Between Two Wolves and a Hard Place by Cassie Wright

Author:Cassie Wright [Wright, Cassie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-02-07T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

I do my best to put all thoughts of Dean and Drake from my mind. To not think about their smoldering presence, their hands and lips. I busy myself with setting up shop, with checking out the kiln and firing it up, with unpacking the crates, and checking out the different kinds of glass I have to work with.

I feel giddy. Like a kid on Christmas morning. The space is perfect; if anything, it's too large. But I love the stark brickwork, and the flowing of the Conway just outside my window. I love the ceiling being so high overhead, and the naked light bulbs that hang from wires. I love the rough cement floor. The almost brutal way that this huge space is dedicated to glass working. There's nothing extraneous. Nothing superfluous.

Still, this is all just gear. No matter how fancy, it's nothing without vision. Without a direction for me to take my art. As that realization starts to set in, I feel a moment's panic. What am I going to create? I can't just work in the same line I was creating back at Iron and Roses. I can't turn in more of the same, no matter how well-designed and executed. I need to stand out. From my own work. I need to turn my back on my old style, and in a matter of two weeks, recreate myself like a phoenix rising gloriously from the ashes.

I step outside, thrilling as I lock the door behind myself, and go for a walk. I need fresh air, and I almost always have my best ideas when I'm outside. I look back at the Conway Studios as I leave, marveling at my fortune. No matter what comes, I owe Drake a debt of gratitude I doubt I can ever repay. To think: he put this all together after I left. What depth of emotion would lead someone to do that? And then keep it empty, waiting for me, on the off chance that I would ever decide to come home.

Which I didn't. Guilt floods through me. I spent years fighting to not even think about Dean and Drake. To deny the passion that I had for them. To block a part of my soul. And why? Due to fear. Due to trauma.

I walk past the trestle bridge and step up to the bridge of flowers. The path is narrow, and the bushes and plants that are blossoming on both sides are glorious. A number of people are crossing slowly, pausing to bend down and read name tags, and here and there ridiculously fat bumblebees are humming as they waft slowly through the air.

I pause.

Did that bee have a smiling face? I blink, but it's gone. Surely not. I rub at my head and keep going, taking in the gorgeous flowers. The women here have real talent, and for a moment I feel my panic retreat. I enjoy the sun on my face, the beauty of nature, and the good energy of the folks enjoying the bridge like I am.

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