Page 7

Jade

T he afternoon passes with clay swirling beneath my fingertips, damp and yielding as I center it on the potter’s wheel. The rhythmic whir of the spinning merges with the mellow tunes of Alex Rainbird’s indie compilation on Spotify. It’s a symphony of sound and motion that ushers in clarity. With each press and pull, the lump of earth rises to form a vase, what I’ve envisioned for Under the Sea’s entryway. It’s been ages since I’ve felt this connected to my craft, this alive. The spark reignites, burning away the ash of my disastrous wedding, of the life I narrowly escaped.

My hands move instinctively, the clay taking shape under my touch, but my thoughts move elsewhere. Rhys’s image slips into my mind, unbidden yet persistent, as it has been since our dinner last weekend. He unsettles me, not because I fear him, but because he awakens something I thought I’d buried.

Dad was always quick to point out to all of us kids that no one would ever like us for us. “They’ll only see the Allerton name and the money and title behind it,” he’d say. I don’t want to believe that’s true, but then what happened with Cooper destroyed my trust. So I’m keeping my guard up with Rhys, protecting my heart. I’m not at all sure what’s possible for me anymore.

The indie playlist fades as my phone vibrates against the workbench. I peel my fingers away from the damp clay of the vase, leaving it unfinished and vulnerable.

“Hello?” I say, the music in my earbuds transitioning to my phone call.

“Hi, it’s me,” my sister says in a rush. “Mom’s en route to your place.”

“Damn.” I snap off the wheel, plunging the room into silence, save for the soft patter of my heart. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Go dark. She won’t give up easily.”

“Will do.” Gratitude washes over me as I pad across the cool concrete floor, flicking off lights as I go. The darkness envelops me, a shroud from the outside world. No matter the time of day, the loft’s high windows keep most of the outdoor light out of reach.

I return to the kiln. It’s been cooling for two days. I open it and inspect my bisque-fired pieces. These are samples of my design ideas. I’ve been dying to check them since I finished them last week. I slip on gloves and carefully extract one of the appetizer plates. The shape is perfect—square with a wave-shaped divider. It’s exactly what Under the Sea wanted. But as I inspect it more closely, along the slender neck of the wave, a hairline fracture mocks me.

“Shit.” The word hisses between my teeth.

I set the piece down and retrieve another, then another. Each one bears the same flaw, a signature of failure that mars their smooth surfaces. My five samples each have identical cracks. How did I not see this coming? The wave divider is too thick, and as it dries it creates a crack.

“Are you still there, Jade?” Alexis’s voice pierces my frustration.

“Still here,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the ruined pottery. “Just dealing with a ceramics disaster.”

“Is it bad?”

“Every single sample piece in this batch has cracked. It’s a design flaw. Back to the drawing board.” My mind races, already sifting through possible solutions. There must be a way to reinforce the structure of the divider without losing the aesthetic. This was very important to them in our brainstorming session, so I need to get it figured out.

“Sorry. I know if anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”

Alexis’s confidence lifts the corner of my mouth in a half-hearted smile. “Let’s hope so.” My eyes linger on the flawed pieces, seeing not just the cracks, but the potential they hold.

“Okay, I’ll let you get back to it. And Jade? Be careful with Mom. She’s still upset about the wedding.”

“You’d think after six weeks she’d have figured out that her anger is misplaced.”

“She was embarrassed, but you’re right. She should be blaming Cooper, not you.”

I turn back to my pieces, eyes tracing the lines of the plate before me. I’m where I need to be, away from their judgments and expectations.

With one eye on the camera outside, I run my thumb along the divider in the plate, feeling the smooth curve under my fingertips.

“You’re so lucky,” Alexis says. “Dad can’t use his money to control you.”

“Luck was only part of it,” I remind her, glancing around my studio. “I took a big risk. But for sure I’m lucky that I’ve found a way to pursue my passion that doesn’t include bending to his will.”

“Must be nice,” she quips.

“Alexis, come on. You’re not powerless,” I say as I inspect another plate for imperfections. “You have options.”

