Page 54 of The Snowflake Effect

He slumps forward and stares at his sneakers. The sneakers that encase one yellow and one white sock. “’Cause my ideas are different. And different is unique. And unique is the best.” He huffs out a breath and looks up at Stella. “I broke the rule, didn’t I?”

She nods. “Let this ugly red glaze remind you to always go with your gut. Especially when it comes to style. Most people wouldn’t know style if it bit them in the derrière.”

He squints as she hands him back his maybe-ashtray. “De-rri-ère? That’s, like, bum, right? Uncle Sawyer says ass, but Daddy always gets mad.”

“Hey!” I do some weird waving thing—my impression of Queen Elizabeth on acid—as I hurry over to meet them. Hopefully, my awkward moves are enough to distract this PTA group from commenting on Jackson’s language. The way the gray-haired teacher narrows her eyes at us, I’d say we’ve been caught.

He turns toward me, his eyes widening behind his Coke-bottle glasses. “Shay! You’re here!” Then he turns to Stella and parrots, “She’s here.”

I’m sure he was told I’d be coming, but there’s something about the charged excitement in his tone that sets off my Kolton radar. But he’s nowhere to be seen.

“I’m here,” I say, glancing around again.

“Can I ask her?” he asks Stella, like I’m not right beside them.

“Go for it,” she says.

Sharp scents of musty clay cling to the air in the shop, the warmth from the running kilns radiating through the space. I grab the hem of my top and shake the fabric to create a breeze. “I’d say now is the perfect time to ask. What can I do for you, Jackson?”

His eyes flit up to Stella again, then he swallows and addresses me. “Have you been wooed?”

I stop shaking my shirt. “Wooed?”

Jackson nods vigorously. “Wooed. Did you say yes? Are you gonna date my dad?”

The smells of clay and fire press in around me. I raise an eyebrow at Stella. “Wooed?”

She shrugs. “Wooed.”

At least coming from her corseted-wearing self, it doesn’t sound so out of place. But that old-fashioned word in this modern-day pottery shop has distracted me from what’s really going down: Kolton is using his kid to get to me.

“Sorry,” I say to Jackson. “I didn’t say yes. Sadly, I am not wooed.”

Total freaking lie, Batman. But I can hold out a little longer, long enough to find out what Kolton has planned.

Instead of looking upset or unleashing those impossible-to-resist puppy-dog eyes all kids stock in their arsenal, Jackson jumps and grabs the maybe-ashtray from Stella and holds it out for me. “I made this for you, but it’s not the right color. It was s’posed to be yellow like I wanted, but I didn’t follow my rule and painted it red, so it’s not as nice as it coulda been, but…” He holds it up higher.

Hesitantly, I take his offering. “Thanks, Jackson. It’s the nicest”—bowl? Vase? Cup?—“gift I’ve ever gotten. Even though it’s red.”

I run my hand over the rough, wonky edges, then look inside…and the dust-filled air solidifies in my throat. I should have expected this. Kolton warned me the first day he wouldn’t back off.

In uneven black strokes, Jackson has written: Please date my dad.

The teacher calls for the kids to clean up, and Jackson runs off.

I blink a few times, then turn my likely shocked face to Stella. “Does Kolton do this sort of wooing often?”

She chuckles and smooths a few pink flyaway hairs into her bouffant do. “I’ve worked for the boys for three years. I’ve watched them date and flirt, and raise this kid, and build their business, but I’ve never witnessed the wooing. Kolton’s not a player. He goes through phases with women, wanting to meet someone, then getting fed up—never really trying that hard, if you ask me. From my experience, he wouldn’t put this much time and energy into just anyone. I mean, look at this.” She points to the maybe-ashtray and rolls her eyes.

I’m too overwhelmed to reply.

Stella places her hand on my arm. “I don’t know the details, and I don’t want to overstep, but”—she winks—“I will. I’m sure you’ve noticed I don’t look like your typical high-profile personal assistant.”

We glance around at the Stepford Wives, who are doing their best to pretend we don’t exist.

“Getting a good job wasn’t easy,” she goes on. “I’m smart. I aced my bachelor’s degree, and I can tame any computer program thrown at me. I’m also organized to a fault. But I wasn’t willing to wear some granny pantsuit and cover up who I am to prove that. Kolton and Sawyer never judged me. If they had, I’d have moved on.” When I still don’t speak, she says more gently, “You’re a good designer, Shay. Great. Who you do or don’t date won’t change that. Don’t compromise yourself to please others.”

After Lily’s “regret” speech, that one word—compromise—confirms my decision to date Kolton. Here I’ve been worried I’ll compromise myself with him, lose my identity, my wants and desires, in a relationship again. I haven’t stopped to think about how not being with him is denying my most basic needs.