Kintsugi

(Alternative title: New Year’s Eve)

A short story written by Morgan Dun-Campbell

I

Somewhere, out in the universe, a dying star low on thermonuclear fusion collapsed in seconds, producing a supernova that created a black hole, an act that the odd eccentric physicist theorised could cause a rip in the fabric of space-time, if such a thing were possible.  

   At eight thirty six pm, on Friday 31st December, on a quiet residential road in Oxford, an unrelated rip caused Riley Jenkins to stop in her tracks.

   She lifted the brown paper carrier and examined the tear in its base.

   Why didn’t I ask them to double bag?

   The bottle of Rosé peeked out from the slit, threatening to smash to the pavement there and then. She unfurled her fingers from the bag’s strained handle and cradled it close to her chest.

   Because. You’re incapable of speaking up for yourself. Same reason you’re trekking across town in the freezing cold, when you could be curled up on the sofa with the fireplace roaring, for a lousy New Year’s Eve party you regret attending every year.

   This party was hosted by Carla and Steve, a forty-something couple she’d met during a sponsored run for their local community. Doubled over and gasping for breath, Riley had felt an unwelcome hand rubbing her back, the first of Carla’s many violations of personal space.

   ‘You’ll live,’ Carla said with the grave sincerity of a doctor addressing a formerly comatose patient, plucking at Lycra shorts that clung to her doughy thighs and left little to the imagination.

   As Riley straightened up, a gangly man trotted over in a t-shirt declaring, Gym? I thought you said Gin! ‘I’m Steve,’ he’d offered her his unappealingly damp hand.

   Against her better judgement, she’d taken it. ‘Riley.’

  ‘We’ve seen you at Costco,’ Carla declared, as though a wily detective revealing to the culprit their overlooked piece of evidence dropped at the crime scene. ‘You should pop over sometime, given we’re neighbours.’ She clasped her hands with finality that seemed to say that settles it, then.

  ‘We’re a stone’s throw from Queen’s Lane,’ Steve stretched his legs and his knees audibly popped, before he bounced on the balls of his feet like an eager dog awaiting the throw of a tennis ball. ‘Now come on, we’ll help you cross the finish line.’

   They ran parallel to her as though competing in a three-legged race, a pair of enthusiastic cheerleaders brandishing luminous bottles of Gatorade instead of pompoms.

   The next day, Carla phoned Riley insisting she attend her garden party next weekend.

   From that moment on, she received invites to pottery classes, cycling expeditions, the local theatre, walking tours. She’d never met such a generous and overbearing pair.

  Aged twenty eight, they marvelled at Riley’s millennial status, studying her like she was exotic bacteria on a petri dish, deriving some great pleasure from having her join their activities as if they’d read a Guardian article citing youth as contagious. (And she’d heard Steve’s joke about whittling away deposit savings on avocado toast more times than she cared to admit.)

   Riley glanced at her watch and picked up the pace.

   She was fifteen minutes from their house.

  She would have missed hors d’oeuvres served at eight pm, from the farmer’s market Carla foraged each Sunday. Riley privately deemed this a passive aggressive attempt to highlight Carla’s middle-class status and ability to serve dishes too obscure for the average host to source – duck liver pâté, smoked trout croquettes, jalapeño poppers, crème fraîche tartlets.

  No, at this stage in the night, Carla and Steve would be teasing-stroke-scolding each other’s die-hard habits: Steve boring the guests with longwinded tales of his golfing escapades, or insistence that crypto would definitely revolutionise banking, and definitely wasn’t a Ponzi scheme. Carla’s inability to hold a champagne flute upright without spilling its contents over her guests’ shoes once debating a passion of hers: the decline of the NHS, the necessity for public schools, her lifelong quest to find a trustworthy hairdresser, why The Bangles should reform and join forces with Dollie Parton…

   By midnight, they would make up via a horrendously graphic display of PDA.

   Somehow, Riley always missed the escape window between 12.01 and 12.30am when most of the other guests fled, and instead inevitably found herself clearing half-eaten bowls of Doritos and swamp-brown guacamole left out for too long, swearing under her breath that the following year would be different.

   Yet here you are again.

   She had tried, though. She’d cited cramps, urgent deadlines, her fictional great aunt Hilda’s cat who needed urgent veterinary attention. Nonsense! You simply must join us, and we won’t take no for an answer. They masked this evident threat with beaming smiles.

