Chapter 68 Centered
I take a few more spoonfuls, like I’m proving something to both of us. Michael watches with that restrained intensity of his, pretending he isn’t tracking the level in the bowl.
“So,” he says casually, leaning back against the counter, “are we still going to that pottery class?”
It’s Sunday. The world outside my kitchen window is quiet in that late-afternoon way that feels almost forgiving.
I nod. “Yeah. It’ll be good exercise.”
He doesn’t smile. I called the principal, told him I can go back in tomorrow. Michael is still objectively against it... I can see the argument assembling itself behind his eyes, but I’m already decided.
I can still walk.
I can still talk.
I can still stand in front of a classroom and make teenagers pretend to care about literature.
He finally reaches out. His fingers slide gently through my hair, combing it back from my forehead with a tenderness that feels disproportionate to the gesture.
We lock eyes and I once again brace for the speech about rest. About pacing. About not pushing too hard. Instead, he tilts his head slightly toward the bowl in my hands.
“Okay then. Finish that first,” he says gently. Something loosens in my chest at the restraint of it. At the trust folded into something so simple.
It’s almost two hours later when we arrive.
Four-something in the afternoon. The light outside has softened into that pale gold that makes everything look temporarily kinder than it is.
The pottery place is tucked between a boutique and a café, modest and unassuming from the outside. Inside, it’s warm and earthy. The air smells faintly of clay and something mineral, damp but clean.
It’s small. Intimate. White walls with shelves lined with finished pieces, bowls glazed in deep blues, uneven mugs with thumbprints still visible, vases that lean slightly to one side like they’re mid-thought.
I made an appointment. The place runs on bookings only. Structured and intentional. We’re greeted by a guy named Charlie....late twenties, maybe early thirties, sleeves rolled up, hands already dusted in dried clay like permanent evidence of his craft.
“First time?” he asks, smiling.
Michael and I nod our heads in unison.
“Good,” Charlie says. “That’s my favorite kind. Blank slates are easier.”
He walks us through the basics. The wheel. The pedal that controls the speed. The importance of centering the clay, he emphasizes that part like it’s philosophical. “If it’s not centered,” he says, pressing his hands around an invisible shape, “everything else fights you.”
I feel that settle somewhere deeper than it should.
He demonstrates first. There’s something hypnotic about it. The wheel spinning, the lump of clay wobbling at first, then slowly steadying under the pressure of his hands. His thumbs press inward. His palms guide. The shape rises almost obediently.
“You’ll try to copy this,” he tells us. “It won’t look like this. But that’s fine.”
We get to take home whatever we make. The idea of that makes something small and quiet flicker in my chest. He gestures toward a row of aprons hanging neatly on hooks behind us.
“Go ahead and put those on,” he says. “Clay has commitment issues. It’ll cling to whatever you’re wearing.”
Michael reaches for one immediately. I move to grab another, but he catches my wrist gently before I can.
“Wait,” he murmurs.
He steps closer, shaking one apron loose from its hook, and slips it over my head before I can protest. The fabric settles against my chest. He smooths it down absently, like he’s aligning something delicate.
Then he moves behind me.
I feel him before he touches me, the shift in air, the warmth at my back. His fingers gather the strings at my waist. He ties them slowly, carefully. He leans in just slightly, close enough that his voice brushes the edge of my ear.
“Too tight?” he asks quietly.
I swallow. The closeness is distracting. The steady heat of him at my back. The quiet certainty of his hands at my waist. For a second, I’m acutely aware of how easily I could lean into him. How simple it would be to let my weight fall backward and disappear into that space he always seems to hold open for me.
I shake my head, just a little.
His hand lingers at my waist for half a heartbeat longer than necessary, then he gives a firm, grounding press before stepping away. He grabs another apron for himself and pulls it on, tying it with less care.
We sit facing Charlie, close enough to glance at each other, far enough that we have our own space. I rest my hands on my thighs for a moment before leaning forward. Charlie presses his foot to the pedal and his wheel begins to spin again. The mound of clay begins to wobble under the motion, slightly off-center, unsure of itself.
“Alright,” he says, glancing between us. “Just follow along. Don’t overthink it. This isn’t about perfection. It’s about getting your hands dirty and seeing what happens.” He smiles faintly. “Let it be bad. Let it collapse. That’s half the fun.”
Michael exhales through his nose like he’s preparing for a competitive event. I press my foot down on the pedal..The wheel beneath my hands begins to turn. Slowly at first. Then faster. The clay shifts under my palms, cool and damp and resistant. It’s softer than it looks. Alive in a strange way.
“Use your palms,” Charlie instructs. “Lock your elbows in.”
I lean forward slightly, bracing my forearms against my thighs like he showed us. The movement pulls faintly at my shoulders.... a quiet reminder of the fatigue still lingering in my muscles. I ignore it. Across from me, Michael’s staring at his clay like it’s a puzzle he intends to solve through sheer willpower.
Charlie watches us for a moment, then asks casually, “So what made you two want to try this?”
I glance toward Michael. He doesn’t look up from his spinning wheel.
“Ryan wanted to,” he says easily. “And I, in turn, wanted to make him happy. So here we are.”
It’s so simple in the way he says it. Then he finally looks at me and smirks, clay spinning obediently under his hands like he’s already mastered it.
I feel heat creep up my neck. I turn back to Charlie, smiling. “I actually walked by here once. When you’d just opened.”
He tilts his head. “Oh yeah?”
I nod, “You were outside. Passing out flyers, you handed me one. I thought it sounded....interesting.”
His brows knit together as he does the math. “Wait. That would’ve been—”
“Two years ago,” I confirm.
There’s a beat of silence, then he lets out a soft, amused laugh. “Well, I appreciate a slow burn. At least you made it eventually.”
“Delayed gratification,” I reply lightly.
But the truth sits a little deeper than that.
Back then, it wasn’t about timing. Or being busy. Or forgetting. Back then, there just wasn’t anyone who wanted to make me happy for the simple sake of it.
No one who would say, “Ryan wanted to”, and let that be reason enough.
Two years ago, I folded the flyer and left it on my kitchen counter until it disappeared beneath bills and unopened mail. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, there was just no one waiting beside me. No one tying aprons too carefully. No one pretending not to be worried while pressing a steady hand to my waist.
Back then, there was no Michael.....
The wheel spins steadier now. The clay finally centered. And somehow, so am I.