The Imperfections

I roll my eyes at her. “Hey, don’t talk about my wife that way.”

Alyssa sighs, looking down at her empty ring finger. “I’m not your wife.”

“You will be in about ten minutes.”

Shaking her head, she says, “You deserve a pristine wife, an angel on earth who would punch Theo in the dick if he ever even looked at her funny.”

“We might have different ideas about how angels behave,” I suggest, cocking my head in thought.

“You know what I mean,” she mutters morosely.

Moving my hand from her thigh, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her against me. “Alyssa, you are the only woman in the world I would ever want to marry. I don’t need you to be perfect. God knows I’m not, and why would I want you to be? I love your weird little quirks and everything that makes you who you are. I love past Alyssa, future Alyssa, and current Alyssa—even though she’s presently trying to get out of marrying me. I love you, Alyssa, and I always will.”

“Don’t just say that, Brant. Those words mean something.”

“I am well aware of that,” I assure her, pulling back so she can meet my gaze. “And I mean them. I never stopped wanting to marry you. I was mad at you, that’s all. I was a jerk. I’m sorry. I’m used to being alone, so when certain buttons are pressed and I get in certain moods, I sink into myself. Now that I’m not alone anymore, I will try to do better.”

“I just want you to love me back,” she says miserably, like she hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. “I could deal with your moods if I knew you loved me and you were just working through something, but it hasn’t felt that way. I’m so crazy about you and I think you’re so wonderful, and I just want you to think I’m wonderful, too.”

Turning in the seat so I’m facing her, I tell her firmly, “Alyssa, I do think you’re wonderful. What happened before you met me—that doesn’t make you any less wonderful in my eyes. So you fucked up. Who hasn’t? That’s not what went wrong. That’s not… that’s not why I’ve been such an asshole.”

“Then why?” she asks, like she truly wants to understand.

I sigh, trying to wrestle my thoughts into words that won’t offend her. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Alyssa, but I do need you to be honest with me. I told you that before. You can’t lie to me and expect me to be able to trust you.” I pause, and she looks down. “But I understand now that I’ve put an unreasonable amount of pressure on you. I tell you to be honest with me, but I also tell you that if you’re with me you can’t make certain mistakes, and maybe that’s hard for you. Just because it wouldn’t be hard for me doesn’t mean it’s not for you, I guess. We’re different people with different strengths, and maybe I…” I trail off, looking down at the window seat as I try to round up my wandering thoughts.

One of my coasters is sitting there, blue and pink resin with a little splash of purple where the colors mixed.

This is from the set I made for Amber. I pick it up, absently running one thumb across the harder, textured corner where the wood is. I drag my other thumb across the perfectly smooth strip of resin on the other side. The resin is always smoother and nicer to the touch, measured out and poured specifically to fit between the broken cuts of wood.

Every single piece of wood I use to make these is imperfect. Without the soft, pleasant-looking resin flowing through all the empty places, these coasters would be an ugly mess of useless, unwanted pieces.

Alyssa is the resin, smooth and colorful and pretty, and I’m the cracked old wood, knotted and split and ugly as hell without the beauty she brings to the table.

“What are you looking at?” Alyssa asks.

I glance up at her then tilt the coaster in her direction to show her where my gaze was fixed. “See that?” I ask, pointing to a crack in the wood. It’s the kind of thing you can try to cut around, but you can’t fix. If you want to use a certain cut of wood, you’ve gotta take it flaws and all.

Alyssa watches as I run my finger across the broken, jagged line in the wood.

“See what?” she asks, frowning. “That little crack there?”

I nod my head. “It’s a bit jagged. I guess this one’s not as pretty as the rest.”

“Of course it is,” she says, taking it from my hands as if to protect it from my criticism. “It’s just a tiny scar—who cares?”

Pulling a face of mild disdain, I shake my head and point to the little purple spot in the corner where the colors mixed together. “That’s not even supposed to be there. I planned for this set to be blue and pink. That’s not even the right color.”