Jameson stood with his back to me, dressed in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans with a leather apron over the top. He held a small hammer in one hand, and his other was covered with a thick glove. It didn’t seem like he’d heard me knock—he didn’t turn around.
His head tilted to the side, and he shifted something in front of him. The muscles in his back and arms flexed as he worked. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but the way he moved was mesmerizing. The hammer clinked against metal. He paused, seeming to look at what he was working on, then hammered again a few times. Reaching up, he wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.
I knocked again, louder this time, my head sticking through the door. Jameson glanced over his shoulder, wearing safety goggles that looked like sunglasses.
“Oh, hey there,” he said.
I’d been hoping to hear him call me darlin’ again—it was so cute when he did—but he just licked his lips and took off his glasses.
“Hey. Sorry to drop in on you like this, but you said I could stop by sometime.”
“Course,” he said. “Come on in.”
The air was warm inside the workshop, so I shrugged off my cardigan and draped it over my arm. I was wearing a tank top underneath with my favorite pair of cut-off jeans and low-top sneakers. Jameson’s eyes drifted down, then snapped back up to my face.
There was something in his expression—a hesitance. His brow furrowed slightly and the space between us felt charged with electricity. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t want me here, or if he was just surprised I’d come.
“I’m sorry, I should have texted you first. I’m sure you’re busy.”
“No, it’s all right.” He put down the large pair of tongs, then slipped off the glove. “Can I show you around?”
“I’d love that.”
He led me into the workshop and showed me the different pieces of equipment, explaining a bit about what they were used for. The forge that heated pieces of scrap metal. The anvil where he shaped them. He had shelves with hunks of metal, large and small—some smooth and shiny, others pitted with rust. Boxes and bins held smaller pieces—old tools and gears.
“Is this what you’re working on?” I asked, pointing to a large piece in the center of an open area.
“Sure is,” he said.
I walked around it, gazing at the shape. From the back, it was difficult to tell what it was. But from the front, I could see more. It was a woman, or perhaps an angel. She had the beginnings of wings on her back, but they drooped low, hanging toward the ground. Her head was bent, and she gripped what looked like bars. She was huge, standing at least ten feet high.
“She looks like she’s in a cage,” I said.
“Yeah, she is,” he said. “Or she will be, when she’s finished.”
I started to ask who she was, but stopped, biting my lower lip. I felt silly for even thinking it, but I suddenly had the craziest notion that she was me.
Of course, that was ridiculous. Jameson wouldn’t make a larger than life sculpture of a woman based on me—especially one with angel wings. Who was I? Just his friend. Maybe he had someone else in his life who’d inspired this. For all I knew, she could be his mother. Or a woman he loved that I knew nothing about. As much as I hated that idea, I had to admit it could be true.
But there was something about her that felt familiar. She felt personal. Like I understood exactly what she was feeling. She wasn’t finished, but I could feel the anguish of her captivity. Her desire to be free.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, finally.
“Thank you,” he said, and exhaled a breath like he was relieved to hear me say that. “I still have a lot of work to do before she’s finished.”
“She looks so real,” I said, moving around to look at her from another angle. “So… alive.”
Jameson gazed at me. I could see him from the corner of my eye. “I hope so. That’s what I’m going for. Idea is for her to look more so by the time she’s done.”
“I’m sure she will,” I said. “She already looks amazing.”
“Thanks.”
The tension between us was still there, and I wondered if I should leave. After all, I’d interrupted him while he was working.