Page 143 of Gin and Lava

Repeat.

I manipulate and move the metal around, and eventually I’ll create … something. I’m trying to make a piece that’s honest and real, without preplanning it all. I want to see if there’s anything inside me—anything that’s truly Naomi.

After an hour, my work desk is full of false starts, lumps of wire, misshapen piles of soldering.

Trash.

I try not to laugh at the irony. I’ve felt like white trash my whole childhood, and in an attempt to create something honest, what did I make? Junk. Maybe that’s the universe telling me to accept my past and move on. If I truly bought into all the hippie, meditation, new-age-spa-culture rants from work, this is what the gurus would call a big beautiful sign from source energy to embrace my authentic self.

Isn’t that supposed to feel cathartic? Shouldn’t I burst into tears with clarity?

Instead, I’ve got ugly lumps of metal wiring.

Of course, telling Esme the truth didn’t go as badly as I thought it would. She’s a true friend. Her heart is pure unconditional love. She was calm and patient and listened with no judgement.

I pick up my false starts and begin to melt them down, reshaping the metal to explore form and balance. I’m still not sure I’m actually making anything, but I’m trying to trust my instincts.

After another hour, I realize I’ve started to create a ring, shaping it into something abstract and pleasing. It’s different than my other work. More raw. That seems like an apt metaphor when I haven’t a clue what the real Naomi looks like. Maybe I’m just abstract metal that doesn’t have a direction yet, but wants to be something round and whole—like this ring. And maybe with time, I’ll turn into something that’s not just pretty, but meaningful.

I slide the in-process piece onto my finger, lifting up my left hand and turning my wrist to admire the shapes in the light.

This feels real.

It feels solid.

The ring is nothing like the jewelry I imagine designing when I look at fashion magazines, but it feels original. An original me. Perhaps it’s my true voice coming through, and as ugly and rough and unrefined as it is … I want to trust it. Right now, it’s the one thing that feels good.

A knock comes from my back door and I startle. Looking to the clock, I see that it’s late. The sun went down while I was locked in my head designing. I click off my hot tools and walk through my kitchen to the back door, seeing Mason through the glass on the other side.

“Hi,” I say as I open the door and screen. “Did you get my text earlier?”

“I did.” He nods. “And clearly you didn’t get the thirty-seven texts I sent back.”

“Thirty-seven?” I step back so he can come in.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t died!” he jokes, walking into my kitchen.

“Sorry, I turned my phone off. Is something wrong?”

“Other than you being MIA? No,” he admits. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“By texting me thirty-seven times?” I jibe.

“Yeah, where’s your phone?” Mason walks into my living room and pretends to search for it, looking under pillows where it would never be hidden. “I need to delete everything I sent you. I don’t want to look like a needy teenager who can handle the fact that the hot girl hasn’t texted him back.”

A smile curls the edge of my mouth. “Maybe I want to keep those for blackmail.”

He tosses me a flirty look. “You wouldn’t be so cruel.”

“Hey, you came all the way over here to check on me?” I tease. “I’m telling everyone that you’re sweet.”

“Youwouldbe so cruel!” he scoffs, tossing a pillow at me that I catch. “But seriously, are you alright? Even Shauri’s been text messaging me, asking where you disappeared to.”

“You gave Shauri your phone number?” I toss the pillow back at him and shut the back door. “Your funeral.”

I head over to the fridge and pull out a beer, offering it to him. He takes it but leaves it closed, shrugging at my comment about Shauri. Obviously, he doesn’t have any issues creating boundaries with her like I do.

“I’m fine,” I assert, snagging the beer from his hand and popping it open, throwing back a chug for myself. Mason just watches me quietly. “I talked to Esme,” I say, walking into my living room and over to my work bench. “I told her the truth about my past.”

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