<b>Chapter </b><b>111 </b>
Reba’s POV
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(42
Adrian’s smile widened. “Excellent. Let me show you the basics.”
He guided me to an empty ceramics station, exining the fundamentals of pottery as we walked. His voice grew more animated as he talked about the process, and I found my thoughts temporarily shifting away from the morning’s emotional heaviness.
“The key is to center the y,” he said, pointing to a lump of gray material waiting on the wheel. “If it’s not perfectly centered, everything that follows will be off–bnce.”
I nodded, the parallel to my current life situation not lost on me.
“Have a seat,” he instructed, gesturing to the stool in front of the wheel.
I sat down, feeling a flutter of nervousness as I faced the formless y. Professor Lane moved behind me, close enough that I sensed his presence but not touching me.
“First, wet your hands,” he said, indicating a small bucket of water beside the wheel.
I dipped my hands in, the cool water pleasant against my skin.
“Now, ce your hands on the y like this.” He demonstrated with his own hands, then stepped back to give me
space.
I tried to copy his position, feeling the cool, slippery texture of the y beneath my palms.
“Press down gently while I start the wheel,” he instructed.
The wheel began to spin, the y moving beneath my hands. It responded to even the lightest touch, shifting and changing with each small adjustment.
“You need to center it,” Professor Lane said, stepping closer. “May I?”
I nodded, and he positioned himself behind me, his arms reaching around to ce his hands over mine. My shoulders tensed at the unexpected closeness.
“I usually don’t like strangers this close,” I said, my body stiffening.
“Understandable,” he replied, his hands remaining professional above mine. “We can try without direct guidance if you prefer.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, consciously rxing my shoulders. “I just wanted you to know.”
<b>20:38 Wed</b><b>, </b>Sep <b>24 </b>
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His hands guided mine, applying steady pressure to the spinning y. “The trick is consistent pressure,” he exined, his voice near my ear but maintaining a respectful distance. “Notice how the y responds? It wants to be
centered.”
Under his guidance, the uneven lump gradually transformed into a smooth, spinning cone. I watched with growing interest as the transformation happened beneath my hands.
“Good,” he said, slowly removing his hands from mine. “Now you’ll open the center.”
He stepped back, continuing to instruct without touching me again. I observed him using the same teaching approach with other students who stopped by, maintaining identical professional boundaries with everyone. My initial difort faded as I concentrated on the y, following his instructions to create a shallow bowl.
“So what brings you to our campus event today?” he asked as I worked. “Just happened to be passing by?”
I paused, not ready to reveal I was seeking an escape from my emotions. “Something like that. I needed some fresh air, and the bus dropped me here.”
He nodded, his eyes showing understanding without pressing further. “Sometimes we find interesting things when we’re not specifically looking.”
As I worked the y, shaping it with careful pressure, my breathing slowed. The process required presence and focus, drawing my attention away from my earlier distress.
“My family thinks I’m wasting my time,” Professor Lane said after afortable silence had settled between us. “Teaching art instead of pursuing what they consider a sessful career.”
I looked up, surprised by his personal disclosure. “What would they prefer you do?”
He shrugged, his mouth curving into a small<b>, </b>resigned smile. “Finance, medicine,w–anything with status and a six–figure sry. I’m the ck sheep for choosing to work with y and paint.”
“That must be difficult,” I said, hearing the genuine empathy in my own voice. His situation reminded me of my own family’s expectations.
“It broke my heart when they refused to attend my first gallery opening,” he admitted, his eyes briefly showing old pain. “Only one cousin showed up. The rest of the family sent a clear message about how they viewed my choices.”
The openness of his confession surprised me. “I’m sorry. That’s their loss.”
He nodded, watching as I continued to shape my bowl. “It is. But I’ve made peace with it. Art feeds my soul in a way nothing else could.”
His words resonated with me<b>, </b>reminding me of how I’d felt when Dominic encouraged me to return to design. That sense of reiming a part of myself I’d set aside for too long.
“What about you?” he asked. “What brought you to design school?”
I focused on smoothing the rim of my bowl before answering. “I used to sketch all the time as a teenager. Had dreams of fashion design. But life happened, and I set it aside.”
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“And now?”
“Now I’m trying to remember who I was before I let other people’s expectations define me, I said, the truth of my answer catching me off guard.
He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “That’s what art does–helps us find ourselves beneath all theyers we
umte.”
We continued talking as I finished my piece–a simple bowl with slightly uneven sides that somehow looked intentional rather than wed. Professor Lane offered asional guidance but mostly let me work at my own pace with the y.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” he said when I finally sat back to examine my creation. “Actually, it’s quite good. You
have a natural feel for the material.”
I smiled, feeling satisfied with both the praise and what I’d created. “Thanks for showing me how. It was… calming.”
“That’s why I love teaching this,” he said, carefully lifting my bowl to ce it on a drying rack. “It needs to be fired
in the kiln, but it should be ready by Thursday.”
I suddenly remembered his coat–the one I’d sshed with water on my first day. “Oh! That reminds me. I have your suit coat. I had it cleaned after my… ident.”
He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Perfect timing. We can trade on Thursday–your bowl for my coat.”
As I stood to leave, I noticed the tightness in my chest had eased. The hands–on creative work had shifted my focus, allowing my racing thoughts to settle.
“Thank you, Professor Lane,” I said, gathering my purse. “This was unexpectedly helpful.”
“Adrian, please,” he replied, his eyes warm. “And you’re wee, Reba. Just be yourself with me.”
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