  Perhaps it was because she’d managed to evade last year’s ’do, instead attending a rooftop party with age-appropriate friends, drinking Pimm’s while awaiting a fireworks display they’d all be too busy filming to appreciate, and for her drink to dull the bite of a winter chill that made her realise rooftop parties were only fun in theory.

   They had preyed on her sense of obligation.

   Riley peered up at the stars, narrowing her hazel eyes to bring them into clearer focus, mentally rehearsing stock phrases to the inevitable question of new year’s resolutions.

   I’d love to try Veganuary on for size!

   Marie Kondo my home and embrace the minimalist lifestyle!

   She lowered her gaze to the road ahead once more.

   There was a man in front of her. The first person she’d seen for several minutes.

   Five o’clock stubble peppered his jawline, sharp green eyes framed by a low-set brow, wisps of brown hair grazing his forehead. He looked her age, or possibly thirty-something, though Riley realised she’d entered the phase of adulthood where she found it near impossible to pinpoint who was younger or older, everyone existing in a fog of uncertainty until greying at the temples, stooped posture and pronounced crow’s feet really gave the game away.

   He was staring right at her. It was a little creepy, and she felt goosebumps prickle her forearms. Or was she staring at him? Who looked first? Or had they both simply commenced an unspoken staring content at first sight?

   If he’s a serial killer, he could be analysing your behaviour for signs of weakness (like breaking eye contact).

   Or he could just be an old schoolfriend you haven’t recognised yet.

   As they closed the gap, she raised her hand to wave hello.

II

Tom Merchant looked forward to New Year’s Eve.

   He’d declined every invite received.

   From Will, at the office: ‘a few of us have tickets for The Varsity Club, want to come?’

   ‘No thanks.’

   From Ben, his former flatmate: ‘remember The Tavern? They’re hosting a lock-in for local punters and pizzas are two for one. You in?’

   ‘No, ta.’

   From Katie, his close friend: ‘we’re hosting a staycation at an oak lodge treehouse in Kelby. There’s a hot tub and sauna too. Deposit’s two hundred. Fancy joining?’

   ‘Nope.’

   From Sophie, his sister: ‘don’t be a spoilsport Tom, spend the night round ours. We’ll order takeout, rent some trashy flicks, and celebrate our triumphs or drown our sorrows.’

   ‘No.’

   This last one had caused his sister to scold him and say, ‘but don’t you want to spend New Year’s Eve with others?’ Sophie’s delicate features had been etched with genuine concern, a trace of fear, even. That he could question social convention so boldly, as though it were a house of cards that no one had yet dared to blow upon.

   ‘Nah,’ Tom shrugged. ‘I just don’t. And I don’t see why that should be anyone’s problem but mine.’ In fact, Tom had his very own itinerary for the night.

   He’d written a list of recent accomplishments, and he planned to toast each one.

   Fully paid off car and student loans.

   Deleted all social media apps and limited iPhone usage to two hours daily (max).

   Avoided purchasing a single new item of clothing.

   Unsubscribed from Disney Plus (after catching up on The Bear).

   Stopped treating first page of Google search like medical advice from GP.

   Successfully crafted and sold bookshelf, coffee table and barstool on eBay.

   Finally figured out how to successfully iron shirts.

   It was thanks to discipline, careful spending and his unwavering ability to say no, that Tom had managed to put aside the bulk of his income. His sister, like most of the population, relied on retail therapy and delivery services, splashing the cash for an endorphin boost, or cramming the calendar full of social activities that not only drained wallets, but mental willpower, too.

   Tom was more careful than that. He prioritised finances first.

   He also couldn’t fathom why, exactly, people claimed money didn’t buy happiness.

   That those who recited it envisioned Scrooge’s descendant counting bills of cold cash with bony fingers, all alone in their empty mansion – possibly situated in Transylvania.

   When in actual fact, couldn’t wise spending solve all problems?

  Something of a thrill seeker? Buy snowboarding, kayaking, abseiling lessons. Rent a vehicle and go roadtrippin’ along an exotic coast, California’s State Route 1 or Norway’s Atlantic Ocean Road. Hire a personal trainer to traverse the world’s highest peaks, take a photo flashing a thumbs up beside a freshly planted flag.

