Barbara looked pleased with herself.
I kept going. “Actually — tonight’s the perfect chance for you to prove it.”
His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I turned to Barbara instead. “I actually planned a birthday surprise for you.”
Her whole face lit up. “For me?”
“You’ve talked about trying pottery for years. There’s a studio a few blocks from here, and I booked us two spots tonight.”
Barbara actually clapped her hands together like a kid. “Oh — really? Tonight?”
“Tonight.”
That’s when Nathan understood, and I watched it land on his face in real time.
“What about the kids?” he said.
I looked straight at him. “What about them?”
“I figured we’d all go.”
“To an adults-only pottery class?”
He hesitated, glancing toward the living room where Ava was already half-asleep on the rug. “Ava might like it.”
“They don’t allow kids, Nathan.”
“Owen could tag along, maybe—”
“Why would he need to?” I said, and I let just enough silence sit there before adding, “You’re a hands-on dad.”
One of his cousins nearly choked laughing into his drink. Somebody else said, “Oh man, she’s got you there,” and even his brother was grinning at his plate.
Nathan forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course. I can handle it. It’s fine.”
“Perfect,” I said, and stood up to get my coat.
Twenty minutes later, Barbara and I walked into the pottery studio, and for the first time all evening, my arms were completely empty. It felt almost dizzying.
Barbara was thrilled. She picked out a deep blue glaze and spent a full ten minutes deliberating between a bowl and a vase before the instructor gently nudged her toward the wheel.
Her phone buzzed on the table beside the clay. She glanced down. “It’s Nathan.”
I kept working the clay between my palms. “What’s he need?”
“Owen won’t take his bottle.”
“Tell him to run it under warm water for a minute, not the microwave.”
She typed it out.
Three minutes later — buzz. “Ava says her sandwich is wrong.”
I laughed despite myself. “Triangles. Crusts off. She won’t touch it any other way.”
Barbara relayed the message. Buzz again, almost immediately.
“Where’s Owen’s cream?”
“Front pocket of the diaper bag. Small blue tube.”
Barbara looked up at me, something shifting behind her eyes. “You just know all of this. Instantly.”
“I packed the bag,” I said, not looking up from the wheel. “I always pack the bag.”
She went quiet after that. We worked in silence for a few minutes, her hands slick with clay, mine steadying the shape of something that wasn’t quite a bowl yet.
Buzz.
