Krystal
I brace myself against the chill as we climb out of the shuttle in front of Sweet Ink Tattoo. Everyone else chatters among themselves, partner to partner, couple to couple. You might have thought I wasn’t here with them, that I just happened to be standing here at the same time.
“I thought we were painting ceramics today?” I turn to Gayle.
“We are,” she smiles, tapping away at her phone before glancing up at me. “You’ll see.”
The dark grunge decor and booming music juxtapose the vivid brightness we just stepped out of.
“Follow me, everyone!” Gayle instructs the group.
My head is on a swivel, taking in all the art hanging on the walls and peeking into each booth, the buzz of needles an undercurrent to the heavy metal blasting through the speakers.
Then, through a pair of French doors, we’re led into a sun room, flooded with natural light made to seem even brighter as it reflects off the snow piled up outside.
A wall of frosted trees stands a few feet ahead of us, and you can see the hills on the horizon.
I pull my phone out and snap a picture for Raegan.
“Hello everyone!” A tiny, ginger-haired girl with a half-shaved head and flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows commands the room. “Welcome to Sweet Ink! I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re primarily a tattoo shop,” she says. The rest of the group chuckles as I take in the rest of the space.
I would love something like this for my Pilates studio.
There’s no problem with the private gym I run my classes out of now, but it’s always been my dream to have my own space.
One where all bodies, all skin tones, and all incomes are welcome.
I want to encourage everyone to move their bodies and to fall in love with the endorphin rush that comes as a result, even if you can only afford one group-funded class a month.
I want everyone to enjoy their sessions, work hard, and not have to worry about committing to a two-hundred-dollar monthly membership after.
“My name is Finnlay. The shop used to belong to my uncle, and now it belongs to me. This space is new, and we wanted to add a studio where we could create other types of art. Thus, Sweet Ceramics was born,” she beams. A few people offer sparse applause, then awkward silence falls over us.
At the back of the room, Gayle clears her throat, smiling when we turn to face her.
“We’re the first people using this space, and Finn so kindly provided us with the ceramics to paint.
At the end of the day, we ask everyone to leave a review on the new Sweet Ceramics business page.
” When more silence follows, she adds, “Say thank you!”
I stifle my laugh as the rest of the group expresses enthusiastic gratitude to a now blushing Finnlay. She goes through a few demonstrations, showing us the paints, how they will look after they’re cured. Before we leave, she’ll deliver our finished pieces to the bed and breakfast.
The anticipation in the room is buzzing now as everyone picks their piece and sits with their partner.
My eyes bounce from couple to couple as I decipher which one seems like the best fit for third wheeling.
Then, in the far left corner, nestled against the window, I spot an empty table.
I rest my mug down, then turn to steal an extra stool from one of the others.
After settling with my chosen color palette and tools, I look up to find Nicholas staring at me from across the room.
When he doesn’t look away, a hum starts at the top of my head and flows to the tips of my toes.
The thought begins to form in the back of my mind.
“Is his wife okay with him looking at other women like that?” But I catch myself.
I don’t know how I didn’t put two and two together before.
I’m not the only single person here.
I break contact first, eyeing the empty space at the other side of the table — an action he takes as an invitation to join me. My chest burns at the memory of our interaction this morning, how easily he got under my skin, and how much I enjoyed it.
“Here I was, wondering which one of these cornballs was lucky enough to be here with you. Turns out, I’m lucky cornball number one,” He smiles, straddling the stool he drags over and resting all his stuff down on the table.
My cheeks flush, but I try my best not to smile.
Rae might think I need to get under someone, but I need to prevent that from happening at all costs.
I just started to learn who I am outside of being someone’s supposed future wife.
The last thing I need is for this new version of me to become tangled up, mistaking fleshly desire for genuine intrigue.
“Oh, tough crowd,” he mumbles.
My mouth betrays me, cracking the tiniest bit to let the shadow of a smile through.
“You ever done this before?” He asks, dipping his paintbrush into a bit of dark brown and delicately stroking it across his mug.
“No, have you?” I answer, doing the same with a smaller paintbrush and some black.
I’m painting snowflakes of different sizes all over.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit excited about what the finished product will look like, the natural off-white color of the clay contrasting with the black snowflakes. This was a good idea for an activity.
“I have, on a date once,” he nods, his voice earnest as though this is the most important conversation he’s had in a while.
“That tracks,” I hum, adding details to my first snowflake.
Amused, his eyes dance as they slide up to meet mine. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, you said it yourself. You’re a cornball. This is just the kind of corny date someone who drinks black coffee would go on.”
His head falls back with a roar of a laugh, and this time, I let more than the shadow of a smile show on my lips.
It’s impossible not to. Many men would have been put off by my attitude already, but his entire face delights in my banter.
It’s nice to have someone else here too, to not be the only person here alone.
“Yo,” he sobers, “you’re cold.”
I dip my brush into more of the paint. “Could be colder.”
Comfortable silence settles over us, and I can’t help but wonder what he has in mind for his piece. What he’s doing now kind of looks like a piece of shit, literally. As I work on my own, my eyes keep drifting over to quench my curiosity.
“It’s a reindeer,” he says.
“That?” I point the blunt end of the brush at the brown blob on his mug.
“Rudolph to be exact,” he adds.
“Rudolph should sue.”
His shoulders shake with a silent chuckle. “I said I did this before, I never claimed to be da Vinci.”
“Whatever you do for work, I hope they keep you gainfully employed because this is not a viable backup plan for you,” I snort a laugh.
The corners of his mouth turn up in a heartwarming smile. I turn my gaze down to the mug in my hand, focus on my snowflakes.