“Sure, if ‘options’ includes jobs that require skills I don’t have.”

Her self-doubt is almost palpable through the phone. Alexis gets like this when days at the company are difficult. I know giving Dad the double bird and walking away isn’t an option for her. She wants to prove she’s worth loving, that she can do more than he gives her credit for. But looking for affirmation from our father is a lost cause.

“No one knows the company’s inner workings better than you do. Dad may have pushed you into human resources, but you deal with every division. No one else can say that.”

“But as darling Father likes to remind me, a degree in seventeenth-century French literature isn’t exactly in high demand.”

“Okay, that may be true,” I concede, setting the vase down gently. “But you’re not the only person in the world who’s not exactly using their degree. You’re not giving yourself enough credit, and neither is he.”

On autopilot, I cross back to the other room and my hands find their way to the clay, coaxing it into shape, just as I wish I could shape Alexis’s confidence. “Your education wasn’t just about job prospects. It was about pursuing what you love. About learning how to learn, to sink yourself into a topic you care about. We’ve sat through profit-and-loss meetings since before we could read. You certainly know the mining business better than JP does.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and I can almost see her chewing on her lip.

“Maybe,” she finally admits.

“Definitely,” I assert, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that doubt can be the biggest barrier to living a life you love.

I guide the spinning clay with steady hands, shaping the emerging vase. “You could run the company with your eyes closed.”

“Dad would never put a woman in any important role. He’s from a generation that sees mining as a man’s domain.” Alexis sounds weary, the years under our father’s scrutiny clear in her sigh.

“Maybe, but Bryant is working for the company. You don’t have to work there too and put up with Dad and JP’s crap.” The notion seems revolutionary. “Forge your own path. Remember those summers we’d rearrange the living room just for fun? You have an eye for design that can’t be taught.”

A soft huff of laughter trickles through the phone, and I picture her shaking her head, strands of auburn hair falling over her eyes. “Those were games, Jade.”

“Games that had clients raving about the ‘new talent.’ Come on. Your designs are more than child’s play.” I ease up on the pressure, the vase taking its final form under my palms. “You should take that talent to the showrooms here in San Francisco. Make a name for yourself.”

“Without any formal training?” Doubt laces her question, but I can hear the curiosity peeking through.

“Absolutely.” I pull back, admiring the symmetry of the vase. It’s solid, balanced—qualities I wish for her. “Your natural flair and our family name? They’d be fools not to snatch you up, especially with the contacts you have.”

Silence stretches between us, and I can feel her mulling over the possibilities. But there’s a hesitance there, a reluctance to step out of the shadow cast by expectations and past failures. For a time, she worked in logistics for William Sonoma’s corporate headquarters, but then they moved the job offshore and left her hanging. Our father did not make it easy for her to come back.

“Maybe,” she finally says, the word less burdened than before, but still far from convinced.

“More than maybe,” I insist, wiping my hands on my apron. “It’s a chance worth taking, Alexis. Besides, you’ve always been braver than you give yourself credit for.”

In the silence that follows, I hope she’s really considering it. Because if anyone can break free from the mold like I did, it’s my sister. And all it takes is one bold step forward.

The wheel hums beneath my fingers. “Oh, by the way,” I say, spinning the clay with a slight pressure, “I ran into that guy from my wedding day.”

“Which—” Alexis’s voice pitches into a scream before she can finish her question. “The one who—”

“Helped me escape from making the biggest mistake of my life? Yeah, him.” I smirk at the memory, the way his hands felt steadying me as my world crumbled.

“Jade, that’s—”

A knock at the studio door cuts her off, sharp and insistent. I still my hands, the clay spinning down into a ruin of what it could have been. I forgot to watch the camera outside. I turn off the wheel and open the Ring app on my phone. Sure enough, I can see my mother.

“Mom’s here,” I murmur. She’s flanked by her loyal driver and ever-present personal assistant at the front door. “Along with her entourage,” I add. The driver, always stoic, shifts from foot to foot while the assistant clutches a leather-bound planner like a shield.

