Happy Place(97)

“Is that sad?” His brows peak up in the middle. “Working on something you won’t get to finish?”

“I’ve had a nice time.”

Wyn’s smile grows. “She did good, then.”

“She did,” I agree. “What was your surprise?”

“Kayaking,” he says.

I laugh. “I love that yours was exercise and mine was sitting very still and playing with mud.”

“Care to guess what Cleo’s and Kimmy’s were?” he asks.

“Did they go?” I say, wondering if Cleo had a chance to talk to Sabrina yet.

He nods.

“Cleo,” I say, considering, “went to an agricultural museum, and Kimmy went to a hallucinogenic swap meet.”

“So close. They got a couples’ massage.” At my expression, he adds, “You look surprised.”

“I am surprised,” I say.

“Why?”

“I guess now that I know couples’ massages were on the table, I’m surprised she didn’t send us to one too.”

“I’m not,” he says. “You hate being touched by strangers.”

My heart keens. Another little reminder of how well these people know me against all odds, all the pieces of me I’ve come to see as difficult or unpleasant, the parts I never voluntarily share but have sneaked out here and there across years.

I swallow the building emotion and tip my head toward my stool. “Sit down.”

Wyn slips the apron over his neck and perches, his face etched with consternation.

“Relax.” I shake his shoulders as I cross to the next stool. I drag it up to his and sit. “It’s like driving. Get your hands a little damp.”

“Oh, I never drive with damp hands,” he says.

“Well, that’s your first mistake,” I say. “It’s illegal to drive with dry hands.”

He says, “I think the laws are different in Montana.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “There are no laws in Montana. If you have a big enough hat, you can just claim whatever you want, and it’s yours.”

“True,” he says. “I once owned a slew of Walmarts that way.”

“Until a guy with a bigger hat came along,” I say. “I’m not going to make you do this, Wyn. I thought you wanted to.”

“I do,” he says. “I’m stalling because I’m afraid I’m going to ruin it.”

“I already told you,” I say. “You can’t ruin it. That is the whole point. Now get your hands damp.” I lean forward to drag the bowl of water closer, and with a slight grimace, he dips his hands into it.

“Good,” I say. “Now use your left hand to give slight pressure to the side of the vase. Your right is more for balance, to keep it upright.”

He sets his palms against the structure’s sides. “Now what?”

“Ease onto the pedal,” I say.

He does, and because he’s Wyn, he does so beautifully. But as soon as he reaches full speed, he pushes too hard, and I dive to catch his right hand, steadying it before the would-be vase can topple. “Told you I’d ruin it.”

“So dramatic,” I tease, brushing my nose against his neck. “You didn’t ruin it. We’re just changing the shape of it.”

I lean across him to put my other palm on the outside of his left hand, matching the pressure, the vase narrowing and funneling upward.

“Now we really are doing the Ghost thing,” he says.

“Not quite,” I say, “but I don’t think my arms are long enough that I could sit behind you and do this.”

“Definitely not,” he says. “But you’re welcome to sit in my lap.”

“Excuse me,” I say. “I’m the one in charge here. Everyone knows the person sitting in the lap is the amateur.”

“So you want me to sit in your lap,” he says.

“I don’t have a death wish,” I say.

“Glad to hear it.” His gaze flickers back to the clay. Somehow, we’re keeping it from collapsing or tipping over. It flares out, narrows, and flares again, wonky but standing.

I catch myself staring at him, without any intention of replying.

When he looks up, my heart trips.

His mouth curls. “What?”

“I have to tell you something,” I whisper.

His foot lifts off the pedal, his smile falling. “Okay.”

I try to steel myself. I feel like Jell-O. I wish we were in the dark, on opposite sides of the kids’ room. It’s so much harder to say things in the light of day.

I close my eyes so I won’t have to see his reaction, won’t see if the world suddenly ruptures at the words: “I think I hate my job.”

I wait.

Nothing.

No eardrum-destroying groan as the earth splits in two. My parents and coworkers don’t come barreling into the room with pitchforks. My phone doesn’t ring with the calls of every teacher, tutor, and coach who ever wrote me a recommendation letter or gave me a research position or sent a congratulations email.

But all of those things were, arguably, a long shot.

The only thing that matters right now, the only thing I’m afraid of, is Wyn’s reaction.