Page 57 of Heat & Deceit
My forehead crinkles. “Oh, um. It’s okay. Things happen sometimes.”
Grimacing, she shakes her head. “No. I messed up, and it caused a lot of drama.”
“Todd would have been an asshole, regardless of if we were behind or not. You know that, right?”
“Still. It won’t happen again.” She pulls out her phone and ignores me in favor of whatever’s on her screen.
Her left leg bounces, nervous energy exuding from her. I contemplate saying more to reassure her, but then she says, “Don’t.”
My mouth snaps closed, and I nod, confused by the whole interaction. I say goodbye and slip out of the shop before Javier is done with his interview. With a little apprehension, I head to the enrichment center. It’s a different day of the week. The chances of running into Mr. Gray—I mean, Rome—again are low, and I imagine he’ll avoid the studio after our last interaction.
I have my own studio.
I didn’t think much of his statement at the time, but now it’s almost painfully obvious. The cost to fully equip a personal studio would be exorbitant. None of them gave royal pack vibes. They were all cocky and annoyingly sure of themselves, but that’s more of an alpha thing.
There are two types of alphas: low pack and pure blood. The pure bloods are descendants of the royal lines, former heirs to the world. The archaic Royal Council was overthrown not so long ago, and Lucas, the head of the Council, and his pack have made a lot of progress toward leveling the playing field. Now, alphas, both low and royal, are one in the same. Things have changed so much since I was with my old pack, but Todd’s attitude today was a reminder that, even if the world changes, some attitudes never will.
A few people pass me on my way into the main building. I duck my head to avoid their gazes and scurry to the studio. Rome’s blue eyes lift from his work, widening slightly when they see me. I slow a little but shake off the surprise and turn toward my station, stopping short when I spot the stout lumberjack of a guy sitting there.
My gaze skips around the room. There are four other stations, a few I refuse to use, as the wheels aren’t to my liking. There’s a spot next to Rome and another next to the big guy. The lumberjack scowls in my direction, a clear warning not to even think about approaching him.
Why does that never work for me?
Maybe I’m not scary enough.
With a heavy sigh, I walk toward the station across from Rome. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and that’s fine. I set my stuff aside and grab the supplies I need, slipping in my earbuds and choosing my favorite Lo-Fi playlist before I start preparing a chunk of clay. My worktable faces Rome, and eventually staring down starts to hurt my neck, and I have to look up. His gaze is on me, and his lips kick into a lazy smile. I nod at him and press my lips together, refusing to invite conversation. This is my time to get out of my head.
And I need it today. After the asshole customer and everything with Javier, my brain is a jittery mess, and I’m tempted to go buy a bottle of wine to decompress. I know better, though. One bottle will lead to craving something stronger. Alcohol wasn’t my drug of choice. It was easy to give up, especially once I realized any mind-altering substance made resisting the siren’s call more difficult.
With my readied clay, I check the wheel and make sure it’s good to go, then drop my clay onto it. Rome stands, and my attention flicks to him as he walks to the sink. His navy-blue shirt is stretched across his broad back, and even though he’s wearing an apron, somehow, he’s still covered in clay. I smile a little.
Should I tell him or let him find out when he gets home?
I don’t think Rome’s the type to be upset about a messy shirt, another thing that strikes me as odd for someone from a royal pack. Then again, none of them have acted anything like Todd. They’ve been nice. Down to earth. Would they have been that way a few years ago, though? Or would they have looked down their nose at me for being from a low pack? It shouldn’t bother me so much to find out that they’re royal, but apparently, like Todd, I still haven’t adjusted to the new ways of the world.
Rome begins to turn, and I focus on my wheel and begin my new, slower approach to throwing pottery, falling into the process and letting my body move in time with the comforting music.
The clay, soft and pliable, follows my instructions like an eager dog at training. In a way, pottery isn’t so different from life. There could be two identical chunks of clay made into a bowl, and they’d turn out differently, even if only minutely. The potter makes all the difference. Some have heavy hands, too rough and careless, pushing and forcing the clay to move in directions it doesn’t want to go. Those potters have the power to destroy at their fingertips.
Too much pressure, and the bowl is ruined, misshapen and useless. A piece no one will ever love.
A bit like me, I suppose.
My chest tightens at the thought, and I release a harsh exhale, hating how right it sounds.
I am so much more than my addiction. I deserve love. My old pack was wrong. I am worthy.
I repeatthe affirmations my therapist drilled into me. Sometimes they work. Sometimes, no matter how much I think them, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a fraud. Only pretending to feel the things everyone tells me I should feel.
This afternoon is heavy with imposter syndrome.
The bowl I’ve been working on is actually quite beautiful, but it isn’t right. I stop shaping it, instead lightly running my finger along the inside, searching for the fissure. Searching for the crack or abnormality that’s ruined the piece. Searching for the potter’s mistake. Searching formymistake.
Spinning round and round, the clay begins to blur as tears fill my vision.
I blink, screaming at the pain to go away. I breathe in, pulling my finger away from the bowl and taking my foot off the pedal. I exhale, a growing wrongness chilling my blood. My muscles tense, and I scowl at the bowl. I can study the piece forever and won’t find the imperfection, because it’s not surface level. It’s within the clay itself. It’s rooted in everything that was done to it. The bowl will never be a bowl, because at its core, it can’t be a bowl. Not after what’s happened to it.
Extending my trembling hand, I place my palms on either side of the arguably good piece and smash them together. There. All I need to know is right here; there’s no need to search. There’s nothing to repair, at least, not at this point. The bowl sits visibly ruined.
