I could hear the smile in Justin’s voice as he spoke. His excitement as he told me all about someone he'd met at the show who specialized in trauma therapy through art -- specifically, pottery, which Justin said he hadn’t tried since high school.

“It just wasn’t my thing then, you know?” Justin said, as he now sat across from me at Monetti’s, twirling his fork in a mound of fettuccine alfredo, telling me all about his day. “But he really sold me on it today… How you can just put whatever you're feeling into the clay… and then let the kiln burn away all the negativity and turn it into something beautiful. How sometimes all you can do is let the clay slide between your fingers and then call it a day, but that’s okay because you’re doing what you need to do. You’re listening to your intuition. There’s no pressure. You just do what you can."

I mostly just sat and nodded, throwing in a word or two here and there as Justin talked excitedly -- animatedly -- about his plans to meet up with this guy at a studio somewhere in Brooklyn so he could try it out for himself. To see if this was the outlet he'd been looking for.

I couldn't stop the smile that spread across my face, purely from listening to Justin talk, because I hadn’t heard him sound like that in so long -- genuinely excited to try something new. The pieces were finally coming together; Justin was becoming more whole. He wasn’t quite there yet, and we still had a long road ahead of us, but things seemed to be getting better all the time, and the sense of relief that brought me was beyond measure.

Maybe the “new” Justin would include art after all, just in a different way.

Justin tried it out for the first time two days later and came home with a smile on his face, pleased with what he’d done. Of course, it wouldn’t always be that way, and there were plenty of down days too, but that was part of it -- the reason he was doing it was to give him an outlet for the negative emotions that had dragged him down for so long. So sometimes shit was going to come up. The difference was that it didn’t stick.

I still remember the first time he brought home a finished project -- a bowl that was far from perfect in shape, painted in a beautiful blue that reminded me of Justin’s eyes. I didn’t ask about the meaning behind it, and he didn’t tell me, but every time I look at it, sitting on our side table in the living room, it reminds me of our life together -- that even though it’s not always perfect, it’s always beautiful in its own way.

Pottery seemed to be the connection Justin had been looking for; the link that had been missing thus far in his recovery. He kept writing in the journal, but less often, and he was spending more time out of the apartment, utilizing the studio space that his new friend had invited him to share any time he wanted or needed to. But this time, Justin wasn’t coming home from the studio frustrated and distant. This time, he seemed to be getting what he needed out of his creative outlet.

John was pleased with Justin’s progress too, and the therapy sessions soon dropped from three times a week to two, which I took as confirmation that things were, indeed, getting better. Making our way back toward “normal,” whatever that was, and whatever it would be.

One Friday afternoon, I came home from my last orthopedist appointment -- finally free of that damn boot -- expecting to find Justin in the kitchen if he’d decided to cook, or in the living room if he wanted to go out. Only he wasn’t in either of those places. It took me a minute or two of searching before I found him out on our balcony, sitting cross-legged on the tile, his face softly illuminated by a tiny flame he’d lit at the corner of the small piece of paper in his hand before dropping it into a ceramic bowl, which I recognized as his second pottery project.

I watched him for a moment, taking in the sight of his pale skin in the warm firelight as the flame slowly consumed the paper. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened his mouth and let the breath go. Once that paper was gone, he picked up another from alongside him, scribbled a few words on it, then studied it for a few seconds before flicking the lighter with his left hand and igniting the corner of the new piece of paper, again dropping it into the bowl to watch it burn.

I moved closer and reached for the door handle, and that’s when he saw me, turning to look at me as I slid the door open and pushed myself out onto the balcony, in the space between his bowl and the railing.

I wanted to ask him if he was turning into a pyromaniac, but the scene in front of me seemed far too serious -- too sacred -- to make a joke. He smiled at me -- a soft, serene smile. A peaceful smile that made me feel like I was in a sacred space, even amid the evening hustle and bustle of the city twenty floors below. Then, as the flame burned itself out, he closed his eyes again, inhaling and exhaling with a soft sigh.

“I’m letting things go,” he said, blinking his eyes open and answering the question I wasn’t sure how to ask. “Writing them down and burning them… releasing them into the wind.” He paused and grabbed another piece of paper, then picked up the pen and wrote the words “not good enough” on it, showing it to me before he flicked the lighter and let the words burn along with the paper, a thin tendril of smoke rising up into the night as the flame flickered and glowed until it extinguished itself, prompting Justin to repeat the breathing exercise. “Want to try?” he asked, reaching his right hand out in my direction, holding a piece of paper and a pen.

Hesitantly, I took it from him, not quite sure what I should write. I knew I probably had no shortage of things I needed to let go of, but picking out just one -- and putting it into words -- felt harder than it should have been. Finally, I settled on one word, four letters, beginning with “F.” I wrote the word slowly and carefully, in capital letters large enough to take up the entire sheet.

Fear.

