Page 51 of Go Back to December

“Then one day, Baz went over to that big lump of clay, took a hunk over to the pottery wheel, and in minutes, he’d made this perfect small bowl. And after that, he made a mug, then a vase. We couldn’t stop him. All of his pottery was as good as Sofia’s. Some were better.

“At the end of the summer, our shelves were bursting with Sebastian Johnson originals.” He smiles. “Sofia finally asked him why it had taken him so long to try the wheel. Baz told her he didn’t want to make something until he could figure out how to prevent it from breaking.”

That persistent demand for control. It’s been with Baz since he was a child.

“Baz has to be reminded that things break,” Peter says. “And he has all the strength and skills to put them back together.”

When he throws some bills down on the bar, I protest, but he shakes his head, that quiet smile on his lips. “Gotta head back. You take as long as you need.”

Alone at the bar, I nurse my drink, imagining Baz as a boy, terrified by the prospect of fragility.

“Melody?”

Justin, the director of the documentary series, stands at the top of the elegant staircase, cradling a tripod. He barrels down the stairs with his camera gear and winds around the bar.

“Merry Christmas,” I greet him.

“Keeping the holiday spirit alive?”

I snort. “Drowning sorrows. I’m dodging a funeral.”

“The judge? I’m here to shoot it. Local outlet wants a package.” He slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’m glad I ran into you. We’re finishing up edits, and I’m hoping you’ve changed your mind about an interview.”

Justin’s passion for his projects is a thing to be admired. My ten previous refusals haven’t deterred him from asking me. I should; it’s what any good founder would do. But it’s important to center this piece on the café staff.

I shake my head. “Still not interested. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Had to try.” He leans an elbow on the bar. “Hey, I heard about the incident at the station. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”

“And Baz?”

My head snaps back. “How do you—”

“Both groomsmen in my cousin’s wedding.”

The list of who Baz doesn’t know in this city would fit on a postage stamp. “Wait. Did Baz suggest the café for the documentary?”

Justin frowns. “He didn’t tell you?”

We’re prevented from discussing the matter further when chaos in the form of an angry man shouting my name erupts in the corridor.

I peer around Justin and meet Baz’s incendiary glare.

He bolts, as fast as a person on crutches can bolt, past the bar tables and knocks over a tray of glasses in his haste. The club staff scrambles to clean it up as he rears up in front of me.

Two bright spots of pink color his cheeks. He barely glances at Justin before his gaze sears me. “Keys,” he grinds out, extending his palm.

“Wh-what?”

“My keys, Melody. Now.”

It takes eons for my hand to dip into my purse and retrieve them. “How did you find me?”

He swipes the keys and points to a disc on the keychain.

“A tracker?” I hiss. “You’re tracking me?”