Twenty-three
SORA
They say time heals all wounds. But why does it have to take so much time?
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
I’m still brokenhearted and sad, but I am starting to clean up my own messes. As Larry snores at my feet, on my “office” duvet, I grab my shiny silver laptop from my bedside table and open it up. I flinch, as if worried a bomb of hateful insults will lob themselves out of the bright screen like criticism grenades, but they don’t.
I stare at the blinking cursor of my laptop.
Slick readers deserve an explanation. That much I can give them.
I pull up my last Solo February entry and want to punch myself. Look at these words I’m throwing around. I sound ridiculous. No wonder Slick readers hate me.
I begin typing.
To everyone pissed at me, I get it. And you are right to be pissed at me. I’m pissed at myself. I told you all I was #GoingSolo and then I bailed, hoping I’d get my happily ever after, but you know what? I didn’t.
I pause, hands above the keyboard. Am I going to out Jack to the hundreds of thousands of readers of Slick? I should. He’d deserve it. Yet … something stops me. Blame-shifting doesn’t solve my problem here. I can’t blame Jack for my decisions. I decided to end Solo February early and brought the wrath of basically everyone down on my head. That’s on me.
And you all called me fake and a fraud, and in some ways, I was. I pitched this story to my editor, but I’m not sure I ever really truly believed in it.
Sure, I was bitter.
I was angry at men I’d dated.
But I started the Solo February challenge for the wrong reasons. Because I wanted to get paid for more articles, and because I was angry at my exes and sick of the dating game. I never really believed in it. I never really intended for Solo February to become so big.
But it became big because of YOU, not me.
You made this real. Not me.
And, yes, I blew it. But blowing it actually helped me see Solo February not as a gimmick, or a joke, but as something truly meaningful and important. And that’s all because of you, readers. You all helped me see that putting our mental health first is important, that getting to know ourselves IS important.
I know you’re angry at me and I get it, but just know that I’m cheering you on, if you decide to go solo forever, or if you decide to get married tomorrow. I trust that you can make the best choices for you. You actually don’t need a Slick confessional to get you where you want to go. You don’t need me telling you what to do. You’ve been doing a pretty good job of making decisions for yourselves all along.
You can be mad at me. I can take it. But the real secret is you didn’t need these columns. You didn’t need me. You were making yourself better, all by yourselves. You made this happen, not me.
Keep on doing it. Even if you fail.
Especially if you fail.
My mom used to always tell me not to stick my neck out. Not to take risks, and I always thought that not taking a risk was better than taking one and failing. But now I realize how wrong that thinking is. If you don’t risk some, you’ll never win some. Sure, you’ll fail sometimes. Life will hammer you down.
But Mom also told me taking a risk is the only way to build anything meaningful in your life. So, go on. Take the risk. Whether you win or lose, you’ll be on the path to being better, and being your best self is worth the risk.
I send off the article to Arial.
During the coming week, the article turns the tide of the pitchfork-carrying online mob.
A majority of supporters forgive me.
Thanks for your brutal honesty.
That took courage.
You made me realize it’s okay to blow it. All I need to do is pick myself up and try again. Thanks for letting us know you’re human.
Sure, there are still those angry at me. Those who don’t forgive me and who let me know it all the time.
But in the end, I let it go. I said my piece.
I’m focused mostly on applying for new freelance gigs, reaching out to women’s health magazines and feminist nonprofits, looking for more meaningful articles to write. Then I throw myself into massive spring cleaning. I’m putting my condo on the market. I am finally doing it. Goodbye, Pam (even though Pam is nicer than I gave her credit for). Goodbye, memories of Marley. Time for me to move on.
Because Stella—and her behavioral psychology degree—is right. I’ve been a passive observer in my own life, and it’s high time I get into the damn game. Even better, the real estate agent I talked to thought I could get a pretty penny for my place, and if I move three blocks west, a little bit away from the train (and why is being near transportation such a big deal again when I work from home?), maybe even upgrade to a newer condo. One with … drumroll … central AC and a washer and dryer in the unit, a little piece of luxury I haven’t had since I was eighteen and living full-time with my parents. So, I’m cleaning out the whole place. Time for a spark-joy or get-the-hell-out super clean.
