Chapter 20
Morgan
Text me when you get home.
I reread the note I find on my cottage door twice, bemused. Under the simple instruction, I find Sawyer’s phone number. There’s no way the note came from someone other than him. It’s just…well, we live pretty much next door. We haven’t had much need for texting.
Over the past three weeks since Kennedy’s family visited, we’ve settled into our own routines.
I go to work. Sawyer continues refurbishing the house.
When I return home, we prep the yard for the plants I chose, working with comfortably minimal chatter in heavy gloves to prepare the yard for planting.
Zach offers sometimes welcome, sometimes unsolicited creative counsel, popping up to recommend “the red one there” or pointing to the yard’s rounded perimeter, noting, “It would be sweet if you hit that shit with some herbs.”
We’re like the world’s most morbid sitcom. Two and a Half Roommates.
Sawyer and I have graduated from mac and cheese driven by necessity to the occasional shared dinner, though despite my mention of the nearby pizza place, Sawyer seems to prefer Korean or Mexican.
I update him on my yard-work plans and regale him with the nonstop excitement of rescheduling cleanups and processing orders for DiCrescenzo Landscaping.
Sometimes I even share stories of the more unusual people I’ve met in my interstate lifestyle.
When I make Sawyer laugh, I feel like I’ve won points in a game he doesn’t know we’re playing.
No texting, though. With Sawyer constantly in the house whenever I’ve needed him, all I had to do was knock.
Smiling slightly, I pull down the Scotch-taped note. I wonder what’s changed.
I head inside, inputting my roommate’s number before I’ve even dropped my work bag to the floor.
Hello, landlord. What can your favorite tenant do for you?
Sawyer replies quickly, which I guess shouldn’t surprise me.
Favorite living tenant, that is.
I laugh. Depositing my bag on my kitchenette countertop, I continue to my bed. I lie down, phone in hand.
I straighten up in surprise when my shoulder strikes something hard.
Reaching under my pillow, I find the dragon mug Sawyer made.
The one Zach found in here and started fiddling with on the day I moved in.
Now he’s nestled it into my pillows for some reason.
Rolling my eyes, I move the mug to my nightstand, then message Sawyer back.
You’re only saying that because if you don’t say Zach is your favorite, he’ll burst a pipe or something
You don’t have to be a ghost to burst a pipe, you know
I didn’t know my favor was worth property damage to you. I’m oddly touched by your threats to my home.
Sawyer’s texting style is very him. I notice the complete sentences with correct punctuation. He probably judges emojis with suspicion and scorn, the way medieval clerics viewed the printing press.
Just for fun, when I save Sawyer to my contacts, I put the ghost with its tongue out next to his name. Hilarious to me.
Just keep it in mind
Was there something you needed or did you just want to chat from different rooms twenty feet apart?
I watch the typing bubble pop up, then disappear. Stubbornly, I focus on the phone screen, waiting for his reply. Yes, I could dawdle over to social media. I could go Zillow-hunting for houses with yards I will never in one million gazillion years afford.
I don’t. I wait.
So far, I am enjoying chatting from different rooms twenty feet apart. But yes, I was wondering if there was a time I could use the studio for a couple hours.
Now I sit up in disbelief. Sawyer hasn’t made pottery since Kennedy died.
He’s shared with me how her loss—understandably—plunged him into something like writer’s block, ceramics edition.
Despite knowing Sawyer for only the past couple months, I understand immediately how huge it is that he wants to return to his craft.
I want to know why. Obviously. But I don’t want to make him skittish by interrogating him.
Instead, I measure my reply carefully. I want to come off welcoming but low pressure.
It’s your studio. You can use it whenever you want.
Punctuation is rubbing off on me, I guess.
I wanted to respect your privacy. Just tell me a time when it would be convenient to you—maybe when you plan to be out for a bit.
I chew the inside of my cheek. The thing is…I don’t want to be out of the house when Sawyer returns to his clay. I want to watch him work.
Inhaling in preparation, I send off my reply. Sometimes shooting your shot with the reclusive artist who lives sort of next door looks like this.
Is now okay?
Seconds pass. No typing bubble. No reply from Sawyer comes.
It’s only fair, right? I prepare to reason with him. You’ve seen me landscape. Plus, shouldn’t one of the perks of living in the pottery studio be watching the sculptor work? It’s like running water or electricity.
I’m putting fingers to keys, readying my persuasions, when I hear light knocking. Leaving my phone on my bed, I hop to my front door.
