Chapter 30 #3
“I’ll check it out,” Zachary says, his voice low and cautious. He pushes his stool back with a soft scrape on the concrete floor.
He walks quickly and quietly across the room towards the studio door, unlocks it, then walks through the supply area to the main door. By the time he gets there, the rattling has stopped. The silence that follows is heavy, charged with uncertainty.
From my safe distance I can see him put his hand on the handle, but instead of opening the door he pauses, listening. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
He quickly flips the thumb lock, ensuring it’s secure, then presses his ear to the cold metal of the door. “I don’t think anyone is there anymore,” he confirms, pulling back and glancing at me.
“Maybe it was just a janitor trying to get into the supply closet?” I suggest, trying to rationalize the sudden intrusion.
“Maybe. I think the janitors usually use the supply closet in the main hallway, though.” He shakes his head, dismissing it. “It’s fine. We’re locked in. Probably just someone trying to use the back way to the storage room.”
He turns to come back towards me, but then he stops again, his gaze fixed on a shelf on his right. It’s one of those freestanding, industrial metal shelves, stacked with jars of glaze and buckets of slip.
“That’s odd,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That toolbox.” He points. There’s a medium-sized, battered red metal toolbox that had been sitting neatly on the middle shelf, next to a stack of carving tools. It’s now on the floor beside the shelf. It couldn’t have just fallen; it’s heavy, and the shelf lip is high.
It’s ambiguous enough to be dismissed—maybe it was jostled earlier, maybe the shelf is loose. Maybe the rattling outside shook it free. But combined with the aggressive attempt to open the door, it sends a strange chill over me.
Zachary quickly checks the window behind the shelves, which is securely locked. He looks back at the toolbox, then at the locked door, then back at me. His expression is unreadable, a careful neutral mask.
“Okay,” he says, picking up the toolbox and returning it to the shelf. He makes sure it’s tucked safely on the shelf where it’s supposed to be. “Spooky studio ghosts. They’re just keeping us on our toes so we can finish all thirty little pots tonight.”
He tries to make a joke, to lighten the air, but the edge of the moment lingers. We both know it wasn’t a joke. It heightens the sense that we are being watched, adding a chilling undercurrent to what should be a completely romantic and creative date.
I force a shaky smile and reach for the wheel switch. “Fine. Thirty-two, then. One for the ghost.”
The wheel whirs back to life, and I plunge my hands back into the clay, trying to force the solid, grounding texture of the earth to drown out the lingering, unsettling sound of the rattling door.
“Show me how you pull up the walls for these tiny ones,” Zachary says, pulling his stool closer, forcing the focus back to the clay, back to us.
I nod, concentrating on the pressure in my hands, grateful for his presence, and the comforting, immediate reality of the work.
I refuse to let the little mysteries of the night steal this time from us.
Even though it’s been such a lovely, quiet time in the studio after all the noise and chaos of the week, I’m still feeling a strange, cold prickle on my neck as we leave the building. The ghost of the rattling door and the mysteriously moved toolbox hangs in the air between us.
We reach the faculty parking lot, and the yellow glow of the lights casts long, distorted shadows around my car. I’m fumbling in my bag for my keys when Zachary stops me, gently taking my clay-stiff hand in his.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low. “You don’t have to drive home right now. Let me drive you, and you can spend the night at my apartment. We can put that spooky energy to rest. We’ll even grab Frida from your apartment and she’ll guard us.”
The temptation is huge. His apartment is cozy, safe, and best of all, he’s there. But the energy, that manic creative hum that the clay session only partially satisfied, is still buzzing.
“I want to,” I sigh, leaning my head against his shoulder for a quick, exhausted second.
“But I really need to get some ideas down. I’ve been visualizing this new watercolor series all afternoon, and if I don’t sketch it out, I’ll lose it by morning.
” I hold up my hands, flexing my fingers.
The muscles feel tight and tender from wrestling the thirty-one tiny clay lumps.
Zachary nixed the one for our ghostly friend, my hands couldn’t have done one more anyway.
“But I know my hands won’t take it. Even holding the charcoal feels like too much tonight. ”
He doesn't miss a beat. He lifts my hand and turns it over, his thumb tracing the knuckles. They ache in a familiar, dull throb. “Then let me help,” he murmurs.
He starts working his thumb into the soft pad beneath my palm, the pressure firm and deliberate, easing the tension instantly. “I can massage them while you’re on the couch. We’ll get the blood flowing again. And if you can’t make art, the next best thing is watching other people make it, right?”
I look up at him, confused. “What, like a Bob Ross marathon?”
He grins, the crinkles around his eyes deepening.
“Better. I did some highly scientific research during my planning period this week. I found a show. It’s called Portrait Artist of the Year.
It’s a competition. They paint celebrities in four hours.
It’s British. It’s dramatic. It’s exactly what you need. ”
The thoughtfulness of it—the research, the specificity, the commitment to nourishing my artistic mind even when my body won't cooperate—knocks the breath out of me. It’s not just the offer of the massage; it’s the quiet determination to find a way to let me participate in the art world, even from his couch.
Impulsively, intensely, the realization slams into me: I’m really falling in love with this man.
He doesn’t just see the artist; he sees the sick girl, the tired teacher, and the one who needs someone to fetch the remote. He doesn't shy away from the pain or the exhaustion; he just offers practical, loving solutions.
I squeeze his hand, pulling him gently toward his Subaru. “Portrait Artist of the Year? You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” he promises, tightening his grip on my hand.
We walk side-by-side to his car, leaving the darkened school behind. We don't talk about the strange incident again. We don't have to. His thumb is rubbing small, continuous circles over my sore knuckles, a quiet promise that we are safe, and we are together.
I think I’m going to like watching art with him. I already know I like waking up next to him.