  Looking for a significant other? Hire a matchmaker. Enrol in eloquence lessons. Subscribe to speed-dating. Buy a bar! Plenty of singletons who’d be doubly impressed to meet the owner.

  But wait, money couldn’t alter personality, so what difference would it make? Well, then buy a globetrotting ticket hitting every continent, effectively buying new companions, stories, tastes, experiences. Buy a crash course in stand-up comedy to learn how to implement witty comebacks in everyday scenarios. Hire a speech therapist if prone to getting tongue-tied.

  Wanting to escape the pressures of daily life? Buy an island! Experience tranquillity free from the distractions of a tech-dependent society.

   Just need cheering up? … Buy Disneyland.

 No, Tom didn’t think money was the problem (although he acknowledged there may be some dicey legal ramifications re. purchasing a treasured theme park). Rather, it was a narrative people told themselves to take comfort from having to confront their own financial woes.

   Speaking of comfort, he had realised there was nothing in the fridge to toast his list.

  And so, it was on the way to the supermarket, wrapping his corduroy jacket tight against the chill, that he noticed a strange auburn-haired woman was waving at him.

III

‘Why are you waving at me?’ Tom asked.

   ‘Oh right, sorry, I thought that –’

   ‘Why are you apologising?’ he chuckled with a hint of condescension.

   Riley set her jaw, mild irritation creeping into her tone. ‘No reason,’ she cleared her throat. ‘I just – I thought maybe you recognised me, or we were connecting on an intuitive level, one human to another, celebrating New Year’s Eve –’

   ‘I could be a serial killer,’ Tom pressed on.

   ‘I know, that crossed my mind actually –’

   ‘And who says I celebrate New Year’s, as it is?’

  ‘Well… it’s not exactly some obscure religion… The earth has rotated on its axis three hundred and sixty five times since the last time people across the globe set off a bunch of fireworks…’

  ‘Still, the calendar’s a manmade invention. The whole thing’s ritualistic. Don’t you think?’

  Riley blinked rapidly, considering this strange man’s question. ‘Is this how you normally address strangers?’

  ‘I don’t normally address strangers at all. That’s the point.’

  ‘Right, then.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Goodbye, then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  As Riley stepped past Tom and cast her gaze downwards, she grasped the handle of her paper bag without thinking, straightening her arm as she strode in the opposite direction, allowing it to rest at her side with the weight of the bag supported by her hand.

  A gentle tear was followed by a tremendous crash.

  Fragments of glass flew in every direction. One sliced the peachy skin of her cheek.

  She came to a halt, gasping as she glanced down at the shattered remains of the Rosé bottle.

  From behind, Tom said, ‘you really should’ve asked them to double bag.’

  Riley turned back around.

  The fingers that had clutched the paper handle now grazed the tender cut on her face.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Tom frowned and came towards her. ‘Here.’ He reached into his pocket and produced a neatly folded napkin. ‘It’s clean, I promise. You should apply pressure.’

   ‘What if you’ve chloroformed it?’ Riley joked, though her fingers were trembling as she took hold of it. The incident had been so swift and sudden that it had shaken her up, reminding her of her own fragility in a matter of seconds, like the time a misjudged step had caused her to tumble down stairs and imagine her body as a tender sack of softly-boiled potatoes.

   ‘That’s a common misconception, that it’s possible to actually knock someone out with chloroform. It’d take a good fifteen minutes or so, with limited struggle.’

   Riley frowned at him, now pressing the napkin flat against her cheekbone. ‘And the fact you have that information at your disposal is supposed to put my mind at ease?’

  ‘Well,’ Tom shrugged and sniffed. ‘Maybe I’m a failed medical student or a failed crime writer. Take your pick.’ He gestured to a nearby garden wall outside a Tudor brickwork house. ‘Why don’t you sit down. Steady your nerves.’

  ‘Good idea. Thank you.’ She sat upon the stones that weren’t quite wide enough to fully support her buttocks, but it was something of a relief to take the pressure off her weary feet.

   Tom sat beside her, and Riley craned her neck to observe him properly for the first time.

  In the light cast from a nearby curtained window, his features seemed somehow softer. Faint nasolabial lines indicated he did indeed smile, and often.

   ‘Please, don’t be late on my account,’ she said.

   ‘What do you mean?’

   ‘It’s New Year’s Eve. Go, celebrate, be merry.’ 

