“That’s whatKatiewants for her proposal,” I say.
I shiver, the coldness inside the car finally hitting me. I want to turn it on, but that feels rude.
“You really mean this. I’m leaving. Three weeks is a long time off. That’s calling it quits.”
“No,” I say quickly. The thought of being alone, actually alone, is terrifying. Neither of us wants that. “I need to figure some things out, and I promise it’s not you.”
I shouldn’t have been so emphatic about theit’s not youpart, because he definitely has something to do with it. He pulls out the dark blue box again, doesn’t open it. His voice is low. “Do you have any idea how much I spent on this ring? I did this for you. I want you to be happy.”
But I never asked for that. There’s the memory of my dad again, always trying to keep up with the white guys at the country club and saddling us with debt that we only discovered after he passed. God, no. He pries out the ring, reaches for my hand, and I want to pull it away, but it happens so fast, his bony fingers already vising my hand, and he slides the ring up to the knuckle, where it doesn’t budge. Out of pure instinct, I pull the ring over the hump; like, I can’t let it flop off my finger, and I don’t want Trevor to ram it on. I’m shocked at how perfectly it fits. It is stunning, honestly. But...
Then—oh no—Trevor wraps me into a hug, as if my fitting on the ring was some type of agreement. But his hug is gentle. His neatly shorn neck hairs prickle my nose. He smells like man soap, cool pine mountains, and I’m remembering why we’ve survived all these years. Maybe I’m being unfair. I know what the judges on Reddit would say: “Off to the relationship dungeon with you.” But Reddit, ugh, the only time I posted there I asked for diet and exercise advice along with a faceless photo and got “If she lost 20–30 pounds I’d consider hitting it.” That shouldn’t be my moralcompass. Still, I want to give Trevor an out. With my right hand, I play with the ring’s band. “If this is too much to ask, you can break it off with me now,” I say. “But I’d like this time to think while you’re abroad. Then we can, uh, reconvene.”
“This isn’t Model UN.” At once he grabs the champagne bottle and pops the cork with a practiced hand. I jump at the bang of it. The bottle steams, and he doesn’t wait for it to subside before he raises it and takes an uncouth gulp, then another. He doesn’t offer me any, not that I would take it right now. “Damn it. What did I do wrong? Just the timing?”
I can’t help myself. “Bringing Mark into this, for one. I despise Mark.”
“You talk about him all the time. Figured he was your Katie.”
A flare of envy sparks in me at the familiar way he talks about her. Followed by annoyance. I can’t believe he doesn’t see it. The way she leans her head toward him when she’s speaking. The eye contact she never breaks with him, only him. The lavish Christmas gifts she always buys him, I remember, spying the Fitbit on his wrist. “Katie is in love with you,” I mutter.
He takes another swig from the bottle, and I smell it now, the fermented grapes rotting in there for five years. The car door clacks open then, and he’s halfway out of the car.
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you. And you know what? You want your freedom, you got it. You don’t get to break up with me. I’m breaking up withyou,” he barks, but as soon as it’s out, his face falters, like he didn’t plan his words and is shocked by the sentiment. He adds, less fervently, “You know, for a month anyway.” He doesn’t leave, suspended like he wants to see how I’ll react. I lean toward him and strain a muscle on my side, like acord snapped. I massage it vigorously and am about to plead or rant or get some more clarification, but all I sputter is an “Uh” before he interrupts me. “This champagne is amazing by the way. You missed out.”
He shuts the car door with some measure of grace. I look down at my finger. The ring is still there, dull, unshining in the fog.
2
When the well is dried up, then its value is known.
?????? ???????? ???? ????? ?? ????????:
—Armenian Proverb
“Nareh! You missedthis entire table.” My mom’s voice crashes into me, breaking my reverie.
It’s the morning after Trevor’s proposal, and I’m at the country club, setting up for Diana’s shower. I’d normally be snapping photos of the setup, posting the perfectly curated photos to Instagram (my thirty thousand followersloveflower content), but instead I’ve been letting my mom freely boss me around. My mind is wading through the vast, chaotic waters of last night, trying to make sense of everything. What I said that couldn’t be unsaid. Why I didn’t shout yes and press Trevor into a tight hug. What it means, particularly in terms of my relationship status. How the only thing grounding me is how bone-tight my dress is. Anything with a zipper is just hell on me; why do I do this to myself?
But in a way I’m grateful for the distraction. My mom and I have created something artistic and compelling. An hour ago, this was a husk of a room (okay, a naturally beautiful husk withclassic full-panel wainscoting), but we’ve transformed it into an indoor garden party. Delicate pink tablecloths, champagne charger plates, and bone-white china, with gold utensils lining each table. Our bouquets sit as centerpieces, with silk ribbons tumbling around tea candles and gold pomegranates. It’s Pinterest paradise and Diana is going to love it (and at some point I’ll hopefully snap out of zombie mode long enough to take a decent flat lay photo of the tablescape).
“And,” Mom says, waving a bridal shower game card at me, “you gave doubles all over the place. Where is your head?”
Guests are going to be arriving soon, so I’m not surprised my mom’s patience is fraying. Even in her frustration, she’s so pretty. She’s wearing a turquoise shift dress with a long gold necklace. Anytime my mom’s in bright blue and gold she seems like Cleopatra to me. Her hair’s the same as always, dyed dark brown, parted down the middle, stick-straight, fighting against its wavy curls, voluminous on top and slicked back behind her ears with TRESemmé Level 4 spray. Mine’s similar, but longer, and I curl mine after straightening it. Hair occupies a lot of our lives.
My darling grandma Nene is here, too, in a green floral dress. She’s been looking bored as hell because she refuses to help with activities as frivolous as decorating (lucky). Hearing my mom chastise me, she perks up and holds my hand for a moment. It’s cool and wrinkle-soft. Then she relaxes back into her seat, where she’s reading Proust in the original French—God, I wish I had one ounce of her class.
I need to tell my mom about Trevor. I should have brought it up earlier, but I needed to process it myself first. Still, I’m getting nowhere on my own. I keep my voice casual, as if the situation is entirely hypothetical.
“What would you say if I told you Trevor proposed to me?”
“Proposed?” she says with a sharp burst of anRtrill. She sets the cards down on the table. “When did this...? You’re telling me now?”
Nene glances up from her book at my mom’s outburst, then settles back into it. I dust some lint off the tablecloth. “Last night, when we went out.”
“You’ve had this secret all morning? Kept it from me? It is unbelievable.” She picks the cards back up, sets them down. Then, she stares at my hands. “Where’s your ring?”
Without thinking, I touch my ring finger. I left the ring at home, but it feels more circumstantial, like I happened to be wearing it when he stormed off. I texted Trevor this morning before he took off, and he never responded. I guess we’re definitely on a break. I mean, I didn’t accept the man’s proposal. I can’t blame him for dumping me, temporarily or not.
