Page 133 of Love is a Game

“Arnold.” I shake my head in admiration. “Just…wow.”

He grins, polishing the brooch with a soft cloth.

Funny. When I first saw his work at the gallery Misha and I visited downtown, I imagined someone younger—an artist with an edgy, modern touch. But standing in his expansive studio just outside Newcombe, I see the full depth of his craft. Rows of antique molds, trays of gemstones, and tools that have shaped heirlooms passed down through generations.

“This place used to be a real production house,” he says, catching my gaze as I take it all in. “My family made period jewelry for decades. Unfortunately, my son and daughter have no interest in carrying it on.”

I glance around at the empty workstations, which could host a dozen jewelers. There’s history here. Craftsmanship. Potential. If only there were more hands to bring it back to life.

We chat for a while, and I find myself reluctant to leave the quiet sanctuary of his studio, nestled on the edge of a forest between two historic townships.

I guess it’s all my focus on sustainability that gives me pause. I hate the idea of anything going to waste. Resources that could be regenerated, upscaled, remodeled into something new.

It tears my heart to see a workspace like this just end. I detest the whole capitalist mindset that sends small specialist producers broke while making multinational production houses rich through churning out generic products.

As I approach the door, another display catches my eye.

“Arnold?” I beckon him. “These are…so unusual.”

The crafted metal rings catch the light in a way that makes the metal come alive—like curves and ripples on a lake. Like an intricate story embedded in platinum.

“The etchings represent the local topography,” Arnold explains as he lifts one of the pair to show me. “The peaks and valleys of the Blue Mountain range. The wavy lines show the varied lake depths.”

I continue to admire it, and he hands it to me.

“All hand-engraved,” he says with a note of pride. “No machines, no shortcuts. Just me, a magnifier, and a few too many cups of coffee.”

I nod thoughtfully, tracing my thumb over one of the deeper grooves. “Right, it’s giving off realsurvived-the-elementsvibes.”

“Exactly,” Arnold says, tapping the counter. “Kinda like relationships if you ask me. You get the smooth stretches, then you hit the rocky trails. But if you stick it out, you end up with something strong. Enduring. Not easily broken.”

“That’s the sort of cynicism I can relate to.” I grin. “A ring that says: ‘Love’s a scenic but occasionally treacherous hike.’”

Arnold nods appreciatively. “That’s it in a nutshell.”

I set it down carefully, stepping away before the metaphor sinks in any further.

But, of course, it’s too late. My mind is already tangled up in thoughts of Tuck and me—our wonky, uneven journey, full of potholes, wrong turns, and stubborn detours. And yet, somehow, we keep going. No clear destination, no perfect map. Just the undeniable pull that keeps leading us back to each other.

Except this time, it’s like we’ve reached our greatest barrier—a sheer rockface with no way through, over, or around it. No sign, no path. Is this where we’re forced to go our separate ways once and for all?

Then, midway through my drive home, my mind stills.

I pull to the shoulder of the road and sit silently, gathering myself. Taking in the eeriness.

The place where my mother died.

The roadside is quiet as I step out, the hush of the forest settling around me. My shoes sink into the soft leaf litter underfoot, the cool air brushing against my skin.

I take my time, carefully removing the faded bouquets left at the base of the tree, their colors long since drained. I peel away the ones stuck to the trunk, my fingers brushing against its bark—scarred from the impact that took her.

And somehow, I want her to know…that her memory will persist.

That she will live on in me. And if I’m especially blessed, my children. That I can still tell her stories. Still speak her name. And learn to fully appreciate all that she gave me.

I don’t want to leave flowers here, at the place where she died. That’s not how I want to remember her. Instead, I want to honor what she built when she lived.

Her garden, which I’m determined to care for, even if it means calling in expertise from the local nursery. And her work with Safe Haven, all the hours she poured into helping others. Maybe there is some way I can continue what she started and contribute to that cause.

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