   ‘Ha!’ Tom’s voice was so loud that it caused her to flinch. ‘I’d have thought you’d have guessed by now, I’m not one for convention.’

   ‘No arguments there.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I can’t imagine you’ve mastered the delicate art of small talk, either.’

  ‘Sure I have,’ Tom nodded vigorously. ‘Weekend plans, weather forecast, the state of the economy, I’ve got it all down to a tee.’ He shrugged again. ‘I just don’t agree with it.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘It’s a daft and disingenuous concept. Here’s another example.’ He pointed to the broken remains of the bottle. ‘The notion that you have to bring your host gifts, as if trekking halfway across town in the freezing cold isn’t effort enough.’

  ‘Well you don’t have to,’ Riley muttered. ‘Besides, I’m happy to –’

  ‘Are you?’ Now a wry smile danced at the corners of his lips. ‘I bet you’re dreading going to this party, anyway.’

 ‘Why would you assume…’ she trailed off, bravado failing her. Was it really that obvious? ‘All right, I’m not exactly ecstatic about it. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Can I have that napkin back?’ he held out his open palm.

  ‘Oh, right,’ Riley moved to hand it over and Tom laughed and ushered for her to keep it.

 ‘That was a test,’ he said, ‘to see if you’re capable of saying no. You clearly still need it.’ He eyed the cut on her cheek, fresh blood welling up in miniature droplets like crimson balloons. She placed it against her cheek again.

  ‘I was being polite,’ she said curtly. ‘Though I don’t know why I bothered.’

  ‘Exactly. Don’t bother. And don’t bother with the party, either.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  Tom pushed his hair back. ‘Do you know what my plans are for tonight?’

  ‘Frankly, I couldn’t care at this point. Now if you don’t mind…’ she stood up and brushed the back of her jeans where she’d been sitting on the wall.

  Tom stayed exactly where he was. ‘Staying home. Alone.’

  She hesitated for a moment. ‘So you don’t have plans?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ He nodded slowly. ‘I was invited to similar gatherings to the one you’re forcing yourself to join. Only I declined.’

  ‘And you’re not lonely.’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’ He folded his arms. ‘Haven’t you heard the saying, loneliness is the poverty of self, solitude is the richness of self?’

  ‘So you’re a philosopher, too.’

  ‘I value my own company and I’m not afraid to be alone. Better than conversing with the wrong people.’ He looked to the smashed bottle again. ‘Besides, your gift’s lying in pieces.’

 Riley turned to the shards, watched them for a moment, before facing Tom again. ‘Kintsugi,’ she said. Tom’s expression indicated he was drawing a blank. ‘It’s a Japanese practice,’ she explained, ‘of fixing broken glass or pottery with liquid gold. So, I suppose it could be salvaged. Hypothetically. But I’ll still go, regardless. I’d feel like I was betraying the custom of New Year’s if I abandoned it altogether.’ Then a deliciously risky idea dawned on her. A way to buffer Carla and Steve’s bordering-on-unbearable company. ‘You should come!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come to the party. I bet you’ll have more fun that staying at home.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But we’re only ten minutes away. Go on.’

  Tom opened his mouth to object again, then paused. He liked the chaotic nature of the suggestion. The most enjoyable moments were unplanned, surely? ‘In that case, I bet you’d have more fun if you took a leaf out of my book and cherished a quiet evening in. So I’ll try your night on for size, if you try mine.’

  ‘Deal.’ She offered her hand to help him up from the wall. ‘I’m Riley.’

  ‘Tom. And you’re sure it’s only ten minutes?’ He glanced at his watch. Nine fifteen.

  ‘Tops.’

  ‘By the way, I reserve the right to leave unceremoniously.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ She smiled at him with a trace of camaraderie.

 This was so unlike him. But there was something endearingly pitiful about Riley. Besides which, he felt partly responsible for her bottle-smashing incident. To leave a strange woman alone and bleeding after shaking her up didn’t seem right.

   There’s hope for you yet, Sophie chimed in his head, and he tutted under his breath.

   They left the broken bottle behind.

IV

Soon they were outside Carla and Steve’s. Riley felt icy dread trickle down her spine as the realisation of what she had done dawned on her.

   She’d invited a stranger to her friends’ party. Would they declare him a gate crasher and kick him out? Was that what she secretly hoped, offering an escape while being able to justify to herself that the decision was out of her hands?

