Page 201 of Broken Lines

Well fuck me, there I go, too.

The emotional walls in me come crumbling down as tears flood my eyes. I hug her tightly, just losing myself in her embrace as the seconds turn into minutes.

Eventually, we all tumble inside. Where I immediately start to cry all over again when I lay eyes for the first time on my sister, Eleanor.

Eleanor Rigby, meet Dear Prudence.

I think I’m going to really love getting to know who my father was.

Alice makes tea, and we all sit around the kitchen laughing and listening to old Guillotine records as Jackson tells us stories about Iggy from when they were kids.

Eleanor plays her guitar for me, which is…mind-blowing and amazing.

Alice sits down with me on the couch and shows me picture after loving picture of my dad through the years, followed by the letters he never sent.

Yeah, more tears. All the freaking tears.

But even though it’s sad, there’s also a joy that comes the longer I sit with the woman who loved my father, the sister I can’t wait to get to know better, and the man who stole my heart.

As Jackson is oh-so-fond of saying, “the real world isn’t a cliched fucking lyric”. But that doesn’t mean it’s not still beautiful. It doesn’t mean life can’t be a haunted melody, or repeated motif, or a broken line.

Maybe lifeisa song, after all. If we’re lucky, we get to keep the chorus going. And if we’rereallylucky, we even get to pick who we sing it with.

“Okay,” Alice laughs. “Who needs more tea?”

“Oh, I got it!”

I spring from Jackson’s lap before Alice can get off the couch, darting past her to the kitchen. I put the kettle on the burner, and then frown as I glance around looking for the tea itself.

Hmm.

I poke around a few cabinets and then reach for the one above the microwave. I jump, gasping as something falls past my face to land at my feet.

My brow furrows curiously at the postcard with a cartoony cactus drinking a Corona on the front.

Weird.

I go to pick it up, but without really thinking, I glance at the back, which has Alice’s townhouse as the “to” address” and what looks like a hotel of some kind in Juarez, Mexico, as the “from” address.

There’s just one line written, but when my eyes land on it, I go absolutely still. Not because ofwhatit says, which is just “Ally, I made it. Thanks for everything.”

No.

I freeze because I’d recognize the handwriting any day, in the dark, with my eyes half closed.

Because it’s the same handwriting that’s been framed on the wall of my mom’s apartment since it was gifted to her by the man who wrote it.

The note on the wall, and this postcard.

The postcard is from Will Cates.

I smile sadly, remembering the man who taught me to play and sing. And I’m about to put it back where I found it and tell myself not to go snooping around other people’s things, when my eyes slip to the postage.

I blink, staring at the date, not quite understanding what I’m looking at, until the reality is impossible to ignore.

Until the world tilts a little.

Will Cates died in a motorcycle crash eight years ago.

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