Plus, keeping busy helps me not think about Jack. Okay, I still think about Jack. Pretty much every morning when I wake up. Logically, it doesn’t even really make sense. We’d only been together a short time, but man, he’d wormed his way deep inside my heart. No matter how I tried to temper my expectations, part of me, my inner thirteen-year-old girl, had already planned our future years together, skipping through the aisles of IKEA and picking out our new furniture.
A hard knock comes at my door. No buzzer. Larry lifts his head and gives a cautious bark. I pull myself up from the pile of clothes I’ve been sorting into different stacks: keep, donate, hope-to-fit-into-one-day, and no-chance-of-fitting-into-any-day-but-I’m-keeping-it-to-show-I once-did piles. I swing open the door. Pam stands there, holding some of my junk mail.
“The mailman put it in my box by accident,” she says. Then her eyes grow wide as she sees the massive mess behind me. “What happened in there?” she interrupts me. “Did you get burgled?”
Of course Pam would use the term “burgled,” like she’s ninety. Then I remember we made up. We’re not enemies anymore.
“No, I’m doing some cleaning. I’m putting the condo up for sale.”
This stops Pam cold. “You are?”
“Yes. Long overdue, actually. My real estate agent says she hopes it sells fast. And then, I mean, look at the bright side, you won’t have to worry about Larry anymore. He’s the last dog grandfathered in, so the condo building will be dog-free.”
Pam perks up for a moment. But only a moment. “Yeah, but it’s still kind of a bummer. I was actually going to ask if you wanted to come over to my place for one of my girls’ nights? I have them the first Thursday of every month.”
“I know.” They get a little bit loud down there after the third bottle of rosé.
“Oh, right, well. I mean, you’re welcome to come by. Even after you move.”
“Really?” Pam nods. Well, will wonders never cease. “Thanks, Pam. I’ll come by one month. That would be great.”
We smile at each other, genuine smiles.
“Uh, and let me know if you need any help. With packing or whatever.”
“I will, Pam.” Wow, it’s nice having a neighbor who doesn’t hate you. She trots downstairs again. “And, uh … thanks!” I call after her.
“No problem,” she calls back up, throwing up an arm. I head back to my bedroom, taking a break from the deep clean to check email on my laptop. Larry trails after me, taking up his post curled up at the foot of my bed. I lean against my pillows, just as my laptop chimes, announcing my upcoming video meeting with Arial, which I had temporarily forgotten about. I take a deep breath and click the “accept” button for the meet. I don’t bother heading to the “conference room” of my kitchen. I think we’re both beyond pretending that I don’t work full-time in bed.
“Hey?” Arial says, sounding guarded but optimistic. She looks perfect as always, cinnamon hair in perfect waves to her shoulders, as she sits in front of the stunning view of Lake Michigan in her expensive high-rise office.
“Hey?” I answer. We both stare at each other.
“You did do a nice job of cleaning up?” Arial says. “And I talked to my bosses, one more time?” she offers. “But they’ve decided maybe not to hire another full-time writer. I mean, you did a nice job recovering that last series? But they’re just not ready to offer you full-time?”
“I get it.” I do a gut check. I’m actually relieved. I didn’t want a full-time position after all. Why? Larry only wants the cheap kibble, anyway.
“Well, maybe we could do a new series? Can’t guarantee I can get my boss on board, but maybe I can. We could call it ‘It’s Raining Men March’ or ‘March Men Madness’?” Uh-oh. I don’t think I’m going to like this very much. “Maybe go on tons of dates? Splurge on men after taking a break?”
My heart aches at the thought. I’m not ready. I’m still … not over Jack.
“Actually, I don’t think I’m the right person for that,” I admit. “But…” I glance around my disaster area of a condo, clothes, shoes, and boxes strewn everywhere. “What about a different lifestyle story? For April. I want to call it ‘Spring Cleaning.’”
“Cleaning?” Arial wrinkles her nose in disgust. “That’s not very glamourous? Or fun?”