Justin looked at the paper, then up at me, studying my eyes as if he was searching for something. In that moment, I felt the connection between us -- that this was something we both needed to let go of, in different ways. To release into the wind. To turn it into dust and not allow it to stand in our way or come between us ever again.

He started to hand me the lighter, but I stopped him, instead leaning forward to wrap my hand around his as we ignited the flame together, touching its warmth and heat to the corner of the paper before I dropped it into the bowl and we both watched it crumple and writhe, the edges turning brown and disappearing into nothing as the flame consumed it, turning it to ash and smoke. Then, we closed our eyes and took a breath together. Inhaling. Exhaling. Letting it go.

I lost track of how long we sat out there, writing words and short phrases on small slips of paper and just watching them burn, letting go of all the shit that went along with them. But it was long enough that eventually we were both sitting on the tile, leaning against the glass that lined the railing, holding each other close as we watched each piece of paper fade into nothing, looking out toward the Hudson River and the city lights in the evening darkness, enjoying each other’s company. When the chill of the fall evening got to be too much, we moved inside, ordered takeout, and opened a bottle of wine, electing to just spend the evening together. No need to go out; we had all we needed right there.

A couple of weeks into Justin’s journey with pottery-as-therapy, I felt like we were finally finding a routine -- a new normal, perhaps. And it felt like Justin was easing his way back into life. It felt good to leave for work and know that Justin had somewhere to go too, and something to focus his energy on. Sometimes he even left before I did, and that was exactly what had happened on a Wednesday morning in early November, when I found myself sitting in our living room with my coffee, catching up on the day’s news on my tablet, thinking about the conversation Justin and I had at dinner the night before.

I’d arrived home before he did, so I already had dinner started -- a simple chicken-and-vegetable stir fry, because I was still no chef, but I’d at least risen above ordering takeout every single night. When I heard the door open and close and Justin’s footsteps coming into the kitchen, I turned to greet him while at the same time evaluating his mood, as I did every single time he came home from seeing John. Seeing if that night would be a pensive and reflective one, or one when Justin needed some silent support, or one when he felt like he’d made a breakthrough and we got to enjoy the resulting peace of that.

That night, he had the slightest hint of a smile on his face, and his energy felt positive -- clearly, good things had been discussed. He didn’t tell me what they were, though, and I didn’t ask. That was something I’d become well-practiced at in the preceding weeks -- being patient and waiting for Justin to tell me what he wanted me to know, and being okay with the fact that sometimes I didn’t need to know everything.

He’d walked up to me and bent down to give me a hug and a kiss before settling into one of the chairs at the bar, silently watching me cook. I kept looking over my shoulder, wondering if he was going to say anything, still trying to read his face. I’d just turned back toward the skillet for the half-dozenth time when I heard Justin giggle, and I turned around again to see him smiling even more, his left hand partially covering his mouth, his eyes bright and smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, wondering what had prompted that laugh I’d missed for so long, but at the same time realizing that it didn’t really matter; all that mattered was that another piece of Justin was falling more solidly into place.

“Nothing.” Justin’s hand was still covering his mouth, but I could see the corner of it quirking upward into a grin.

“What, is the sight of seeing me cooking really that shocking? Or are my cooking skills laughable?” I turned back to reevaluate the doneness of our dinner, electing to turn the heat off so it could cool for a minute or two before I plated it up.

“No, it’s not that.” Justin seemed to be trying to force his facial features into a more neutral expression, lest I think he was trying to insult my cooking, though I could still see the hint of an amused smile on his lips.

“What is it, then? You can tell me.” I rolled closer to him and took one of his hands in mine, studying his eyes and just taking in the joy and happiness I could see in them -- a sight I was always going to appreciate from now on.

“Just something John said today. We were talking about how much it’s helping me to be able to throw all the shit my brain conjures up into a bowl or a cup or a vase… how sometimes it’s like I can feel the negative thoughts leaving me through my hands, going into the clay. And how good it feels to just let things go. Being able to feel things without worrying about what anybody thinks about it. Having a purpose again.” He stopped and took a breath, giving me a moment to let all of that sink in, and perhaps doing the same for himself. “Anyway, he said that getting a pet can help too, with some of those things.” Justin paused again, but this time it was short, as he quickly added, “But don’t worry, I told him you’d never go for that. I just thought it was funny. I mean, Molly and I had a cat growing up, and sometimes I kind of miss having an animal around, but really…” He paused again, laughing this time. “You’d freak the fuck out the first time you found a cat hair on your clothes.”

He’d changed the subject then, and we ate our dinner while talking about our plans for the rest of the week, but my mind kept going back to what he’d said. How quickly he’d written off John’s suggestion because he thought I’d never go for it, and that was what I was thinking about as I drank my coffee, tablet in hand, staring absently out the floor-to-ceiling windows in our living room.