   Well, Tom was an interesting character. Like shaking a soda can before cracking the lid, she was curious to see the explosion that would occur when he entered the home.

   Amber light flooded onto the garden path.

  From inside, she heard the throbbing bassline of Celebration by Kool & the Gang. She exchanged a brief look with Tom before knocking on the door. She heard the unmistakable hyena cackle of Carla after her third glass of prosecco, followed by a gentle thump – perhaps the coat stand being knocked over, or Carla staggering into the banister – before the door swung open, blasting them with warm stale air and a cocktail of beer, perfume and cheesy snacks.

  ‘Riley!’ Carla grasped her shoulders as though Riley had gone missing for years and was only now discovered alive. ‘You’re here.’ She promptly let go of her and eyed Tom. ‘And you brought a date.’

   ‘Friend,’ she quickly cut in.

   ‘Acquaintance, really,’ Tom corrected. ‘She also brought you a bottle of…’

   ‘Rosé. But it was dropped.’

   ‘Smashed into pieces, more like.’

   Before Tom could spend all night rigorously fact-checking every sentence Riley uttered, Carla clapped her hands. ‘Right. We already have snacks and drinks stations set up in every conceivable location, so luckily you’re off the hook.’

   ‘Well that’s great news,’ Tom said, ‘because I’m on the sea food diet: I see food, I eat it.’

   Predictably, Carla laughed at this pun and Tom offered a tight-lipped smile.

   ‘Why don’t I give you the grand tour? Mister…’

   ‘Tom,’ he pressed his hand to his chest. ‘Minus the foolery.’

   ‘Oh stop,’ Carla chuckled again as she nudged him with her elbow, though her aim was off given the booze had blurred her hand-eye coordination. She beckoned for them both to follow.

  Once her back was turned, Riley leaned over and whispered, ‘the seafood diet? Seriously? I didn’t realise that underneath that blasé demeanour was a treasure trove of dad jokes.’

   ‘I know my audience,’ Tom murmured back, ‘and how to win them over.’

   Carla turned to them at the foot of the stairs. ‘Living room’s first door on the right, but they’re playing charades and the,’ she made exaggerated quote marks in the air, ‘friendly competition, always descends into carnage. Temper tantrums galore – and that’s just Steve.’

   From behind the door, they heard, ‘I mimed three syllables, goddamnit Brian...’

  ‘Straight down the hallway you’ll find the kitchen dining area, garden’s just beyond.’ Carla walked on ahead, heels clacking against oak floorboards. Dead centre was their mahogany table, its surface covered with liquor bottles, champagne flutes, tumbler glasses, party poppers, dips, abandoned plates of appetisers skewed on cocktail sticks, Ferrero Rocher’s, someone’s purse, a pouch of Amber Leaf tobacco, and a spread deck of Cards Against Humanity.

  Carla spun back and beamed, rouge lipstick stuck to her front tooth. ‘Here endeth the tour!’ She sauntered over to the backdoor and opened it, providing a glimpse of partygoers holding lit cigarettes with illuminated tips mimicking dancing fireflies in the night air. ‘Back in five,’ she called, swinging the door shut.

  Once they were alone, Tom said, ‘She doesn’t seem so bad. But I’d still easily trade this for the comfort of my own home.’

  ‘Just be glad you missed the year before last,’ Riley said, fetching a litre of Coke Zero on the mantelpiece to pour herself a glass, ‘themed New Year’s Weave. Carla insisted everyone wore a wig from a different era. The pin-up bouffant of the fifties, slicked-back mohawk of the eighties…’

  ‘Sounds like my version of hell on earth.’ He accepted the bottle when she handed it over. ‘How long do we endure this before you admit defeat?’

   She took a long sip and he followed suit. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Let’s give it twenty minutes,’ he said. ‘Twenty minutes before you admit that everyone here is simply trying to convince themselves that mandatory fun is a good idea.’

   ‘Don’t give up your day job to become a children’s entertainer,’ she joked, but Tom didn’t wipe that smug, you-know-I’m-right expression from his face.

   For the first time, she regretted bringing along her mystery plus one.

   Then Carla reemerged from the garden in a wispy cloud of smoke, like a cheap magician’s trick. ‘Riley, would you be a dear and fetch Steve? Oh, and you both simply must try his banana bread. He made it from scratch!’ She hurried into the kitchen before emerging with a brown deflated loaf on a baking tray.

