Daphne
Ichanged my outfit three times before admitting I was being ridiculous. It was pottery. Levi had specifically told me to wear something I didn't mind ruining. Yet, here I was, standing in front of my tiny closet with its warped wooden door that never quite closed right, debating between two nearly identical pairs of old jeans like the fate of the world depended on my choice. The late afternoon sun slanted through my bedroom window, catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.
"Get it together," I muttered, grabbing the darker pair of jeans and pulling them on. They were soft from years of washing, the knees worn nearly white, a small hole starting at the left pocket that I kept meaning to mend. I added a gray sweater that had been through the wash so many times it felt like a second skin, the kind of garment that had molded itself to my body over the years, comfortable and familiar and nothing special. Exactly right for getting covered in clay.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, leaving a few stubborn strands to frame my face the way they always did no matter how many pins I used. No makeup—there was no point when I wasabout to get covered in clay—but I dabbed on some lip balm and called it good enough.
The crunch of tires on gravel startled me back to awareness. I glanced at the old clock I'd hung on the wall, its face water-stained and slightly crooked, my heart stuttered. He was early. Twenty minutes early.
Through the window, I could see Levi's truck in the drive, forest green and mud-splattered, a kayak strapped to the roof that I'd never asked him about. He was already on the porch by the time I reached the door, his hand raised to knock.
He was wearing a blue shirt that made his eyes look impossibly bright, the color of a summer sky just before sunset. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it—a nervous habit I'd noticed during our market day conversations. There was an energy radiating from him, eager and anxious all at once, that made something warm unfurl in my chest.
"You're early," I said, slightly breathless.
"I'm eager." His smile was quick and crooked, dimpling his left cheek. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" I stepped aside to let him in, catching a whiff of his scent as he passed—cinnamon and woodsmoke, something warm and spicy that made me want to lean closer. The cabin suddenly felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space in a way that should have been overwhelming but wasn't.
"Well." He offered me his hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. His fingers were long and capable-looking, callused in places that spoke of work and craft. "Let's go have some fun."
I took it, a wide smile spread on my face.
The drive to the pottery studio wound through the outskirts of town, past fields gone gold with autumn and farmhouses with wraparound porches. Levi's truck smelled like coffee and pine,with a hint of something sweeter, chocolate, maybe, from the treats I could see in a bag on the backseat.
He drove with one hand on the wheel, relaxed and easy, pointing out landmarks as we passed. "That's where Garrett wiped out on his dirt bike when we were sixteen. Broke his collarbone and still tried to get back on." A weathered barn, listing slightly to the left. "Mrs. Patterson's place. She makes the best apple butter in three counties, but if you tell her that, she'll make you take home six jars and then you're eating apple butter for a year."
I found myself laughing at his stories, at the easy way he painted this town and its people with affection and gentle humor. Haven's Rest had been my home for five years, but I was realizing I'd barely scratched its surface. I'd been too busy surviving to actually live here.
The pottery studio was nothing like I expected. Levi pulled into a gravel lot beside a converted warehouse, its brick exterior softened by climbing ivy that had turned crimson with the season. A hand-painted sign above the door read "Turning Point Studios" in letters that looked like they'd been applied by someone with more enthusiasm than skill. Inside, the space opened up into something almost cathedral-like. High ceilings with exposed wooden beams. Brick walls that had been left raw and honest, their imperfections on full display. Windows stretched nearly floor to ceiling along one wall, flooding the room with the golden light of late afternoon, dust motes dancing in the beams like tiny stars.
"Wow." I turned slowly, trying to take it all in.Two pottery wheels sat side by side in the center of the room, their metal surfaces gleaming dully in the light. Nearby, a wooden table held clay in various stages of preparation, some still in wrapped blocks, some already wedged and waiting. Buckets of water, sponges, wire tools, and wooden ribs were arranged with carefulprecision. The air smelled of earth and minerals, wet and ancient, with an undertone of something sharper, the chemicals used in glazes, maybe.
Shelves lined the far wall, filled with finished pieces in various stages of completion. Bowls and vases and mugs, some glazed in brilliant colors, others left raw and honest. A few abstract sculptures that looked like they might be depicting birds. Or possibly fish…possibly nothing at all except the joy of creation.
Music played softly from speakers mounted in the corners—something mellow and acoustic, a woman's voice threading through guitar strings like water over stones. The song was familiar somehow, though I couldn't place it.
"This is incredible." I completed my slow rotation, ending up facing Levi again. He was watching me with barely contained delight, clearly pleased by my reaction. "Your friend owns all of this?"
"Built it from nothing seven years ago." He moved to a table near the windows where he'd set up wine and snacks. The spread was thoughtful, a soft red wine, an assortment of cheeses, water crackers, and chocolates. Not just any chocolates, I realized with a start. The salted caramels from Marguerite's Boutique, the ones I always paused to look at through the window but never let myself buy. "Started with one wheel and a dream, and now he's got a waiting list for his classes. Want a drink before we get started? Fair warning: you're going to get very, very messy."
"You keep saying that like it's supposed to scare me." I accepted the glass he poured, the wine catching the light like liquid garnets. The first sip was smooth and velvety, with hints of cherry and something earthier underneath. "I spend half my life covered in dirt. Clay can't be that different."
"Famous last words." He led me to the pottery wheels, pulling two stools into position. The seats were worn smoothfrom years of use, the wood warm when I sat down. Up close, the wheel was more intimidating than it had looked from across the room, a metal disk mounted on a shaft, foot pedal below, a complexity of mechanics that I didn't begin to understand.
"Okay." Levi settled onto his own stool, close enough that our knees almost touched. "First things first. Clay is basically just really fine particles of earth mixed with water. It wants to move, to flow, to become something. Your job is to guide it, not force it."
He picked up a ball of clay from the prepared pile—gray-brown and dense, leaving wet marks on his palms. "The most important thing is centering. If your clay isn't centered on the wheel, nothing you do after that will work. Watch."
He dropped the clay onto the wheel with a wet thunk and started the pedal. The wheel began to spin, slowly at first, then faster, the clay becoming a blur of motion. His hands cupped around it, pressing, shaping, and within seconds the wobbling mass had become perfectly round, perfectly stable, spinning with hypnotic smoothness.
"See? Centered." He stopped the wheel and looked at me expectantly. "Your turn."
I stared at the lump of clay he handed me. It was heavier than I expected, cool and dense, with a texture somewhere between mud and bread dough. "I'm going to destroy it."
"That's literally impossible. It's clay. If you mess up, you just start over." He grinned, that crooked dimpled smile that made something flutter in my chest. "That's the beauty of it. You can fail as many times as you want."
I placed the clay on the wheel, trying to remember how he'd positioned his. Started the pedal. The wheel lurched into motion, and immediately my clay began to wobble, lurching off-center like a drunk trying to walk a straight line.
