Ever: Maybe I want more than friendship.
Dom: Maybe or definitely?
Ever: Honestly? That depends on your answer.
The world stops on its axis. I’m sure of it. Nothing exists other than this moment, this conversation between two people who live across town. I’ve missed being nervous about things. I’ve missed caring.
Dom: The answer is yes and no.
Ever: ?
Dom: Yes, I want to hang out. No, I don’t want coffee. Ready to be wowed?
I type always, but I inwardly say Rarely.
Dom: Meet tonight after your tour.
SEVEN
“Pottery studio,” I say, looking around me.
When Nora said Dom was going to get me out of my comfort zone, I thought he would at least let me stay in its general zip code. Alas, that’s not the case. It’s ten thirty at night. I thought Dom for sure was going to take me for a romantic walk or a restaurant. But no. We’re at All Clay Long Pottery Studio—open twenty-four hours; that’s its shtick—just on the outskirts of Salem.
Despite the late hour, the place is buzzing with people. It’s a small, crowded space, with a long oval table at the center, individual pottery wheels around it, and purple bowls full of clay next to each one. On the shelves is a display of bowls and sculptures.
There’s no specific type of people who comes here. I spot two more couples who I bet are here on a first or second date, a group of elderly women, and what I bizarrely （yet probably correctly） assume is a bachelorette party. I bite down on a smile, because if Pippa were here, she’d have gone on a rant. I can almost hear her. A bachelorette party at a pottery studio is exactly the kind of thing I expect you to arrange, Lawson. So I’m telling you right now, I want a stripper, and a cake, and some degree of debauchery that would make us not speak of the night ever again unless we get really hammered and the husbands are not around. You feelin’ me?
“I know it’s unorthodox, but I wanted to think outside the box.” Dom grins down at me. He looks fantastic, in a pale-blue dress shirt, elegant jeans, and loafers. I, on the other hand, am in a gothic black dress, my septum piercing visible to all. I’m pretty sure if my mom ever met him, she’d find him a little too perfect, but she is not here, is she?
“I’m digging it.” I smile big to show my enthusiasm. Nora knows I’m on a date tonight, and I suspect that if I don’t come home pregnant or at the very least engaged, she is not going to let me in.
A woman named Maria approaches us and introduces herself as our teacher. She is wearing an apron stained with clay and passes us two aprons. We wrap them around our waists and follow her to our stations. After that ensues an explanation about what we’re going to do tonight. Then we start pottering. It’s not exactly the Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze experience in Ghost. It’s awkward and sticky and a little frustrating.
In the end, Dom and I both get out of the place, leaving our mugs behind to pick up tomorrow.
Well, I made a mug. I’m not sure what Dom created, exactly. His clay cup looked like it was trying to consume itself from within.
“I thought you loved pottery.” I shove one fist into the pocket of my dress—because it’s that kind of awesome dress.
“Never tried it before. I do things for the fun of it. Even if I suck.”
He’s a walking, talking self-help book, I think. It’s exactly what I need.
“You can take mine, then. Tomorrow, I mean.”
Since there’s no way I’m coming back to pick it up, and all.
“Why, thank you.” Dom tips an imaginary hat. “I shall drink my morning coffee with it from tomorrow until the end of my days. Or at least until one of our children breaks it. Darn Dominic Jr. Always up to no good.”
Okay. Hold up. What?
I stop in front of his car. He turns around, then walks back to face me as he speaks. “I’m kidding, Lynne. You should see your face.”
“Whatever,” I say, and it feels good to smile again. It reminds me how rarely I do it these days. “You don’t scare me.”
“We men don’t think that far ahead. I, for instance, am still stuck on our wedding invitation, the future Mrs. G.”
I laugh harder, then ask, “What does G stand for, anyway, DominicG?”
“Graves,” he says. “Dominic Ansel Graves. What’s your full name, EverlynneL?”
“Everlynne Bellatrix Lawson.”
“Bellatrix?” His eyebrows jump to his hairline. He looks pleased and infinitely amused.
“Bellatrix,” I confirm with a nod. “It means female warrior in Latin. My mom was a ‘go big or go home’ kind of lady when it came to naming her kids.”