It was Breanna who asked Cary if he was ready for marriage. And then if he was ready to propose.
Cary wasn’t sure. He wanted to be careful. There was a lot to consider.
About six months later, he bought a ring—platinum, diamond solitaire, two baguettes. And then he proposed to Breanna a few months after that, on leave.
She said yes.
But Cary got the feeling that he’d asked too late. He never felt like he could catch up, from then on. Breanna was always pushing forward, asking for slightly more than he could give.
It was easy to lose himself in his work. It was an excuse she understood.
Breanna broke up with him two years after he proposed. She did it over the phone. He wasn’t surprised.
She sent him the ring—fully insured, registered mail—the next time he was on land.
Sixty-One
When she and Cary finally stood up, Shiloh had a horrible feeling that all the actors and tech people were watching from the wings, ready to applaud.
But everyone was gone except for Tom, who was standing just offstage, looking gobsmacked. “The house and restrooms are clear,” he said, “and the under-eighteens have been signed out.”
“Great,” Shiloh replied. “See you tomorrow. Good work.”
“Good night. It was nice to meet you, Cary.”
“Thank you,” Cary mumbled. “You too. Good night.”
Cary and Shiloh were holding hands too tight, with their elbows too straight. He was letting her lead.
She dropped him off in the dressing room with his shirt, then went to change by herself in the women’s dressing room.
Shiloh wouldn’t say that she felt numb...
It was more like her ears were ringing in a full-body sort of way. When she got undressed, the diamond ring punched a hole in her tights. Shiloh laughed. This wasn’t a dream, but it was just as nonsensical.
Cary was back in Omaha. And he wanted to marry her.
Shiloh had been trying so hard to manage her feelings for him for the long term: Sustainable friendship. No sex, minimal confessions.
And meanwhile, Cary had apparently been shopping for engagement rings. Beautiful, vintage engagement rings.
Shiloh still had her first engagement ring. It was too nice to throw out, but not nice enough to sell—and she felt like it should leave her with a note in its file:This ring comes from a broken home. Personally, I don’t blame the ring, but maybe you’re superstitious. The good news, I guess, is I didn’t die wearing it.
Cary’s antique ring might tell a similar story. She held it up to thelights around the dressing room mirror. The diamond seemed to float on a filigree bridge—straight lines, with a coil of rope winding through them. The band was only slightly too big. It wouldn’t fall off her knuckle.
Shiloh washed her face. She changed back into her not-very-platonic knit wrap dress. (When Tom saw what she was wearing tonight, he’d called her “Backseat Betty.”)
She put on her own tights—carefully—and zipped up her boots. She didn’t take down her hair. There was spray glitter in it. She’d have to wash it out.
Cary was standing outside the dressing room door. Straight-backed. Pale. With makeup still under his chin and along his hairline. He reached for Shiloh as soon as she appeared—his arm around her waist, his eyes looking for hers.
“You hungry?” she asked.
Cary nodded.
It was too late to eat in a normal restaurant. They went to a diner a few blocks away that served loose-meat sandwiches at a stand-up counter.
Shiloh wanted to ask about Cary’s mom. About his flight. About his plans.
