Page 37 of Just This Once

“No,” Taryn answers for him, hanging her purse and coat in the closet, but I ignore her.

“Yes, we are. We’re gonna be good friends. And you can play with Tortellini. You guys are gonna be buds. I know it.”

“Tell me Tortellini is a sentient being and not a piece of pasta you speak about like it’s alive.”

God, I love her. “Tortellini is my tortoise. He’s the best. Super fun.”

“Your turtle…is super fun?”

“Tortoise. And yes. I made him a little skateboard, and he loves to scoot around. He’s got a lot of energy, actually.”

She narrows her eyes in suspicion. “I…have so many questions.”

I grin. “And I’d love to answer them for you.”

She shakes her head. “No. I am sure it would only make me like you more, and I don’t want to do that.”

I grin even wider. “Aw, babe. You going soft on me?”

“Absolutely not.” She snaps her fingers. “Get the box.”

“Yes, ma’am.” But when I don’t hear anyone else in the house, I ask, “Where are the kids?”

“With their dad.”

“So, you’re all alone?” I take the time to observe more of her house now than I did when I was here weeks ago since my attention had been pretty much focused on one thing. Now, Ilet my gaze coast around at the framed photos of her children, the random collection of what I think areI Love Lucyknickknacks all over the place, the clean yet haphazard space of a home that is used well and full of love.

“I’m gonna need you to stop that line of thinking right there,” Taryn says, forcing my eyes to her then down to her ass in a pair of leggings.

“You don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Yes, I do. You were about to try to talk me into having sex with you.”

I gasp. “You scandalize me! I was going to ask if you wanted to play Monopoly.”

She sniffs an impatient sound as she uses her hip to nudge open the door to the basement then hits the light with her elbow. Literally, she would rather break an ankle falling down these steps, carrying a box, than she would ask for help. When I finally get downstairs, I find it a real mess. It’s cluttered with toys that I doubt teenagers would play with, laundry all over the place, sports equipment, and in the middle of it all, a setup for pottery. A table, wheel, stool, and bins of…stuff. The plastic tubs are labeled with “mail” and “clay” and “paint” and “sponges.”

“So, youdopottery.”

“Yeah. I have a small online shop.”

I make a circuit of her setup, noting what I assume are completed pieces—a few vases, coffee mugs, matching plates and cups, a really big bowl that my mother would love to have for Seven Fishes on Christmas Eve, and a cute little ceramic Christmas tree. “Taryn…” I turn to her. “You’re really talented.”

She ignores me and opens one of the crates, beginning to pull out her art, but it’s easy to see she doesn’t have much room to work with everything else she’s got going on.

“You make it all down here?”

She nods. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

Until now. “Can you walk me through the process?”

She freezes with her hands in midair, halfway to the box to take out another ceramic dish. “You want to know how to make pottery?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?”

Her voice is high and squeaky, and I’m not sure why she’s so surprised. “Well, I don’t want to do it. I just want to know howyoudo it.”

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