“I don’t mean cleaning cleaning, like cleaning your apartment. I mean, decluttering your life. I mean, unpacking all that emotional baggage in your life. Doing the hard work of self-care.”
“Pedicures?” Arial echoes.
“No, I mean, sure, get a pedicure, but I mean self-care like being the parent in your own life. Doing the hard things, making the tough decisions, and in the end, taking better care of yourself.”
This has been my mantra since my breakthrough with Stella. I’m selling the condo. I’m eating better. Okay, not perfectly, because, I mean, it’s me we’re talking about.
Silence greets me as Arial struggles to come up with a diplomatic answer.
“What do you think?” I prod.
“Well? I just think that ‘March Men Madness’ has so much more of a ring to it?” Arial manages, taking a sip of her coffee and not looking me in the eye.
I’m tempted. I hate to admit it, but I’m tempted. I tell myself I can just walk down this path I’ve always taken, even though I know where it ends: with me not being true to myself. Really, hasn’t all this writing I’ve been doing for Slick been a lie, anyway? I wanted to make a living writing, but I never wanted to make a living writing this. I realize I let the idea of easy money, and working from home, get in the way of what I truly want to do with my life. In fact, I’ve always taken the easy path, the obvious path, without really considering whether it was the path I really wanted at all.
I realize, with perfect clarity, that if I’m busy writing March Men Madness, then I might miss out on writing the story that really means something to me. I remember Stella telling me I have to make room in my life for the things I do want.
“No, Arial. I’m sorry. I can’t do that story.”
“Oh?” Arial sounds shocked. She sets down her coffee. “Really?” I know why she’s shocked. Slick pays well. It’s high profile. Whatever she wants, she usually gets. But not this time. This time, it’s just … too personal.
“You know what? I think I’m going to step back from Slick for a while.”
“You are?” Arial can’t believe it. And, really, neither can I.
“Yes.” Even though I only have a small bit of savings, and going without income is terrifying. I glance at Larry, who is curled up on the couch, sleeping. I know I’ll take care of him and me, somehow. Time to take a risk. For once.
“You’re sure?”
But doing something I believe in is more important right now than piling up credit card debt. And I feel an inner confidence: I know I’ll land on my feet. Because while I may not be able to count on men, I absolutely know I can count on myself.
“I’m sure.”
I end the video call with Arial feeling … upbeat. Saying no isn’t as hard as I thought it’d be. Energized, I send out emails to Politics Today and Women International and a dozen more positive e-zines. I apply for different freelance gigs. I’m hopeful that maybe, at long last, I can write stories that mean something.
My door buzzes, announcing I have a visitor trying to get in downstairs. Larry barks on cue and jumps off the couch, padding over to the door and sniffing it, except he’s about six inches away from my actual door and he’s sniffing the wall.
Part of me worries (hopes?) it’s Jack, as I pull myself off the couch, amble over to the front door, and hit the intercom button. But why would it be Jack? I’ve made it clear I don’t want to talk to him.
“Sora?” Nami croaks, sounding … upset. Immediately, my big-sister radar is on high alert. Something is wrong. It’s nine on a Friday morning and she should be at work. “Can I come up?”
“Of course.” We haven’t talked since the blowup in the fitting room, and each of us has been waiting for the other to extend the olive branch, so for her to show up here means something terrible has happened.
I buzz her up and unlock my front door, even as I try to tidy up a little (the stacks of clothes make this impossible). Then Nami bursts through my door, tears streaking down her face. She runs over to me and throws herself in my arms.
“What’s wrong?” I manage, panic in my gut, as my mind moves through all possible tragedies: cancer, car accidents, death in the family.
“M-M-Mitch,” she stammers. I’ve never seen her this undone, and so it can’t be a simple fight about the music for the wedding processional. I grab my mostly empty box of tissues and hand her one. She whips one to her face and blows her nose like a B flat on a trumpet.
“The wedding’s off.”
“The wedding is off?” I still don’t compute what my sister is saying. She grabs another tissue and blows her nose again, sniffing, as she swipes it across her nose. She spies the tequila bottle on my kitchen counter near the sink, grabs it, and takes a big swig straight from the bottle. Then starts hacking uncontrollably.
