Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
So that’s what we do for the next couple of hours until she looks less confused, and I’ve exercised my math brain way more than I would usually do on a Saturday.
When the rest of my brothers appear, Danny decides it’s a good day to grill. We cook meat and drink beer for the rest of the day, while Cora fixes a salad and insists that we get at least some of our five fruits and vegetables to offset the meat sweats.
It’s fun and lighthearted, and her presence brings a totally different vibe to the house.
After watching her laughing with Alden about a project he’s working on, I realize what it is. Femininity. It’s something that’s been lacking in our home since Mom died, and something it seems I really missed.
And I don’t think I’m alone.
As I watch my brothers talking with Cora, I notice something that sends a prickle of unease through me.
I can tell they all like her.
But there are five of us and only one of her.
For now, the Carlton house is in a state of peace, but for how long with these uneven dynamics in place?
14
ALDEN
If you’d told me two weeks ago that I’d be sitting in a pottery studio with my four brothers, I’d have accused you of being crazy. But here we are, with gray hands and stiff with clay and some strange-looking creations in front of us.
Cora is beaming like we just gave her the greatest gift, and I understand her reaction completely. Sharing something you love and passionate about is like opening a piece of your soul into the sunshine. When I exhibit my work, it feels great to make sales and receive praise, but watching my family respond positively is always the part I feel the deepest. I know if Mom was still alive, she’d be so proud of everything we do, even the malformed pots we’ve produced today.
Danny huffs, dropping his head to one side to stare at the mass of clay in front of him. For a man who spends his life being pretty, he hasn’t managed to imbue his ceramics with the same aesthetic. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” he says.
“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Cora says.
“But it doesn’t look the way I imagined it in my head.”
“It rarely does, even for me,” she smiles. “But sometimes, when it gets fired, magic happens.”
“It needs more than magic,” I snort. “It needs a crash cart.”
“Fuck off, Alden. We’re not all artists, you know.” Danny pushes off his seat.
“Hey. I don’t work in this medium,” I say. “The last time I touched a piece of clay was at art school.”
“Clay and metal, same fucking difference,” he grumbles.
“It’s not about perfection, Danny,” Cora says, which will be hard for him to hear because he’s all about setting impossible standards. “It’s about producing something that reflects you in some way.”
“Nothing about this pot is a reflection of me,” he moans. “Look at it.”
“I don’t know. The lumpiness reminds me of your bonehead.”
Danny shoots me a withering look.
“And the stumpiness is like your sense of humor,” Tobias says.
“Fuck all of you.”
“Boys,” Cora says in a low voice. “All this negativity is going to seep into your clay. It’ll make your pots crack.”
“You don’t seriously believe that?” Of course, Mark would be taking everything literally.
“I do.” Cora leans against the wall, surveying the scene with a smile playing on her lips: Four huge men hunched over a mishmash of shapes, and one scowling at his misshapen offering like he wants to toss it at the wall. I bet she’s regretting the day she suggested this, but I’m not. Seeing what she does and how much she loves her work has been eye-opening . We’re not that dissimilar, and the discovery adds another layer to the friendship we’ve all been developing. “Clay can feel your energy. I can’t create when I’m in a bad mood. Nothing goes right.”
“Yeah, you guys seriously fucked with Cora’s mojo when she moved in with you,” Naomi says from the corner. Charli hums in agreement, and shame floods over me. We hadn’t thought much of all the pranking and disagreements, other than Cora had started it. Apart from the bad smell it left in my closet and my day of wearing inappropriate footwear, it didn’t affect me much. Oh, and the ranch milk and toothpaste!
“She’s forgiven us for that,” River says confidently. My eyes flick to Cora, wanting to check her response to his confidence. She smiles, but I think I see a little flicker of something that isn’t reassuring. I don’t know. I get that the basis of her resentment toward us is deep-rooted. I don’t think River understands that she might be happier talking to us and spending time without fighting, but there might still be a lingering disquiet. In her position, I’d hate that my mom was with the man who wrecked my family. Forgiving that part would seem impossible, and maybe that’s how she feels too.