We all carry fracture lines, whether they’re caused by time, grief, or mistakes. They mark us, but the breaks don’t lessen us. And, as I’ve discovered in working with artists, they can make us into something rare, unique, and beautiful.
If we let them.
I’ve never quite found the knack for mending my own cracks.
I sigh, shuffling the paperwork stacked beside my laptop. Bills, insurance renewals, and the draft of a new rental agreement for whatever mystery tenant will come after Lily-Anne moves out.
It’s hard to concentrate. My legs are stretched out to reach the sunny edge of the patio, my eyes drooping sleepily as I consider the sea-blue bowl.
It’s held different things over the years. Keys, once. Coins and knick-knacks. Letters. Against my wishes, Nova began using it as an ashtray, and the sour memory clings even after years of scrubbing it from my mind. This bowl was the catalyst, if not the final cause, of our breakup.
Now it sits empty, striking but without a purpose.
Rather how I feel now, with a sore throat and lethargy weighing down my muscles. I rub at my temple and push the paperwork aside.
A soft scrape sounds at the fence. I glance up to findRupert shifting a loose plank so he can poke his ruddy head through. “Still alive, then?” he calls, voice full of cheer.
“Barely.”
“Bah. You look fine to me. Nice morning to be out. Is Lily back yet?” he asks as if we discussed her leaving, but I humour him.
“Not yet.”
“Hmm. And you’re not worried she’ll come home to find you moping about?”
“I’m hardly moping.”
“Hmm,” he repeats.
I sigh, already dreading the next words from his mouth. My stack of bills suddenly seems very appealing.
“So…” Rupert continues.
I raise a questioning eyebrow.
“Nice girl, that Lily-Anne.”
“She is.” I keep my tone even, though we both know what he’s angling towards.
“And she’s bright. Cheerful. Shares your passion for music. And I was pleased to learn she prefers the Cornwall method.”
“All true,” I concede, reluctant to encourage him.
I hear the fence creak as Rupert leans against it, and I’m sure if the burly man could fit through the gap in the fence, he would, chair and all. “Play coy all you like, old boy, but don’t think Barb and I haven’t noticed the way you look at her.”
I release another sigh—this one loud enough for him to hear. “Lily-Anne would no more think of me than she would of you, Rupert.”
“Ha! Speak for yourself. If Barbara hadn’t snatched me up forty years ago, I reckon I’d stand a fair chance.” His grin fades, his eyes softening. “But seriously, Brandon—you shouldn’t think so meanly of yourself. You’ve a lot to offer.”
“She deserves someone closer to her age,” I reply, half-heartedly tapping the keyboard. “Someone without…baggage.”
Rupert shakes his head. “That’s not fair. We all have baggage.”
“She can do better.” The words come out clipped. “And all the better for her.”
For once, Rupert has no answer. He only frowns, lines deepening across his brow.
The silence holds—until Barbara appears on their back porch, violet curls bouncing as she waves her binoculars triumphantly. “Lily’s coming! I just saw her on the promenade while I was bird-watching.”