“Ugh! That’s so … so bad.” She swipes at her mouth.
“Whoa,” I caution, because Nami is a lightweight. She gets tipsy after half a glass of wine. “Sit down. Tell me what happened.”
Nami doesn’t sit; she paces, hugging herself as she sobs, then sucks back tears, and then sobs again. For a second, I think she’s going to have to tell me via sign language, because she can’t actually control her voice.
“Okay, maybe you do need this.” I hand her the tequila bottle and she takes another swig to calm herself.
She makes a sour face and glares at the bottle. “How can you drink this straight? Ugh. Don’t you have anything else? Maybe a hard seltzer?”
“I have red wine?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew. I don’t like red. I only drink rosé—and only if it’s got bubbles. You seriously do not have hard seltzer? I’ll even take a gross flavor.”
I want to make fun of her for her sorority-girl taste in booze, but I refrain. Now’s not the time to tease her.
“Sit. Tell me what happened.” I pat the couch next to me. Nami sinks into it, sniffing.
“Mitch had his bachelor party last night. They rented a party bus.”
Oh, Lord. Mitch and his cavemen buddies out on the town inside a neon party bus spells trouble.
She sucks in a breath. “He … he cheated on me.” Nami holds up her phone. She’s got video, somehow, that one of Mitch’s friends sent to him. While part of it is blurred, it’s pretty obvious Mitch is getting a blow job in boomerang style in the back of a party bus. Ew. That is so much more of Mitch than I ever wanted to see in my whole life.
“How did you get this?”
“I hacked his phone,” Nami says, unashamed. “All his passwords are some combination of ‘Ditka’ and ‘1986,’ in honor of the Bears’ Super Bowl victory.”
“Of course they are.”
“How could he do this to me? How could he?” Her raised voice is thick with anger and betrayal and shock. She covers her face with her hands and sinks into my couch. I gently take the seat next to her, and wrap my arm around her shoulders. They shudder with her sobs.
“I’m so, so sorry, Nami.” Now would probably not be the time to mention that I always thought Mitch was a dud, and that his friends were only half a gene sequence above Neanderthals, so it’s no surprise he did this. He’d probably been thinking about it all along, as he quietly said, “Yes, babe” to everything Nami said.
“You were right. About everything. About Mitch not deserving all this effort. About him being lazy.” She sniffs, loudly. “When I asked him why he did it, why he cheated, he said, ‘Babe, what was I supposed to do? Say no?’ He couldn’t even say no to a blow job from a random stranger. Because that would take effort.”
I sigh. “I’m sorry, Nami. I’m so sorry.”
“You were even right about going solo. All this time, I thought you were … I don’t know … selfish for doing it, but you were right, Sora. I should’ve listened to you.”
I feel like the clouds might part and a divine light might shine down on me, because there’s no way Nami just admitted I was right about anything.
“You’re saying I’m always right? That you should always listen to me?”
“Don’t push it,” she growls. Nami leans into me, though. “Oh! And I haven’t even told Mom, yet. She’ll be heartbroken!”
“Do you … really think so?” I ask, skeptical, remembering just how much Mom doesn’t like Mitch.
Nami blinks and pushes away from me. “What do you mean? Mom loves Mitch.”
“Does she?” I stare at Nami. Nami stares back at me.
“Are you serious? She doesn’t like Mitch either? Why didn’t you two tell me? Why are you always ganging up on me?”
“Us ganging up on you?” I ask, shocked. “It’s you and Mom who are always ganging up on me! With the diet stuff and the exercise classes and my personal life choices.”
“Not true,” Nami sputters. “You always gang up on me about the guys I date. Remember John?”
“In college? He was always jealous of everything you did.” I snort my disapproval.
“See? You two are always talking about me. Judging me.”
Huh. That’s exactly what I think Nami and Mom are always doing. Maybe I’m not the third wheel I always thought I was in this family.
“Ugh. I miss Dad. At least he’d just yell at us and then we couldn’t argue anymore,” Nami says.
