I hesitate, wondering if I should ask if he wants to come inside. “Just thank you. I couldn’t have survived tonight without you.”
Without waiting for his response, I push open the car door and head toward the house.