Justin wasn’t wrong that animals weren’t my thing; I was a neat freak, and I’d always thought of pets as messy prospects. And there was no way in hell Jack and Joanie ever would have let Claire and me have one, even as much as Claire begged and whined, so it just wasn’t something I’d ever had in my life, and as a result wasn’t something I thought about.

But by that point, I’d be damned if I was going to do anything to stand in the way of Justin’s recovery. As far as I was concerned, I’d already done enough damage when we were in the thick of things, so I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the reason something didn’t happen, especially if that something might help Justin. And if that something was a cat, well…

By the time I got to work, I’d made up my mind that I was going to make it happen; I just needed to figure out how. I sat alone in my office, again enjoying the quiet before everyone else arrived, checking my email and letting my mind continue thinking about ways to get Justin a cat. I’d just decided that a good place to start might be asking Cynthia where she got Louis (and made myself a note so I wouldn’t forget once the office got busy and my focus became the hustle and bustle of work) when I heard a knock and looked up to see Rob sitting in the open doorway.

Even though the setup was exactly the same, the scene was so different from what it had been several weeks before -- this time, Rob had a smile on his face, and he didn’t close the door behind him, and he didn’t gravely tell me that we needed to talk. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in my office in the morning since then, but each time it happened, I always found myself taken back for a moment to the day when Rob had finally forced me to wake the fuck up, and very well might have saved Justin’s life, and mine along with it, in a way, because I honestly don’t know how I would have gone on without Justin.

As I looked at my friend, I had no idea how I’d ever repay Rob for what he’d given me -- and I still don’t, even though he’s told me at least a dozen times now not to worry about it. But I did know I was grateful we were in each other’s lives, and that everything had happened exactly as it should have to bring us together more than a decade before, and to ultimately lead us to him working for me. And just like in so many other areas of my life, the circumstances that had led us to where we ended up weren’t always positive, and some of them were terrible, yet they’d each played their own important role. I suppose that’s just life, though. Taking the good with the bad, playing the hand you’re dealt, and letting the cards fall wherever they may. Because even as much as I might have tried in my life, I couldn’t control everything. Sometimes all I could do was trust that it would all work out in its own way. That was hard, but I had to do it, and it was something Rob reminded me of often.

“I know you’re busy, and I won’t stay long, but I have a proposition for you,” Rob said, as he pushed himself closer to my desk.

I raised an eyebrow, feeling the beginnings of a smirk pulling at the corner of my lips, but before I could make my joke, Rob spoke again.

“Not that kind of proposition,” he chuckled.

“Too bad. Things could get interesting. Just takes a little creativity.”

“Somehow I think Adam might get a little upset, and probably Justin too.” Rob grinned and shook his head. “Anyhow, Adam and I were talking last night, and he mentioned that he’d spoken with Justin on the phone a couple of days ago. Justin brought up feeling like he wanted to try going back to his studio, but he didn’t want to see the things he’d been working on before, and the thought of trying to clear everything out was too overwhelming. That he doesn’t feel like he can handle that right now, so he thinks it’s best to just stay away.”

Rob paused, which gave me a moment to think about what a strange mix of emotions his words had just made me feel. I was glad -- and a little surprised -- to hear that Justin wanted to go back to his studio, but at the same time, I hated to hear that he was feeling overwhelmed about anything, and that he hadn’t told me. But at least he’d told someone -- he hadn’t just kept it bottled up inside, like he’d done with far too many things in the preceding months. I had to look at that as progress, too. Even if that someone wasn’t me.

“So Adam and I were thinking we’d like to clear it out for him, as a gift, with your blessing of course. And hopefully your key,” Rob continued. “So when he is ready, it’s ready for him.”

I agreed quickly -- not only to let them, but to help them -- and Rob and I had soon worked out all the details, agreeing to meet up on Saturday, while Justin would be busy at his volunteer gig, to get Justin’s studio back into working, trigger-free condition.

As we wrapped up our conversation, the scent of cinnamon and sugar that appeared to be emanating from the box in Rob’s lap seemed like it was growing stronger. “What do you have in that box that smells so good?” I asked, leaning forward to peer at it a little more closely.

“Oh, bagels from that place around the corner from our apartment. I brought them in for my crew today.”

“Aren’t you going to share?” I teased, raising an eyebrow at my longtime friend.

“I guess I figured you wouldn’t be interested… I know they aren’t your thing. But sure; I’ve got plenty.” He opened the box and set it on my desk, presumably for me to pick one. “I have to ask though… why the change of heart? You’ve never even tried one before, and I seem to remember more than one disparaging comment about carb consumption being uttered in my presence. Not that I’m judging. I’m just curious.”

“A wise man once told me, you only live once.”

Rob looked up at me and smiled, his eyes sparkling in the morning sunlight that was coming through my office windows. “A wise man, huh?”

“Yeah. I think maybe he knows his shit. And I really owe him one.”

Rob leaned forward and laid his hand over mine. “Let’s just say we’re even.”