Naomi waves him off without looking away from me. “Roman might be home late tonight,” she says, her smile widening slightly. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll take good care of him.”
Something cold slides down my spine. “How thoughtful of you.”
She turns away, then tosses over her shoulder, “How was that yoga yesterday, by the way? Finding your inner peace? Watch your back, plant lady.”
With that, she strides back to her bike, swinging her leg over it in one smooth motion. The three of them roar out of the parking lot moments later, leaving me standing there, keysclutched so tightly in my hand that they’re digging painfully into my palm.
I unlock my car with shaking fingers and slide into the driver’s seat. But I don’t start the engine. I can’t seem to make my limbs cooperate. My mind is stuck on what Naomi said.
Yoga yesterday.
I did have a yoga class yesterday. Roman doesn’t know about it. Early on in our marriage, he would tease me about my “crunchy granola” interests, so I just stopped telling him about them.
Which means Naomi’s been watching me.
The thought makes the hairs on my arms stand up. Turning the ignition, I start the drive home and make a note to talk with Roman about Naomi. I only hope the conversation doesn’t end with him shutting me out again, the way he does every time I bring up the club.
* * *
The clay feels cool and slick beneath my fingers as I press down on the wheel, my foot working the pedal in a steady rhythm. The empty plate at the kitchen table is still there; the meal I’d prepared for two eaten by one. Three unanswered texts and two ignored calls are on my phone. This is becoming our new normal: me waiting, Roman absent.
I shape the clay with gentle pressure, coaxing it higher, watching it transform under my hands. There’s something profoundly satisfying about creating something from nothing; turning a lump of formless earth into something beautiful, something useful. I can lose myself for hours in this process.
I look around at the studio Roman built for me. The evening light still filters through the enlarged east-facing windows, catching dust motes in golden beams. Potted plants line theshelves along with my finished pieces; some successful, some less so, but all created by me. Along one wall stands the workbench Roman built with his own hands, sanded smooth and finished with natural oils rather than chemical varnish because he knows I prefer that. In the corner sits the kiln he installed, running new electrical lines himself to accommodate it.
This room is a love letter written by Roman to me. A tangible reminder that the man I married is capable of profound tenderness. That man calls me Sunshine and looks at me like I’m the only light in his world.
But that man seems increasingly like an illusion, replaced by a stranger who keeps secrets, who shuts me out, who leaves me sitting alone with no word on when, or if, he’s coming home.
Which version is the real Roman? The loving husband who created this haven for me, or the cold, distant biker who keeps me locked out of half his life?
I lean into the wheel again, applying more pressure than necessary. The clay warps slightly under my fingers, and I ease back, trying to correct the shape. But it’s too late; the piece compromised.
Just like my marriage.
I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t hear the motorcycle until it’s in our driveway; the familiar rumble interrupting the evening quiet. I don’t get up. I simply continue working, trying to salvage what I can of my ruined pot.
The front door opens, closes.
“Kayla?” Roman‘s voice echoes through the house.
I don’t answer. Petty, perhaps, but after hours of silence from him, I find I have little to say.
Eventually, he finds me. He fills the doorway, the top of his head almost scraping the lintel, arms crossed. There’s a new bruise on his jaw, a half-moon of yellow and green fading alongthe cheekbone. I don’t bother asking about it. I know I won’t get an answer.
He doesn’t speak at first, just watches me. I continue working, my eyes fixed on the spinning clay.
Roman shifts his weight, then rubs the back of his neck; a rare gesture of discomfort from a man usually so sure of himself. “Club business ran late,” he finally offers.
I look up, meeting his eyes for the first time tonight. “Naomi said you’d be late.”
He blinks, then straightens. “When did you see Naomi?”
I shrug, returning my attention to the clay. “In town.”
“Was she alone?” There’s an edge to his voice I can’t quite interpret.
“No. She had a couple of guys with her.”