“Yeah. He did that.” We stare at each other a beat, both realizing that’s probably not the healthiest way to communicate as a family. “His temper was—”
“Awful? Do you remember how any little thing could set him off?”
“Of course! He’d step on a Lego and start cursing up a storm,” I say, remembering.
“Or if we left the cereal box open.”
“Or if we were too loud.”
“Or if we were too quiet!”
We both laugh at this. Dad was so hard to please. “But remember when he’d go down to the school, though? Like when my eighth-grade teacher thought I cheated.”
We look at each other. “Yeah. Or when my soccer coach benched me for the district final game.” Nami whistles. “Dad gave them all a piece of his mind. He did try to protect us. In his way.”
“Still, he could’ve used therapy.”
“I think Dad is why I picked Mitch,” Nami says, biting her fingernail as she hitches up one knee and loops her free hand around her leg. “He never raised his voice. He always agreed with me. Never was short-tempered.”
“That’s true.” He’s a blob devoid of all personality and emotion, and that includes anger.
Nami glances at me. “Hey, I’m sorry. About the other day. Saying you were trying to have a heart attack like Dad.” She swipes at her wet eyes. “I just … I don’t want to lose you, too.”
I see fear in her eyes. We both lost Dad without any warning. I pull her in for a tight hug. “You’re not going to lose me,” I promise. “I’m going to be here to annoy you—and ruin couples’ dances or whatever you need ruined—for years.”
“Good. You better be.” Nami sniffs into my shoulder. She draws back, wiping her nose. “And you’re not really careless,” she adds, somber again. “I’m sorry I said that.”
“It’s okay. I did crash the car. That’s legit.”
Nami chuckles.
I think about all the ways our parents shape us—Mom and her endless dieting, Dad’s short fuse. And Dad’s sudden exit from our lives. “You know, Mom and Dad, they just did the best they could. They’re flawed, and we’re flawed, and we just all have to live with it.”
Larry trots over and sniffs to the side of Nami’s knee. She gives her dog nephew a scratch behind the ears.
Nami stares at me. “Since when are you so … zen?”
“Self-care,” I say.
“Pedicures?” she asks, clear skepticism in her voice. “That’s all it took?”
“It’s more than that.”
“Okay.” Nami shrugs. “Hey. I’m sorry if I was a bitch during wedding planning.”
“I was pretty bad, too.” I sigh. “Let’s just blame Mitch. I think it’s all his fault.”
Nami laughs, rueful. “Damn straight it is.” She sniffs. “Can I stay with you for a while? Sleep on your couch? I just … don’t want to go home.”
I guess she doesn’t want to go back to the condo she and Mitch shared. I don’t really blame her.
“Of course,” I say. “Stay as long as you need to. But I am putting the condo on the market.”
“You are?” Nami sits up ramrod straight on my couch. Larry lifts his head, and Nami gives him a pat. “It’s about damn time! Mom says you should’ve sold this place years ago.”
“Uh-huh. What were you saying about not ganging up on me behind my back?”
“Oh, please,” Nami says, but she snuggles into my arm. She leans her head into me. “I need more tequila.” She holds up the bottle and takes a swig. “God, I just … I feel so broken.”
“Give me a turn,” I say, and she hands me the bottle. I take a hard sip, too, feeling the liquid burn down my esophagus. “Yeah. I know. Life plays rough sometimes.” I glance at a box sitting near my coffee table. Grandma Mitsuye’s Japanese dolls poke their heads out. Near them sits Grandma Mitsuye’s bowl. It’s been in the family for generations, an old gray and blue ceramic rice bowl from Japan.
“Is that Grandma’s bowl?” Nami asks, pointing.
“Yeah. She gave it to me after…” The miscarriage. “After I lost the baby.”
“Oh,” Nami says, and she leans over and picks up the bowl. “It’s cracked,” she says, pointing to the gold-lined cracks along the side of the bowl.
“Do you remember what Grandma Mitsuye always said?” I ask Nami.
“She says we hold our chopsticks like peasants,” Nami says. “She reminded me of that when I took her out for sushi last week.”
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 finally get it.
“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.