It had served me well up until now. Up until I wished to remember specific elements of my past with the same clarity that Flynn did.
“You never asked me again. But if you want, I can show you now,” he said, his voice slow and unsure.
I slid across the bench until I was beside him. I still didn’t touch him. I knew he didn’t like that. I didn’t want that either. But I was close enough to smell the soap he had used in the shower and the sharp acridity of sweat drying on his skin from sitting in the warm room.
Flynn cleared his throat and looked at me from the side of his eyes, never meeting my gaze head on. It was amazing how his nuances and behaviors were familiar to me. Even after all this time and no matter how much my mind blocked out, there were still some things I couldn’t forget.
One was the awkward twist of his hands when he was nervous. Another was the slight tick in his jaw when he was worked up. He was doing both right now.
With what seemed to be a conscientious effort, he stopped rubbing his hands together and placed them back in the clay. He took the ball he had made and rolled it across the table until it sat in front of me.
“Knead it for a few minutes. Make it pliable. It will be easier to mold,” he told me in small, complete sentences.
I did as he said, enjoying the way it oozed between my fingers.
“Break off a small piece and roll into a cone, like this.” Flynn’s fingers formed his own piece of clay expertly. I fumbled as I tried to do the same. I held up my finished product with a wry grin.
“Like this?”
Flynn’s lips twitched. His smiles were rare things. He gave them sparingly and I found that I resented him for withholding them from me.
He plucked the clay out of my hand and pressed it together between his palms, flattening it before rolling it back into a ball. He put it down on the table.
“Try it again,” he instructed. I fought the urge to become oppositional and angry. I had never taken direction well. I balked at authority and had made it a mission while growing up to fight against the system in the only way that I could, with complete and total defiance.
But with Flynn, I knew he wasn’t trying to be bossy. It was just who he was. And I felt like I was trapped in an endless loop of déjà vu as I fought down my annoyance and attempted to accept this man for who he was.
It was becoming frighteningly easy to slip back into our old roles. I was slowly stepping back into the shoes of an Ellie McCallum that I had thought long gone. An Ellie that had existed only with Flynn.
Swallowing thickly. I rolled and spread the clay again. And once more Flynn flattened it and handed it back.
“You’re not doing it right. It should look like this,” he held out his own flawless example and I thought childishly about squishing it, ruining it the way he had ruined mine.
But his insistence on perfection resulted in me finally creating a cone he was happy with.
“That looks good. Now pinch off another ball of clay and roll it between your fingers,” he said and I followed his directions. I watched and mimicked his movements, often not to his standards. And I would get frustrated when he’d insist I do it over again.
Forty-five minutes later, I was grinning from ear to ear as I put the last touches on a tiny, detailed bouquet of clay flowers that I had made all by myself. With Flynn’s help of course.
“Wow, that’s beautiful,” I breathed out; hardly able to believe I had made something so delicate. My clumsy, inept fingers seemed incapable of something like this. But here I was, holding something lovely. It filled me with pride.
And it had been fun.
I had enjoyed myself.
Flynn nodded his head. “It is. You did a good job,” he said, his praise making me happier than I’d like to admit.
“What should I do with it now?” I asked, not wanting to touch it, afraid I’d mess it up. My hands, so unaccustomed to making anything worthwhile, seemed poised ready to destroy it. It’s what I was good at.
“It needs to go into the kiln,” Flynn said, indicating the clay oven on the other side of the room. I carefully picked up my tiny creation and followed him. He gently took the flowers from my hand and placed them on the rack inside.
While he situated the pieces I looked at the pottery on the table that Flynn had just removed from the kiln. I picked up a tiny dog that was strangely familiar.
“This is cute. Did you make it?” I said, rubbing the rough edges with my finger.
“Yes,” Flynn muttered, taking the dog from my hand and placing it back on the table.
I stared closer at the creature he had made and struggled with another memory I had shut away. “You had a dog that looked like. What was his name?” I asked, hazy recollections of a hairy dog danced through my head.
Flynn’s face paled and he dipped his chin until it hit his chest. His hands clasped together in front of him and he started to rub furiously.
What had I said?
“Marty,” Flynn said quietly.
Marty?
That’s right! He had a Border Collie named Marty!
“You would throw balls around your yard and he’d pick them up and put them in a pile by your feet,” I said, smiling. Images of long fur and a wet tongue on my cheek made me feel warm inside.
Another memory of sitting on Flynn’s living room couch and Marty laying his head in my lap flooded my mind.
It was a memory of happy days and smiling faces. His mother’s banana bread and Flynn’s hesitant touches followed by breathless laughter and dog fur tickling my skin.
“Did you bring him with you?” I asked, hoping Flynn would say yes.
“Marty’s dead,” Flynn barked out with obvious anger. He gripped the clay dog in his hands and then in a flurry of violence, he threw it against the wall. It exploded in a rain of rubble to the floor.
The room was deathly quiet after Flynn’s outburst.
I waited a few beats, unable to move.
“Flynn…” I began but he shook his head.
“Shut up! Don’t say anything. Just leave me alone for a minute!” He retreated to the other side of the room and I was left standing there, not knowing what in the hell I said to send him spiraling like that.
I listened to the ticking clock and wondered whether I should leave. It seemed our nice afternoon was at an end.
But it felt oddly wrong to leave him while he was so upset. So I sat down and fiddled with the small sculptures.
The minutes ticked by and I chanced a look at Flynn. He seemed composed now if not a bit embarrassed. His face was flushed red and he was chewing on his bottom lip.