I press a finger to my lips, signaling silence to the empty room, and hunch over the phone. “She’s giving me the I-know-you’re-in-there speech,” I whisper, eyes fixed on the screen where my mother stands, her gaze piercing through the lens of the camera as if she can see right into my soul. “Or she would be if I were listening.”

“Because your car is out front,” Mom announces, her voice tinny through the feed when I click on the audio. “I need to talk to you,” she shouts into the microphone on the door.

From the other end of the line, Alexis’s laughter bubbles up. I stifle a giggle myself, though this is far from funny.

“Jade, you know she’s going to just camp out there until she corners you, right?”

I press my back against the cool wall, phone still clutched in hand. “They won’t stay long,” I murmur to Alexis, more for my reassurance than hers. “I can outlast them.” The knocking persists, a rhythmic thud that echoes in my studio, followed by my mother’s voice calling out, muffled by the thick walls.

“Go hide from her,” Alexis says. “Call me later.” She hangs up before I can respond.

Knock, knock, knock. The bell rings. “Jade! Open up! We need to talk!” Now that I’m not on the phone any longer, I can hear her talking through my earbuds.

I roll my eyes, though there’s no one here to see. With a silent scoff, I peel myself away from the wall, my hiding spot away from any window, and tiptoe to the kitchen area. They can’t see in from the front door, but I don’t want her to hear me either.

The fridge greets me with a sad sight. Takeout boxes pile on one another, a graveyard of meals long past their prime. I wrinkle my nose at the faint odor of forgotten Chinese food and push the containers aside. “Well, there’s always delivery,” I whisper, shutting the fridge door a little too loudly. The knocking halts momentarily, and I freeze. But it resumes, and I exhale.

“Jade, we’re not leaving until you talk to us!” Her voice is now tinged with a hint of frustration. “We need to figure out how to move forward.”

“Good luck with that,” I whisper fiercely as I check my phone for the food delivery app. “Your advice was to suck it up and ignore it.”

I can feel her presence even through the walls, a weight pressing against me, sharp and suffocating. It’s not just her, though. It’s him, too. My father. He’s always there, in the shadows, his voice echoing in my mind. “You can’t handle this, Jade. You’re not strong enough to stand on your own.”

That voice used to paralyze me, twisting every choice I made into proof he was right. But this place, my work, it’s mine. A quiet rebellion against everything he tried to make me believe about myself.

So why does it still feel like he wins, even when he’s not here? Why does avoiding her—avoiding them—feel like a step backward when I’ve fought so hard to move forward?

Time stretches, each minute an eternity as I wait them out. But I’m stubborn, a trait inherited from my father despite my best efforts. It’s a game of patience, and I’m determined to win.

Finally, after what feels like an age, the knocking and bell ringing stops. I hold my breath, counting silently, not daring to hope. One…two…three…

Peering at the screen, I watch as they give up, my mother’s shoulders slumping. She says something to her assistant, who nods and opens the car door for her. They slide inside, and the vehicle pulls away from the curb.

Freedom. I exhale, the word a sweet release as I drop onto the couch, relief washing over me. They’re gone—for now. I revel in the victory.

With the loft finally quiet, I tiptoe over to my security monitor and toggle through the camera feeds until I find the one aimed at the parking area. My car sits innocently in my assigned space with her car parked behind it. Mom’s driver, a tall figure whose stature is all too familiar, leans down, his hand grazing the hood of my car. Even without sound, the gesture feels invasive, possessive. A shiver runs down my spine as I watch my mother, her expression obscured by the distance but her body language unmistakable, shake her head in what I imagine is exasperation.

In that moment, I realize my beloved vehicle is now a liability, a homing beacon for the family I’m desperate to evade.

“Looks like you’re getting an unexpected vacation,” I murmur with a pang of regret. With a few swipes on my phone, I arrange for a rideshare to get me back to the hotel from a spot a few blocks away.

My mother’s car pulls out of the parking lot, gliding off. I wait until it disappears around the corner before I fully exhale. But the relief doesn’t last. Instead, it twists into regret. She’ll call later, or worse, she’ll show up again, and I’ll have to deal with her eventually. I always do. Avoiding her now doesn’t change anything. It just delays the inevitable.

