Chapter 23 #2
We talk with ease, not like when we were married, but better.
It’s a surprise to feel that.
Did I always worry about saying something to upset him? Yes, I did, which makes me complicit in the debacle our marriage became. I was so scared of losing him because I didn’t feel like I deserved him—not one of those fancy, wealthy Winter men—that I made myself small.
After he pays the bill and we’re still finishing up wine, I ask the question that I’ve been wanting to. One of many, in fact. “How’s your father handling….” I trail off, unsure about how to state what Aiden did with regard to his family.
“My desertion?” he fills in with a broad grin. “Not well. He’s called a board meeting to discuss my firing Diana, and he’s threatened to oust me as CEO.”
He doesn’t look upset about this, and that makes me suspicious. I sip my wine, contemplating how to ask him what I want without annoying….
Jesus, Mia. Give it up, already. Just ask him what you want. If he gets upset, that’s on him, not you.
“I thought the company meant everything to you. Why don’t you look…I don’t know, more bothered by it?”
A gentle curve tugs at his lips. “Losing you has been, by far, the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, Mia. In comparison, Dad can take the company and do whatever the fuck he wants, drive it back into the ground, I don’t give a flying fuck.”
I gasp both at his lazy tone and his words. “What?”
“You know what,” he says flatly.
I lick my lips because he’s right, I heard him just fine. I just am having trouble…hell, here was that pesky word again, believing him.
“You ready for the next part of our date?” He gets up and holds out his hand to me.
I cock an eyebrow. “I thought this was it!”
“Six hours. That’s the amount of time I have for every date and, baby, I plan to use every minute to make my case.”
He drives us through quiet mountain roads until we pull up to a refurbished red barn with twinkle lights framing the windows, and a rustic wooden sign that reads: Mud aim for soul.
There are just four other people on the wheels. Three women and one man. They look just as green as I feel.
The instructor, Laurel, is a curly-haired woman in her fifties, with a peace-sign apron, and fingers stained with earth tones. She greets us like we’re old friends.
“How wonderful to have you here.” As she leads us to our wheels, she peppers us with questions.
Where do we live? How did we find out about her class?
And ultimately, “How long have you been together?”
“This is a first date,” Aiden says as he gives me an indulgent smile.
My lips curve and I flush because the way he says it is…well, it’s sweet.
“How wonderful. I can just see that you’re both going to love this,” Laurel announces.
She gives us overalls that smell faintly of clay and linseed oil—and gestures us over to the wheels.
“You’ll get messy,” she promises cheerfully. “That’s half the fun.”
Our seats are low, the wheels sturdy between our knees.
Buckets of water sit beside each station, and on the table behind us, mounds of moist clay wait like raw possibilities. Laurel hands each of us a heavy, cool lump. It’s denser than I expected, damp but not wet, firm yet malleable in my palms.
“Start by slapping it down hard in the center of the wheel head,” she instructs.
I watch Aiden hesitate, then mimic her demonstration. His clay hits the wheel with a dull smack.
“This is called centering,” she continues. “It’s the hardest part. You’ve got to apply pressure with both hands, press the clay inward and downward while the wheel spins.”
She steps back and lets us try.
The wheel hums before me as I wet my hands and cup the clay, palms braced, thumbs pressing down.
The clay wobbles wildly like it’s alive and resisting. I tense. It’s harder than it looks—keeping steady pressure, resisting the urge to grip or fight it.
“It’s like trying to calm a toddler mid-tantrum,” I mutter under my breath.
Aiden snorts beside me. “How can it already be going wrong?” His clay flops sideways like a collapsed pastry.
“Your speed’s too fast,” the instructor offers, amused but not patronizing. “And you’re not leaning in.”
When my clay finally starts to resemble something bowl-like, Aiden chuckles. He glances around at the others in the room, most of whom are also struggling.
“How come you’re handling this so well?” he asks.
“I know a thing or two about controlling chaos,” I say loftily. “I teach kindergarten, after all.”
Right then, as if summoned by my pride, the clay gives a dramatic plop and collapses in on itself.
“You were saying?” Aiden grins.
We try again. Hands wet, elbows anchored to our thighs, bodies leaning in, we coax the clay to settle, to obey.