   Riley suspected what Tom would say, even before he opened his mouth. ‘No, thanks.’

   Carla wavered, still holding the tray aloft, the drunken haze from her eyes having retreated all at once. ‘What do you mean?’

   He shoved both hands in his pockets. Something about the gesture made Riley’s stomach clench. ‘No, I don’t want to. It looks burnt to me. But thanks anyway.’

  Now Carla set the tray down on the table, and she looked to Riley and back again, as though she could offer an explanation.

   ‘It looks delicious,’ Riley stepped forward and pulled up a chair. ‘Can’t wait to try it!’

   Carla ignored her now. ‘Tom, was it?’ she spoke in a formal tone Riley had never heard.

   ‘Yes.’

   ‘Do you think it’s acceptable to come into my home and insult my husband’s cooking? When I’ve welcomed you as a guest?’ She placed a hand on her hip for emphasis.

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend,’ he explained with the strained patience of a teacher helping their slowest pupil, ‘it was merely an honest observation. That’s just how I am. A straight talker.’

  For one horrific moment of silence, Riley thought Carla might burst into tears.

  Instead, she laughed.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ Carla exclaimed to Riley, clearly marvelling at Tom, before prodding his chest and saying, ‘let me tell you, if my solicitor had your backbone, Steve and I would have milked every insurance claim imaginable. Speaking of, chop chop,’ she redirected her attention to Riley, snapping her fingers. ‘Go fetch Steve, dear.’

   Go fetch. As though she was a well-trained pet.

  All this time, she’d assumed she was sparing Carla’s feelings, agreeing to be her plus one, or humour her long-winded stories, or sample Steve’s atrocious cooking.

  Yet Tom, a stranger, managed to earn her respect in a matter of minutes?

  By effectively insulting Steve – so by extension, her?

  ‘No,’ Riley said, uttering the word for perhaps the first time in years.

  Carla blinked, disbelieving. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘No,’ Riley reiterated. ‘I just arrived, Carla. And it’s rude to snap your fingers like that.’

  Carla was lost for words. ‘Riley… what’s gotten into you?’

  There was a crash next door.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ Carla huffed, before disappearing to investigate.

  Once alone, Tom offered Riley his hand, mimicking her own gesture when she’d helped him up from the wall they’d sat upon half an hour earlier.

  ‘Bravo,’ he said, once she’d stood up, ‘you found your backbone, too.’

  ‘And upset our host,’ Riley admitted, familiar guilt settling over her.

   ‘Well, you can’t win them all.’

  She swept her hair back. ‘But don’t you think, sometimes, it might be better to lie to be kind? Indulge the host, because after all, it is their party?’

   ‘You know how to avoid complicated grey areas like these?’ He tapped his temple. ‘Don’t go to the party in the first place.’

   ‘I can’t believe you’ve –’ They both heard Carla’s outcry.

  In a moment of silent agreement, they hurried to the living room. Steve was knelt on the carpet, cradling his hand and moaning in pain. The coffee table lay on its side.

  ‘He was trying to mime the scene from 127 Hours,’ a flustered guest Riley assumed was Brian said, ‘when his hand gets crushed.’

   ‘By literally crushing your hand, you daft fool?’ Carla cried.

   ‘And I was disqualified for using props,’ Steve whimpered, as though that mattered most of all. ‘It… hurts.’

  Carla stooped down to rub his back, before yanking her phone from her leather handbag. ‘I’ll have to call an ambulance,’ she explained to Riley, before squinting her eyes. ‘What did you do to your face?’

   Riley turned to Tom, who pointed to her cheek. ‘Your cut,’ he said, ‘it’s bleeding again.’

   ‘She might need stitches,’ Carla huffed. ‘Brian, can you hold down the fort? I’m taking them to hospital.’ In an instant, she was back in control.

   ‘But I’ll drive,’ said Riley, ‘given I’m the sober party.’

   ‘Right.’ Carla straightened up, regarding Riley with a look of respect that felt unsettlingly new. She turned to Tom. ‘Are you coming?’

   ‘No,’ he said, and Riley tried her best not to feel disappointed. ‘No, I should head home.’

   As Riley followed Carla down the hallway, she realised she would never see him again.

