Free Edge of Recovery (Love on the Edge) by Molly Lee

looks like a tornado,” she said.
    And with that one word, a piece of glass shattered in my head, and I know longer saw something abstract I’d created with my own two hands with my eyes closed. No. I saw a mother fucking tornado.
    What were the odds?
    I bolted out of my seat and instantly smashed the thing, my fists packing into the clay without the satisfaction of feeling like flesh. I saw Charlie jump out of the corner of my eye, but I didn’t stop. I beat the thing until it resembled nothing but the slop of a mound it had been in the beginning.
    My chest heaved as I withdrew my fists, bits of clay sticking to my knuckles. I ignored the other patients in the room, their eyes on my outburst. Charlie’s were the only ones I cared about, but I was too scared to look. Too afraid to see terror or embarrassment or judgment in them.
    She moved quickly in my peripheral vision, and I couldn’t not look when I saw her scoop up her piece—which looked like a big ass sphere—and smash it against the floor. It didn’t shatter because it wasn’t dry but the sound it made—a squelching plop—and the pathetic, fizzled out disc it sunk into, made me laugh so hard my sides hurt.
    Charlie joined in, and it didn’t matter that we looked like two insane people in a room full of recovering addicts—it only mattered that we were the same.
    “That felt good,” she said, reeling in her fit of laughter.
    I sucked in a sharp breath, wiping at the corner of my eyes with my forearms for an entirely new reason, thanks to Charlie.
    She grinned at me and motioned her head toward the unisex bathroom in the back of the art room. “Come on.” She offered her clay covered hand, and I took it instantly.
    I used to think surprises “weren’t my thing” until I met her. Charlie had continuously surprised me every day since she became my sponsor.
    “Clean yourself up,” she ordered, opening the door for me. “I’ll bury the bodies and be right back.” She winked at me before shutting me inside the small bathroom.
    I leaned over the sink, my eyes staying glued to the white marble from habit. As I turned the faucet to find warm water, I drew my courage and slowly looked up.
    There was a smile on my face I didn’t recognize. A light in my eyes, underneath the evidence of tears, I’d never seen. I hadn’t deliberately looked in a mirror in so long—I was shocked to catch a glimpse of myself for longer than a moment.
    I needed a fucking hair cut.
    I chuckled to myself, the sensation of release so strong it made me dizzy, reminding of that first drink after a long absence.
    She knocked on the door, and I let her inside.
    “You practicing your jokes in here?” Charlie asked, shutting the door behind her.
    “No,” I said, and my voice cracked. The room was so small, her frame filling it despite being tiny. There were hardly any places in the clinic—besides the grounds—that were as private as this.
    “Scooch,” she said, bumping her hip against mine as she nestled next to me at the sink. She ran her hands under the water, and the clay from her fingers turned the sink gray. “You haven’t even started! Here.” She grabbed my hands, working her fingers through mine, her skin warm and smooth underneath the flow of water and clay and it resonated deep in my core.
    God, it’d been too long since I’d felt like this. Been so consumed like this.
    I was helpless against her, silent as she lathered our hands with soap, and sliding the bubbles up higher where the clay had gotten on my arms.
    “I know you think this may not be your thing,” she said, massaging her thumbs into the heel of my palms. “but you’re damn good at it.”
    I licked my lips, watching her, feeling her touch, reveling in both. My silence must have given her pause because she stopped, her eyes slowly meeting mine.
    “Is this okay?” she asked, slightly breathless. “I know some people don’t like being touched, but I tend to forget to ask.”
    She pulled away