I laugh. That’s Grandma Mitsuye. “No, no. Remember what she said about the bowl. The gold?”
Nami squints, trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. That broken ceramics in Japan are repaired with liquid gold. What did she call that? Ken-something?”
“Kintsugi,” I say, remembering.
“Right. Wait. What was that again?”
And for the first time, all the things Grandma told me after the miscarriage start to make sense. Maybe I was too much in the moment at the time to understand what she was telling me. But now, years later, I finallygetit.
“Japanese see the flaw as a unique piece of the object’s history,” I say. “So instead of hiding it or covering it up, they outline it with gold paint. The crack adds to the beauty of the piece. It makes the piece unique and beautiful.” I glance at my sister, who’s running her finger along a golden crack. “And the metal paint makes the ceramic even stronger. You see, those scars are beautiful, and they’re even stronger than the rest of the bowl. Scar tissue is strong. And so that’s gold.”
Nami studies the bowl, holding it up to the light.
“So, you see? You’re not broken,” I tell Nami. “You’ve just made a beautiful new scar. Let’s fix it with liquid gold.”
Nami puts the bowl down. Then she grabs the bottle on my coffee table and takes a swig. “Or with tequila?”
“Sure. Your choice.”
Nami holds up the bottle of tequila. “To beautiful scars,” she says.
“To beautiful scars,” I echo, and we both share a weak grin.
Twenty-four
SORA
Ask yourself: Who do you want your soul mate to be? Then be that person. Because the soul mate you’re looking for all along is you.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Nami moving in actually works out nicely. She helps me clean, tackling the mold in my bathroom grout like she’s scrubbing off Mitch’s face. Turns out, spring cleaning helps both of us. I’m still sad about Jack. More than sad about Jack, but I also realize that I’d been hoping he’d save me when I have to save myself. That’s the true spirit of Solo February, I realize, learned a month late and a Jack short. But there it is. Live, learn, repeat. When cracks appear: apply liquid gold and move on.
Of course everything reminds me of Jack. That’s the problem. He just won’t go lightly into the “loved and lost” file. Everytime I see a torte or any damned dessert, I think of Jack. Some guy withanyfacial hair: Jack. Valentine’s candy that’s 75 percent off: Jack. I stand in the aisle at Margo’s once dedicated to Valentine’s Day and mourn the loss. Now, it’s a single shelf, filled with theworstcandy: white chocolate filled withnougat? Really? Then there’s the one or two stuffed animals left, and one is missing an eye. I take it, figuring Larry might enjoy having a stuffed animal handi-capable, just like him. The rest of the aisle is stocked with St. Paddy’s Day green. “Kiss me, I’m Chi-rish” and “Beer Makes Everything Better” shirts, and I feel a real pang of loss. I can’t believe it. Imissthe freakin’ Valentine’s aisle. I remember Jack, bringing me chocolate and wine. Remember spending the best Valentine’s Day of my damn life eating heart-shaped pizza and babysitting Jack’s firecracker of a niece.
The loss hits me hard. I’m not just heartbroken, I’m grieving what could have been.I realize that neither Marley nor Dan ever touched this level of heartbreak, because deep down, I never really believed Marley or Dan had what it took to go the distance. But Jack… Jack was different. No matter how briefly we dated. Or didn’t date. Jack held promise.
I wheel my cart toward the bakery, but I know Jack isn’t there. He’s replaced by a purple-haired woman with shorn hair and lots of tattoos, and I know that she’s not going to give me any free tortes. Jack’s off to open his new bakery, I assume. We haven’t spoken. He last texted about a week ago.If and when you’re ready to talk, I’m here. But I also respect your decision not to. Know that I care about you. So much.
That was a hard one to ignore. But I just… I just can’t. Anytime I’m tempted to reach out to Jack, I remember Mal in hergold, clingy dress, hanging on his shoulder, and I feel the betrayal and the hurt all over again. How can I trust him? I wheel my cart to the checkout line. Now, I’ve actually got greens in my cart. Spinach. Cucumbers. Grapes. Oat cereal to lower cholesterol. And a smaller, mini pack of bacon instead of the family size, because I’m cutting back a bit. I’m taking better care of myself. Being the adult in my own life. It kind of… feels good, actually. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m not loading up with kale and kombucha, but… eating right isn’t all bad.
I buy my groceries and take my reusable bags, heavy now with mostly healthy food, down the sidewalk, free of ice for the first time in weeks. A couple walks by, holding hands and eating ice cream. I realize that for the first time in months, the weather is actually nice. The sun shines above me, and the temperature hovers near fifty-five. Green sprouts poke out of nearby tree limbs. Spring is about to spring. Not a cloud dots the bright blue sky above my head as another couple pushes a stroller down the sidewalks. The toddler inside meets my gaze and gives me a bright, joyful smile. I smile back at him, and he giggles.
I round the bend, seeing my old meatpacking baron’s castle standing tall, the “For Sale” sign a beacon in the small grassy patch of yard. I’m adulting. It feels fine. I trudge up to the small black wrought-iron gate that fences in the bit of green, and I’m swinging the door open when I hear a voice behind me.
“Sora? Sora Reid?” I turn to see a woman in a fur-trimmed coat and black, pointy stiletto boots emerging from the back seat of an expensive-looking Mercedes. Her driver clicks on the parking flashers.
“Mal?” The last person on earth I ever expected to see.
She gives me a disdainful once-over, judging my old parka, my sweatpants, and my old Uggs.
“Good. You do live here. I was about to fire the PI I used to find your address.”
“You hired a private investigator to find me?” What the hell is going on?
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves a leather-gloved hand dismissively. “It’s because I need to talk to you.”
“You do?” I put down my bags, suddenly worried. “Is Jack okay?”
