“My shirts kind of sell themselves. As long as it’s relatable, they’ll buy.” I’ve never wanted to be a tiny cake more in my life than when it flies past his full lips. “People like to wear their feelings.”
“I like to eat mine,” I say.
His eyes sweep over my body and now I wish I hadn’t had the fantastic marketing idea of wearing an apron. The bulky material prevents him from seeing the goods. Horrible thought that diminishes my empowerment as an intelligent woman, but does it matter in this clown world?
“Do you have a lot of feelings?” is a strange question from him, but I’ll let it slide because beard.
“Well, maybe slightly above average?” How does one measure emotions? “On a scale of one to so many feelings I can’t contain them, I’m probably a solid six on average. Today, maybe more. This is pretty stressful, having people critique me.” I glance over to the brunette who is now deep in conversation with Austin. “I deal with customers at my job, but this is personal because I made these things.”
“I get it. Most people would just say, ‘thanks for looking, take a card,’ roll their eyes at their co-worker then go about their day. But artists feel things deeply,” he says. “And I think it’s a good thing. The higher the level of emotion, the better the work.”
I truly need a do-over of my rock choices. We’re having an actual conversation where sex isn’t the central focus. Ryan tells me he works in graphic design for a franchised marijuana company and screen-prints shirts in his spare time. And not just any old generic screen print, he too is an artist. It’s all very me, and I’m a whole lot sorry I didn’t pick him over Finn back then. Oh, well. He’s here now, and he seems interested. I think?
Our brief exchange ends when a wave of customers floods the booth. With a pretend smile, I amble back into the fray, and attempt to sell my wares. Until another grump squashes my self-esteem.
“Why would I want something I have to hand-wash?”
“Because it’s pretty?” I say. “And one of a kind?”
She gives me a flat look. “Do I look like I care about those things? I’m not wearing these sweatpants because I care about pretty. They’re convenient. I didn’t get up today and think I want to look pretty. I got up and thought I want a convenient elastic waistband. I live for convenience. I like my mayo in a squeeze bottle because it’s convenient. I don’t want to screw off a lid and find a knife. I want quick and easy. Do you care if a ketchup bottle is pretty? Or do you like it because it’s convenient?”
She’s got a valid point about the condiments, but I’m stuck on if she meant to say “comfortable” for her sweatpants. But I’m too afraid to ask.
“Well, I think you look pretty,” Austin says, draping an arm on my shoulder and giving it a surreptitious squeeze. “Have you tried the cake?”
She doesn’t deserve cake. But I tuck my tears behind my eyelids while he woos her with baking tips and banishes me from the kitchen. Granny always says if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the fire. So, I do. Of course, I jump right into another one because I apparently like getting burned.
“Need some help?” I ask Ryan.
His brow furrows as he restocks T-shirts. “What about your stuff?”
“My friends fired me because I’m too sensitive.”
He chuckles. “That’s why I found an outlet besides art to release my stress.”
A vision of Ryan, head thrown back as he pleasures himself, blinds me as I fold a T-shirt with Let It Gogh printed on a Starry Night background. “What’s your outlet?”
“Throwing axes.”
When did my mind become so dirty?
“That seems a bit harsh.”
“Not at people. Throwing at a target.”
A bearded lumberjack-nerd-artist. The perfect man exists. There must be something wrong with him that I’m missing.
“Sounds very cool.”
“There’s a spot near here. Maybe we could hit it before we open tomorrow.” I swear his voice drops. “You’ll be nice and relaxed.”
“Okay,” I say, mesmerized by everything about him.
“Okay,” says Austin, whom I did not realize had sauntered over to grab a bag.
Ryan’s called away by a customer and I finish straightening his shirt display while Austin and Charlotte kindly run the booth and sell my pottery. Wait, what? I do a double take. People are actually buying my pottery? I’d be more flustered about it, except I’m putting all my energy in being flustered about Ryan. It’s a healthy distraction from the mean people.
I wonder if he’s noticed I’m inked up? Tomorrow, I’ll remove my sweater so he sees my line. It’s exciting to be the bad girl.
During a lull, I corner my friends while Ryan chats with a customer.
“What do you think?” I whisper.
“I think he’ll be a perfect date for the mountain wedding,” Charlotte says with bright eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ll manifest the wedding of your dreams through Ryan.”
Austin shrugs, but remains silent.
“Oh, no. What’s wrong with him?” I knew it. Austin seems to have an uncanny ability to see what I can’t and a ball of dread rolls in my stomach as I wait for his answer.
“Nothing. I can’t see anything wrong with him.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Huh. Maybe my universe guide feels sorry for me after everything I’ve been through. Have I finally met a guy who meets all the criteria? That thought makes me very happy. So why does Austin seem…almost sad?
“Aim, Chloe,” Ryan says. “You want to hit the bullseye. Like this.” His axe whizzes, slicing through the crisp morning air, and hits dead center with a thud. My lady parts cheer.
“Whoa,” I say. “That was amazing.”
Framed by a barrage of red and gold leaves, he’s breathtaking. I’m ready to beg him to chop down the happy little trees and build us a cabin to make sweet, bearded love in. And it’s only nine a.m.
“You can do it,” he says. “It’s not hard.”
That’s what she said dies on the tip of my tongue when Ryan steps behind me and places warm hands above my elbows. Shivers abound when his beard kisses my ear as he stoops a bit to instruct me. “Focus on the smallest circle. I painted that target, by the way.”
Oof. My limbs are Jell-O as his husky voice continues, “Scream if you need to. Grunt. Groan. Pull back and release the stress.”
He steps away, and my axe flies in a lopsided attempt and drops about five feet from the target.
“I may need to move closer,” I say.
“You may need a tiny knife instead of an axe,” Austin says.
Everyone is a comedian. Including Lucy, who, another big surprise, is an excellent axe thrower. An excellent axe thrower who has a little Swiss Army knife in her designer purse to offer me. Lovely.
“I need to tell you something,” Lucy whispers when Austin and Ryan walk away to adjust the target. “Don’t panic, okay?”
“Well, that’s the first thing I do when someone says not to, but okay.”