Chapter 15
Fifteen
After hauling Stella’s ceramic tools onto the enclosed back porch, I’m huffing.
“Aren’t you a professional athlete?” she says, pinching her lips as she stares at me.
I scowl down at her kiln, which she has assured me is a small version. “I’m a soccer player. I have the body of a runner, not a body builder.”
I’m not exactly impressing the new little wife with my strength. Then again, I don’t need to impress her. This isn’t that kind of relationship. “How have you done this alone in the past?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I use a furniture dolly. It’s pretty simple.”
I grind my teeth. “That might have been nice to know.”
“It’s not like I own one. I always have to rent it.”
“It’s fine.” I plop onto the stool behind Stella’s wheel and lean against the wall of the house. “Where are you selling your art right now?”
Her brows, two dark blonde arches, pull together. “Now, as in right now?” She clears her throat and fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “So right now. As in now now, I’m not exactly selling anything. Anywhere.”
“Nothing?”
She shakes her head.
“What about opening an online shop?” I ask, remembering the way she used to talk about her art.
“I did that. Technically, I have one,” she says, and she looks as if she’s about to sell her soul with the words. “I only sold a couple items.” Her jaw clenches. “One to Willow. And one to my aunt.”
I cross one leg over the other and attempt to compute what she’s telling me. That’s it? Two items?
A million questions fire off inside my head.
But none that are helpful. None that lack some kind of critique.
I’m not sure that’s what she needs right this minute.
So instead, I say, “That just means it wasn’t your time yet.
You will. What does Rebecca say?” I’m kind of surprised Rebecca hasn’t bought up all her pottery.
“Mom?” Her brows lift and she coughs on a laugh. “Mom wants to know how I’m going to support myself. And she’s right. Thingy-ma-bobs aren’t cutting it.”
“Thingy—what?”
“That’s what she calls my ceramics. Thingy-ma-bobs.”
“No, she was always so supportive. She—”
“Of Brice, and his desire to teach. Of you, and your obvious skills. But she knew this would be a long shot for me. It only stressed her out. I’m pretty sure the minute I graduated, she switched her focus from grief over Brice to worry over Stella.”
“If Mrs. E knew how important this was to you—”
“She knows,” Stella says. “She also knows it isn’t practical.” Her tone has softened, though.
That doesn’t sound right to me. But at least Stella has parents who worry over her. I haven’t been in touch with mine in months. No one is worried about me.
“And she hated that name. Mrs. E.” She’s half grinning, though. And while Rebecca Everly may have scoffed often at my pet name for her, she always did so with a giggle.
“She loved it,” I retort.
Stella leans one shoulder against the wall separating my porch and my house. She crosses one foot behind the other and smirks at me. “How were you always able to do that?”
“Do what?”
“Your never-ending confidence? Your endless self-surety? The not caring what others think and then ending up with everyone loving you?” She crosses her arms. “How?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Is this how she actually sees me? If only she knew.
“It’s true.” She stands straight, moving one hand to her hip.
“Things have changed. I’ve changed. Believe me, Stell, no one loves me.”
“You know what I think?” Stella’s eyes lock on me, holding my gaze and never letting up. I’m not allowed to look away from her. She forbids it. “I think the real Roman Graves is still in there. He just needs a little help coming out.”
“You’d be wrong.” Somehow, I find the strength to break eye contact with her. I peer down at her wheel when suddenly her cool fingers trail over my skin.
“I doubt that,” she says, combing over the ink on my forearm. I’m sure she recognizes the handwriting—it’s her brother’s. “Very much.”