“I guess it’s a good thing I employ myself then.”
His voice sounds like it’s always hiding laughter between the notes. It pulls a smile from the deep trenches of my heart, and because I understand what a feat that is these days, I let him have its full brilliance.
His mouth slackens as he watches me, his eyes bouncing between mine and my mouth.
Shaking himself out of it, he concentrates on his reindeer turd. “What about you? What does the ice princess do for work?”
All the blood drains from my face at his use of my old nickname.
I feel ashamed for having such a visceral reaction.
‘Princess’ isn’t even a unique name to me.
Men call women that all the time; there are women whose legal first names are that, too.
But Nicholas is doing such a great job of distracting me, of helping me to forget that I’m supposed to hate Christmas now, so I politely instruct him. “Please do not call me that.”
He looks back and forth between the cup and me. “Oh-kay?” He finally acknowledges. I’m grateful for the lack of follow-up despite his obvious curiosity. “Well,” he clears his throat, the smile in his voice returning. “You gonna tell me what your name is or give me something to call you by?”
I throw my head back with laughter, swiping loose blonde tendrils out of my face when I settle. I feel like I know so much about him already, and he knows nothing about me. Maybe it’s best if I keep it that way.
My mouth twists as I try to keep my budding grin at bay. He cocks an impatient brow at me. Considering how much fun I’m having, I decide to throw caution to the wind. I’m making a friend, and what’s twelve days anyway?
“Krystal Evergreen.”
He chuckles. “Okay, Krystal Evergreen,” he scoffs. “Come on, what’s your real name?”
I gawk at him. “I know Santa Claus doesn’t have something to say about my name.”
His laughter is so hearty, so rich.
“So you’ve been spying on me? I don’t remember telling you what my name is.” He breathes.
Suddenly, it feels too hot in here. I slip out of my jacket and rest it on an empty shelf behind me. “It’s cute you think you’re interesting enough to spy on,” I say, returning to my mug and refusing to look at him.
“Maybe just interesting enough for you to spy on,” he says, his voice subtle now. What he’s saying is just for me.
I swallow, knowing I’ll give myself away if I look up even half an inch, and then I’d have to admit to myself, and possibly to him, that I don’t want this moment to end.
“Not many men hold my attention these days,” I reply, hoping he’ll take it in jest — laugh his jolly laugh and crack a joke right back at me.
Instead, he says, “I’d be proud to hold your interest for even a minute.”
My eyes blink up to meet his, shining under the soft rays of sunlight filtering in through the window. My skin buzzes. My blood turns to static as my brain scrambles for something to say.
I’m tempted to throw cold water on this growing tension, to stop it before it can ignite into something glowing and hot. But how long has it been since someone made me feel this way? Grown and sexy and giddy and girly all at the same time? What exactly am I protecting myself from? A good time?
I smile at him, slow and sultry. “My God,” I say on a released breath. “I think you’ve done it.”
Finnlay’s voice cracks through the air, letting us know where we can put our finished pieces. “Well, Nicholas, I guess you’re minute’s up,” I say, resting my masterpiece of a mug on the table before me.
His smile is bright as he does the same, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Turd looking very much like it belongs next to my snowflakes.
“You never told me why you chose to attempt to paint Rudolph,” I say, unable to keep my eyes off his face. His presence is so vivid, almost tangible.
“He was my son’s favorite,” he says, the shine in his eyes dulling just a bit.
I pick up on his use of the past tense immediately.
He’s probably heard it a million times by now, apologies for his loss — and I know how superficial they can feel.
You can’t be sorry for someone else’s loss, it’s their’s to feel sorry for.
What you’re really saying is that you’re sorry for them.
I’m familiar enough with pity that I know I don’t want to give any to him.
I place my hand over his. I don’t squeeze or try to nestle my fingers between his; I just rest it there. He flips it over, squeezing softly and grazing his fingers against the softness of my palm when he lets me go.
“Thank you,” he says, barely audible.
After a brief moment, we take our mugs to the table Finnlay dedicated to us, separating once more to wash our brushes and return our tools.
As we file out of the building, we find each other again, settling in beside each other on the shuttle.
I revel in the warmth of his body next to mine and don’t make any attempts to keep my leg from pressing into the outside of his.
I push logic to the back of my mind. The nagging voice that lives there reminds me that I’m in no space for any kind of romantic connection, or that I don’t know this man enough to let myself feel even a bit of the comfort he’s providing me.
Talking to him, allowing him to make me laugh and blush and smile — it feels like being a kid again. It feels like Christmas.
“Not to push,” he says, his voice low to my ear so only I can hear him. “I won’t call you by that name again if it makes you uncomfortable, and I respect you being so plain about it, but what beef do you have with being called ‘Princess’?”
“Oh,” I sigh, rolling my eyes. “It’s stupid, it’s…what my ex used to call me.”
“Ah,” he mouths, understanding washing his features as he leans back into his seat.
“I know it’s dumb, it’s not a big deal,” I scramble to add.
He turns his charmed expression onto me, shrugging. “Grief is funny like that.”
“I said he’s my ex, not that he’s dead.” I don’t know why I feel the need to correct him on that.
His deep eyes turn molten as he holds my gaze hostage. The tension that dissolved so easily in the ceramics studio converges in a simmering heat at the base of my core.
“Krystal.” My name is a low hum falling from his lips. “I hope you know I mean no offense by this,” he adds, wetting his lower lip. “And I know you don’t really know me at all,” he says.
My body leans towards him as if hearing the words isn’t enough; I want to feel them fall on my skin, too. “If you give me a chance, by the end of this trip, I’ll show you why he might as well should be.”