Outside, I find Sawyer. He’s holding a potted plant. It’s a gorgeous purple coleus with spade-shaped leaves the color of dark lipstick.
More importantly—it’s the plant I kept eyeing when we went to the nursery. I didn’t know Sawyer noticed.
“Happy housewarming,” he says. “Sorry it’s so late.”
I smile, genuinely touched. “Guesthouse-warming,” I reply.
“Hmm, still counts.”
Gently I receive the plant from him. The rich maroon is stunning. “When?” I ask him simply.
“I went back while you were at work,” he says.
I swallow, wanting to hide the sudden rush of emotion.
It’s just…I’ve ghosted from city to city forever—chasing possibility or running from emptiness.
I’ve forgotten how long it’s been since someone remembered to pick something out for me.
Thought of me. I haven’t given them much chance to.
But Sawyer found an opportunity to anyway.
“You didn’t have to,” I manage.
“No,” he concurs, holding my gaze. “I wanted to.”
I hug the plant closer to my chest and gesture to the pottery wheel in the corner of my guesthouse. Sawyer walks over, pulls the mechanism out from the wall, then returns outside.
While I watch, Sawyer brings in clay he must have procured today. He preps his station, dusting off the seat, then uses the kitchenette sink to fill a bucket with water, which he sprinkles over his clay.
I move my coleus to the windowsill, evaluating how the sunlight in the spot will change over the course of the day. “Do you know what you’re going to make?” I ask Sawyer.
“Nothing in particular,” he replies. “I just want to get back to it. To…see what takes shape. Your work out front is inspiring.”
My eyebrows lift. “You going to sculpt some…drought-tolerant herbs and grasses?”
Sawyer has separated out the hefty chunk of clay he intends to use. He places it on the wheel with long, sturdy, experienced fingers and wets his hands.
“Not the plants,” he replies. “You.”
I still.
“Seeing your passion for your work,” Sawyer continues. “I want to feel that again.”
Quietly moved, I smile softly. I never imagined I would play some part in inspiring him. I figured I was just the loud haunted girl who demanded his stove for mac-and-cheese purposes. Learning I helped Sawyer rediscover this piece of himself…
Well, this purple coleus isn’t the only gift Sawyer’s just given me.
He starts pedaling. The wheel rotates in an even rhythm, the clay spinning smoothly under his hands.
I leave my plant on the windowsill to sit on my bed and watch him. The pottery wheel is nearly soundless, its revolutions filling the room with mechanical whispers.
Sawyer closes his eyes for a moment, just feeling the soft clay. Under his deft grasp, the clay rises and lowers, shapes coming to life and dissolving in his fingers. It’s not long before light gray coats his hands.
“Is it time for us to have our Ghost moment?” a voice says behind me.
I whirl. “Zach! A little warning, please!” I exclaim. My ghost hover-perches on the countertop, looking pleased with himself.
Sawyer, to his credit, grins, letting the wheel slow. “Are you taking your shirt off or am I?” he replies.
Zach laughs and vanishes.
What does not vanish is the very shirtless image that has entered my head, which I fight while Sawyer sculpts.
Have some respect, Morgan. Have some freaking dignity.
He’s doing his pottery. He’s…He’s guiding the clay with confident hands, shaping the supple material like a symphony I can see.
His shoulders rippling, he holds one hand steady to keep the shape while the other reaches inside the forming vessel.
When he seems satisfied, he pauses to wet his hands once more and starts finessing the lip.
I lean forward, chin propped in my hands, elbows on my knees.
His work is hypnotically beautiful—the circular motion of the wheel, the lines rising up and down the clay with his manipulation, the way his hair falls into his forehead, the way his hands look covered in clay…Yes, I understand very well how one could fall in love with Sawyer for those hands.
I’m mesmerized right until the clay explodes violently under his fingertips.
Gray gunk spatters everywhere. Pieces hit my cheeks and shirt with fast pinpricks of pressure.
“What the fuck?” Sawyer startles. Globs of clay have painted the room in Pollockian gray.
He studies the pottery wheel, confused, then shakes off his stunned expression to check on me.
“Are you okay? I have no idea what happened. It’s not possible,” he explains. “It’s not how a pottery wheel works—”
I don’t get the chance to reassure him. In quick succession, every piece of pottery lining the shelves above him shatters.
The detonated pots and vases spray porcelain shrapnel everywhere. I shriek, ducking down to the floor behind my bed. Sawyer, who is closer to the exploding pottery, flings his hands up to protect his face.