Mine starts to steady—again, better—and I feel a strange thrill.
Aiden’s still wrestling with his, swearing quietly as it goes lopsided again.
“You’re fighting it, Aiden,” the instructor calls out gently. “Let the wheel do some of the work.”
Eventually, I begin shaping.
The first pull upward is delicate, fingers inside and outside the spinning lump, easing it taller in slow, patient strokes. The clay responds—sometimes beautifully, other times by crumpling into nothing.
When Aiden’s first bowl collapses into a sad, squashed hat, I laugh—really laugh—for the first time in what feels like weeks.
I glance over, his hands and forearms are streaked with clay, his hair mussed. “You’re actually enjoying this.”
“I really am,” he admits.
I look at him for a beat too long, then return to my own misshapen cylinder. “I thought you’d rather revise a hundred-page financial disclosure than try this.”
“Me too,” he admits.
As I look at him, my cylinder gets out of control. He’s surprising me so much and in the best possible way.
“I wonder how many things I’ve missed out on thinking I won’t like them. Like that dude who didn’t want to eat green eggs and ham.”
I burst out laughing. “Did you just quote Dr. Seuss?”
“You betcha.”
We’re a mess by the end of it.
Clay under our nails, up to our elbows, splattered on our overalls.
“You look like a Wall Street executive being held hostage by a preschool art project,” I joke.
“And you, Mia, you look beautiful.”
I blush and then, to change the subject and reduce my temperature, I hold up my clay creation. “Behold: the saddest coffee mug in Vermont.”
He makes a show of studying it. “I wouldn’t drink out of that unless I had a tetanus shot.”
“You wound me,” I say dramatically.
As we wash our hands in the deep sinks at the back of the studio, I can’t help but glance at him, at the clay on his cheekbone and the damp curl of hair on his forehead.
He’s always been handsome. But now he looks softer and entirely unfamiliar in a way that makes my heart ache.
We drive back home in a good mood, passing pine trees frosted in moonlight, and dark barns with string lights curling around their porches.
“Aiden, you really don’t care that Nelson is going to get you kicked out of the company that you built?”
His hands tighten briefly on the steering wheel. “No.”
“Are you sure?” I press.
He’s silent for a beat, then he shakes his head. “I know you don’t believe me because of what I’ve done in the past. But just like you learned some truths about yourself these past months, I have as well.”
He turns on the blinker as he changes lanes to give way to an Audi that wants to pass.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove myself to a man who was never going to give me approval.
Being CEO was never really about the work.
It was about finally having my father say, ‘Good job, son.’ But when I lost you… .”
He signals again, taking the exit to Katya’s place. “That was the only wake-up call I needed.”
I breathe through the pressure in my chest. “Do you think he’ll succeed?”
“I don’t know.”
He drives me back to Katya’s, and walks me to the door.
“Even if I lose my job, Mia, I won’t lose myself again, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I nod thoughtfully. “I…worry that you’ll resent me for—”
“Not going to happen. I don’t want this job if it means I have to stay under my father’s thumb. If it means I have to work with Diana. If it means that it takes my focus away from what really matters.”
My mouth goes dry. “And what really matters to you, Aiden?”
The porch light casts soft shadows on his face, and when he leans in and brushes his lips over mine, he’s gentle. Careful. Reverent.
He pulls back before I can even process it.
“You matter, baby,” he whispers.
The door opens behind me.
Katya has a glass of wine in hand and a smirk on her face. “It’s past your curfew, Mia, so say goodnight to your date.”
Aiden salutes her with a broad grin, and jogs to his car.
I step inside the house.
Katya shuts the door, and raises an eyebrow. “Well?”
I press my fingertips to my lips, dazed. “I think…I think he’s slipping back into my life.”
She gives me a look that’s equal parts triumphant and amused. “And you’re pretending not to like it?”
I send her a flat, unimpressed stare. “He's making it really, really hard for me to pretend.” I groan at the truth that my ex-husband is wearing down my resistance. “I’m so fucked, Katya.”
“Come on, I baked some cookies, you can have a few,” she offers, wrapping a comforting arm around me.