And isn’t that what I always do? Dodge the conflict, keep my distance, and hope the storm will pass on its own? Okay, maybe not always. I did refuse to marry Cooper, but only after presented with the most damning of evidence, making that decision obvious. But avoidance is how I’ve dealt with my father for years, pretending his words don’t matter, pretending his absence is easier than his presence. But deep down, I know it’s not. Ignoring my parents doesn’t erase their influence. If anything, it makes it harder to get out from under their shadow.

I press my palms against the counter, the cool surface grounding me. One of these days, I’m going to have to stop running from them. One of these days, I’ll have to stand my ground, even if it means tearing apart the fragile balance I’ve managed to create. Or I had until my not-wedding. Maybe that balance is already gone.

But I’m not going to find out today. Today, I just need to breathe. I shake off the bad energy and turn my attention back to my work, to my contemplation of the flawed pottery.

My phone vibrates, and I expect another message from Alexis and worse, my mother. But when I see Rhys’s name, something shifts. The weight of the day—flawed plates, family drama, my own doubts—feels a little lighter.

Rhys: How’s your day going?

A chuckle escapes me as I snap photos of the bisque-fired plates, their surfaces marred by identical cracks. They look like fault lines, ironic reminders of personal and professional earthquakes. I send the pictures to Rhys, imagining his raised eyebrow when he sees them.

Rhys: Would glue fix it?

Me: If only. Unfortunately, it’s a design flaw. Back to the drawing board.

Rhys: Wanna go for a run tomorrow morning? Might help you think of some new ideas.

My laughter cuts through the stillness, startling me with how natural it feels. It’s been a long time since something—or someone—made me feel this way. But it seems Rhys is relentless in his pursuit of my friendship or whatever it is he’s after. I could use a friend, I think, but too bad I’m wary of letting anyone close.

Me: Don’t I slow you down?

Rhys: Just looking for an excuse to hang out with you, and no, you don’t slow me down. Remember the last time I had to chase you.

Me: I don’t know about that, but I’m game for a run. Maybe you can come up with a fix to my design flaw.

Rhys: Challenge accepted. 6 a.m. at your hotel?

Me: Okay, but just so you know, I’m not human at that hour. You’ll have to deal with whatever zombie version of me shows up.

Rhys: Deal. I’d be more flexible, but I need to be at work by eight.

Me: Six it is then. You’re lucky I find the concept of fresh air and exercise mildly enticing.

Rhys: Drat. I was hoping I was the draw. See you then.

Me: Or some ungodly approximation of me.

When we’ve finished, it feels like my face might split in half. Rhys’s messages make me smile in a way I don’t entirely understand. He’s confident and easygoing, the kind of person who doesn’t second-guess every move. The kind of person my father would respect. Maybe. My father has trouble evaluating people apart from what they can do for him, and I’m not sure he has a lot of battery needs.

Rhys is also something my father could never be. He’s kind and encouraging. He sees me for who I am now, not who I was when I was tangled up in my family’s world and grasping at questionable coping habits. It makes me want to believe I’m more than the girl my father dismissed, the one who was never quite enough.

The thought scares me, though, because what if I’m wrong? What if all of this—my work, my independence—is just a prettier version of failing at being an Allerton? I tuck the phone away and prepare to meet my rideshare, walking several blocks from my studio, just in case there’s anyone watching.

Once I’ve connected with my car, we meander through the traffic and toward my hotel, and my mind replays the cracked pieces of pottery, hiding from my own mother—the day’s failures. Yet my heart beats a little faster at the thought of seeing Rhys tomorrow.

I shouldn’t be this eager. Not after everything with Cooper—the lies, the betrayal, the way I let myself believe in him even when I knew better. Letting someone in, trusting them even a little, feels reckless now.

But Rhys doesn’t seem like Cooper at all. He’s steady, grounded in something real. And he has no underlying reason to be interested in me. He actually is. I think…

That could be the scariest part of all.