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I nod, crossing over toward her. “Sure.”
“How have you been adjusting to your new position?” she asks, wiggling her fingers above her keyboard.
“Good. It’s been a lot of fun, very rewarding. The kids seem excited about baseball, which I like.”
She records my answer, her fingers tapping the keys one at a time. I grin, remembering watching her do that as she wrote her papers. Her typing skills aren’t that much better than mine.
“Are you in need of any resources?”
“More baseballs and a better net to go in front of the pitching machine.”
She types again.
“Best and worst part of your week.”
I snort. “Well the worst part was getting talked to like I’m an idiot by a 16-year-old who thinks he knows how to play baseball better than everyone on the planet.”
Gabi glances my way with raised eyebrows. “Tell me how you really feel.”
I laugh. “Sorry. This kid is just a lot. Pushes all these buttons I didn’t know I had.”
She hums and returns her attention to the computer, typing up some version of my response.
“And the best part,” I continue, deciding to be honest, “is right now, spending time with you.”
Gabi’s fingers freeze, whatever she was typing remaining unfinished.
She glances at me, her lips curved slightly, some amusement in her expression.
“I don’t think that’s the kind of answer she’s looking for.”
“Well it’s the truth,” I tell her. “I’ve been feeling off since I moved home, and sitting in here, talking to you…well, it’s the happiest I’ve felt since being back.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
“I’ll just…put that you really like the kids’ energy,” she says, her fingers beginning to move again.
It’s fine if she types up whatever, even if it’s a lie. I don’t care about this stupid NSP thing.
What I do care about is Gabi knowing how I feel, even if it surprises her, because it is the truth. I forgot what it was like to be around Gabi Ventura. The way my soul feels lighter. The way my smile is wider.
It’s the best feeling in the world.
chapter eight
Gabi
I’m sitting at my wheel, throwing the last piece of a matching set of four vases when my phone pings on Wednesday evening. Normally, I keep it on silent on the other side of the room while I’m working, but recently, I’ve been keeping it on and sitting on a white bucket next to me so I can see it when it lights up.
The reason for the change is something I don’t want to think about too hard.
When the notification appears, my eyes dart to the screen, and my shoulders droop slightly when I see the text is from Nicole.
Nicole: Why are you always working? Don’t you know your best friend is desperate for attention?
I huff out a laugh and return my focus to the clay in my hands, which is still in lump form and hasn’t yet been molded into shape. I move slowly, adding water and pressing inward, bringing the clay up before pressing my fingers down in the center to open the middle.
The vases I’m working on are a new creation, long and narrow. So narrow that as I pull the clay upward, I have to use a wooden tool to even out the space at the bottom because my hand is too big to fit.