   Tom stood in the living room, unease leaving a sour taste in his mouth, when Carla reappeared in the doorway. ‘Are you going to call her from the hospital?’

   ‘I don’t have her number,’ he admitted.

   Carla gawped for a moment before snatching the notepad Brian had been using to tally points for charades. She scribbled on a fresh page, then tore it off and handed it over. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘In case you decide to call, Mr Straight Talker.’

   ‘Ok,’ said Tom, while knowing full well that he wouldn’t.

V

As he walked home, Tom reflected on the events that had just transpired.

   The night was still young, and he had plenty of time to celebrate the way he planned.

   Yet somehow, his enjoyment had all but seeped away.

   He thought of Riley waiting in A&E, of Carla watching over her until morning.

   He felt an internal tug, an urgency willing him to do… more.

   He let it pass.

  Tom was beginning to felt like his old self again when he reached the shattered remains of the Rosé bottle. But of course, he was retracing the steps he and Riley had taken earlier.

   Could he…?

   He could. In an instant, it was settled in his mind, and he began to gather the pieces.

*

Tom rang out the new year just as he’d planned.

   Alone, in the solitude of his own home.

   But the following morning, he headed out to gather supplies for his first project of 2025.

   He even vowed to phone his sister on the way.

   A good night’s sleep had brought with it a dose of clarity.

   For so long, Tom had lived by his own self-imposed rules.

   He thought he was a free man, loose from the shackles of social convention.

   But he’d shackled himself to tomorrow without allowing room for spontaneity today.

   In dismissing daft traditions, he’d overlooked their hidden charm, too.

   Because, in a chance encounter with a stranger, he had awakened his own empathy for others, understood that a willingness to indulge now and then could pay dividends.

   In embracing the power of no, he had overlooked the blessing of the occasional yes.

   And his clinical methodology had lacked the key ingredient of moderation, straying from his black and white path to discover the rich hue of greys that blurred life’s sharp edges, and allowed gold to seep between those cracks in one’s own resolve.

   He could embrace the party… sometimes.

   He could splurge the cash… once in a blue moon.

   And maybe, just maybe… he had room in his life for one more friend.

*

Riley reread the note.

   Kintsugi: to repair broken objects with gold, rendering it even more exquisite than before the break. Happy New Year. From your friend, Tom x

   He had mended the broken Rosé bottle, piecing it back together with liquid gold, a fact he shared with her via an unexpected phone call a week after they parted ways.

   She placed it on her mantelpiece and took a step back to marvel as its unique charm.

   She would repay Tom in some way, of that she was certain. And it wasn’t due to a sense of obligation: she genuinely wanted to.

   But she had resisted sending Carla and Steve the usual thank-you card posted 2nd January.

   She was instead taking a leaf out of Tom’s book, just as she promised, and would only make such gestures when she truly deemed it necessary.

   Yesterday, she’d bumped into Steve, squinting in the harsh sunshine as he strolled along the high street, hand now bound in a cast.

   ‘How are you holding up?’ she’d asked, nodding to his arm.

   ‘Have enough painkillers to tide me over,’ he’d grimaced, the joke dampened with the grim reality of it all. ‘Shame we didn’t get to celebrate properly.’

   ‘Agreed,’ Riley nodded. ‘Counting down to midnight in A&E isn’t quite the same.’

   ‘Funnily enough, we’re hosting a get-together tomorrow, sort of New Year’s part two. But no charades! Want me to add you to the guestlist?’

   Riley opened her mouth and then paused. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘Already have plans. But I’m glad to hear you’re on the mend. Take care, Steve.’

   He’d appeared taken aback, but quickly masked this with a smile. ‘You too.’

  She would not abandon her friendship with Carla and Steve altogether. Instead, this year, she would reinvent it. Learn to live life in the balance, where she could tip the scales in her favour with the simple act of saying no and feeling where the cracks of her boundaries lay.

  She touched her cheek sealed with surgical glue. They said it was unlikely to scar, but as she studied the fragmented bottle on the mantelpiece, she knew that there was beauty in the act of something falling apart to be mended into a familiar yet changed form, each crack unique.

   As for today, her plans were simple: embracing the pleasure of her own company.

   The one companion she’d have by her side, for this year and each one thereafter.

    She listened to the silence.

    It brought her peace.

End.

© Morgan Dun-Campbell