Chapter 7: Pottery Night

"I should have come to your door," Veda said.

She said it in front of the whole studio, and she didn't lower her voice.

"I should have called every day."

"I should have sat on your steps until your mother-in-law called the police."

"I let you tell me to go away, because it was easier than fighting for you."

"Veda."

"I'm not done."

"Okay."

"I was hurt, and I was proud, and I let fourteen months go by."

"Then you nearly died, and I heard about it from a nurse."

Her chin was shaking.

I came around the desk and put my arms around her, clay and all.

"I don't remember what I said," I told her. "I'm so sorry I said it."

"You said I was jealous."

"Were you?"

"A little," she said. "Mostly I was right."

She wiped her face with the back of her wrist and left a smear of gray on her cheek.

"Come to the studio tonight," she said. "Seven."

"I'll feed you and tell you everything. You can throw things at me, and I'll let you."

"I'll bring wine."

"You hate wine."

"Do I?"

"You said it tastes like a bruise."

I laughed, and the whole room let out its breath.

I texted Colin from the cab that evening.

Out with Veda. Might be late.

His answer came before I put the phone in my bag.

Good. Have fun. I'll wait up.

I read the last three words twice.

Veda's studio was above a bike shop in Pilsen, a long white room full of wheels and shelves and the smell of wet earth.

She had a pot of chili on a hot plate and two stools by the window.

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