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through his kitchen to his workroom. Sandy’s bobbing his head to the music, his hands covered in wet clay as he works at the wheel, his sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows. I stop in the doorway and watch. It never fails to look like magic, the way Sandy can pull a vase or a bowl out of a blob of clay.
    Sandy shuts off the wheel and cuts the vase off the base with a piece of wire.
    “I wish I could do that!” I shout.
    He looks up, happy to see me. He wipes his hands on his apron and turns off the stereo. “You wanna sit down and have a try?”
    I shake my head. “Not today.” And not any day in the near future. He’d know something was wrong if I didn’t roll up my sleeves, and I can’t do that without him seeing whatI’ve done. I miss the feeling of the cool, squishy clay beneath my fingers, the whir of the wheel—but my creations always collapse or turn out lopsided anyway. Pencils and paint are more my thing.
    Sandy hangs his apron on the hook behind him. “The books are in the kitchen. Emil brought them over last night.”
    I follow him back into the bright, airy room. It’s like a designer kitchen on a budget, with fake marble countertops, halogen lights, and used but top-quality appliances. Stainless steel pans and pots hang from hooks in the ceiling alongside dried herbs from his garden. Sandy takes his cooking almost as seriously as his pottery.
    I head over to the yellowed pine table where a bunch of hardcover art books are fanned out in a half circle, a vase of pink rosebuds behind them. The roses fill the room with their scent.
    I nudge him. “I see that’s not all Emil brought you.”
    Sandy blushes right up to the roots of his ginger hair. “Emil’s a sweetheart.”
    “And it doesn’t hurt that he’s cute!”
    “Ah, Kendra, you know me too well,” Sandy says, slapping his chest and smiling. He and Emil make a handsome couple—light and dark, muscular and thin, both of them with kind faces and gentle eyes. If they ever raise a child together, that kid will be so lucky, growing up in a house full of love.
    I start flipping through the books. The vibrant colors and textures are like music, the artists’ voices each singing in their own tone, yet coming together in a richness thatstirs my creativity. The artwork feeds my soul, giving me something I need. But I can’t take the books home, or Mom will know I’m still painting.
    “Thank you! I love them.”
    “Kendra—”
    Something in his voice makes me look up. He’s got that worried frown between his eyes again.
    “Your mother called.”
    “Again? Okay…”
    “She asked me how I thought you were doing.”
    I let go of the book. “You didn’t tell her—”
    “No; it’s none of her business what we talk about.”
    I let out my breath. “I’ll bet she didn’t like that.”
    “She didn’t.” He clears his throat. “She also told me your dad got downsized. I know how much you rely on Carolyn. I’d like to pay for your next few sessions.”
    I can’t accept. Money’s tight for Sandy. And how could I ever pay him back? Yet I want to accept his offer so badly. Heat flares in my cheeks.
    “I can’t let you do that.”
    “Sure you can. You know I’d pay for more, if I could afford it. Let me do this; it’ll make me feel good. I wish I’d had a therapist when I was your age. It would have saved me a lot of grief.”
    I wrestle with myself. But I need therapy, and I know Sandy means it. “All right. Thank you.” Crisis put off—at least for the next week or so. I set my portfolio down on the table. “But I still need a way to pay for the rest. I thought you might know where to sell these.”
    Sandy sits down beside me, unzipping my portfolio. He goes through the paintings one by one, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always silently. Now and then, he nods or picks one up to study it.
    My mouth feels too dry to swallow. I’ve never shown anyone so much of my art before, especially not all at once. I’ve