I reached out, running careful, practiced fingers down the neat rows of stitches. “It looks good.” I looked up and met his eyes as I gave the long rectangle an experimental tug. “A little tight in spots, but it looks like you learned to maintain the right tension as you went.”
Those deep, dark eyes nailed me into place, and for a second, I could barely breathe—barely move, except for the goosebumps that rippled down my spine and the gentle quiver of arousal in my belly from his nearness. And when he spoke, his voice was warm and soft.
“That’s how it goes when you learn new things.” He looked down at his knitting, thumbs stroking across the material. “You’re always learning as you go.”
“All right,” Anita cut in, her voice a grouchy rasp that immediately shattered the bubble that had slowly been forming around us. “This screwed-up afghan won’t fix itself, Sam.”
Class continued as normal after that—one-on-one instruction and quick demonstrations—but I noticed that the knot of anxiety in my belly had eased, until it was almost gone. My students filtered out slowly as they always did, some with canes and walkers, some not, peppering me with more questions on the way out, stopping to show me photos of grandchildren and pets. And finally, when Fumiko and Anita forced themselves out the door with lingering backward glances, it was just Ian and myself left.
Ian rose from his seat, unfolding his tall frame and crossing the room quickly on his long legs, until he stopped right in front of me. Tall enough that my nose would fit right in the curve of his neck, I noticed absently as he drew closer.
“I’m glad you came today,” I told him, shifting my gaze up to his. “I thought that maybe—”
“I’m sorry that I kind of went dark,” he interrupted before I could finish.
The first time he’d done that, I thought. Like he had something important he really needed to get out. He stopped and had the grace to look a little bit embarrassed.
“And I’m sorry for interrupting you just now,” he added, a small frown on his brows.
“It’s okay,” I said, smiling to put him at ease. “Really.”
“I had some things I needed to think about, and I wanted to tell you that—"
But before he could complete his sentence, the door to the classroom burst open and Monica, the education coordinator, came racing in.
“Thank God I caught you, Sam,” she said, gulping in deep breaths like she ran all the way from her office. “The drawing class is in fifteen minutes and Darren can’t make it. Do you have any time to cover?”
I winced. “I would, but…” I thought back to my college drawing classes. I’d barely picked up a pencil since then. “I don’t know if I’m really qualified to do it.”
Monica blew out a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Shit. He just called me, and I’m kind of scrambling.”
“I can do it.”
Both of us turned to look at Ian, who stood next to me with his arms crossed, tattooed arms on full display.
“Come again?” Monica said.
Ian shrugged. “I can do it. I draw all day long, and I have the time.” He looked at Monica, and then at me again, his eyes lingering on my face. “But will you stay and back me up? Help with the classroom management bit?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said, and the relief was palpable on his face. “Of course I will.”
* * *
Even without any preparation or real teaching experience, Ian was a natural. I helped him run the class and keep things on schedule, but the quality of instruction, the way he engaged with students and listened to their questions patiently and adapted to the individual needs of each person—that was all him.
“That was great,” I told him as we straightened the chairs and picked up stray bits of paper after the last student, an elderly man with impaired vision, carefully made his way out of the room with Ian’s help. “You’re a natural.” I bent and picked up a stray pencil that had rolled under an easel before I straightened, pushing back the strands of hair that had fallen into my face. “Have you ever thought about doing more teaching?”
Ian turned and looked over at me, that lopsided smile playing at his lips again. “I’m glad you think so. But I think this was probably the beginning and end of my teaching career.”
I laughed. “Understood. It’s definitely not for everyone.” I paused. “Some days, I’m not even sure it’s for me.”
Ian moved a few steps closer, reaching out to straighten easels and chairs as he went. “Yeah? Why do you say that?”
I plopped into an empty chair and stretched my legs out in front of me, watching Ian as he settled into the chair next to me. Together, we stared up at the demonstration piece he’d drawn for the entire class—a detailed sketch portrait of one of the students. Even without much time to work, he’d captured her likeness beautifully, all the folds and shadows of her face carefully rendered in charcoal, better than anything I could have presented on my own.
“I’d like to sell more art and spend less time teaching,” I told him. I looked down at my hands, callused and scarred from years of working in fiber arts, my fingertips stained purple from late-night fabric dyeing project a few days earlier. “My art is just…it’s my life. I think you can relate.”
He reached over and took one of my hands in his. He turned my palm over, examining the dye stains and the marks left over from my work. His were ink-stained, too, I saw, with a callus on the finger where I assumed the tattoo machine rested as he worked.