But this? This is simple and elegant – but still impressive and clearly expensive. It sends a strong signal, one that says: this is how committed I am, this is how much you mean to me. I’m not even the kind of person who believes that you need expensive things – even the most expensive ring in the world can’t make love appear where it isn’t – but coming from Andy I know what this means.
I glance around. Sure, the grounds are busy-ish, but there’s no one near me. No one watching me or judging me – not that anyone could tell what I was thinking about doing.
What am I thinking about doing? What am I thinking? I’m thinking it’s only me here, sitting on the edge of the fountain, and it’s not worth my time making a wish. All I can do is wonder about how my life would have been, if he’d asked me instead.
I wonder what I would feel like… I wonder what the ring would feel like, on my finger, if I were to just try it on. Maybe it will feel right. Maybe it will feel horrible. I don’t think I can move a muscle until I know.
For a moment, one small pause in the timeline, I let myself pretend. I imagine Andy’s hands holding mine. Andy’s eyes looking at me with love and adoration. Andy saying my name. I imagine him looking at me like I’m the only person in the room – or the garden, as the case may be here.
I imagine a different universe. One where I told him how I felt sooner. One where he came home without Cordelia.
I take the ring from the box and finally slide it on to my ring finger, as though I just said yes. Huh. Well, I don’t feel any more upset, but it doesn’t feel right on me anyway. I suppose it’s not meant for me – it’s not even the right size; it’s too tight. The only thing I feel really is silly, for letting myself fantasise about what I can’t have. It’s more like torturing myself than fantasising.
‘Okay,’ I whisper softly to myself. That’s enough. Time to take it off and hand it over to its rightful owner.
I grip the ring and tug. It doesn’t move. I try again and… nothing. Not a millimetre. Fuck.
‘Right, okay, let’s not panic,’ I say to myself, as I frantically pull at my finger. I need to take calm, deep breaths, and let it just… FUCK! It was supposed to come off that time.
My finger suddenly feels so swollen. Like it’s decided now is the perfect time to retain water out of spite – or like my body simply will not let the ring go.
I dump my bag out on the stone I’m sitting on, looking for something in there that might lube it up, help it pop off, but I’ve got nothing. Next, I twist around to dip my hand in the fountain water. Maybe a little bit of that will help, but now it’s just wet and stuck.
I pause for a second, trying to ignore my pathetic reflection in the water below me.
A moment of calm, a few deep breaths and then one big pull to pop it right off. And then I repress the whole thing, I lock it shut in a box, chuck it to the back of the brain, and go back to being regular tragic rather than super fucking tragic.
One… Two… Three… SPLASH!
I don’t know if it happens in slow motion or if it’s all over in an instant. The splash comes quickly, the water covering me from head to toe, but I could also swear I was falling forever, time slowing down in the way it only does when you’re making a total fool of yourself in public.
Cold water floods my clothes. It slaps me across the face. I live in the fountain now – I’m too mortified to come back up. And yet I’m rising slowly from the water, and it’s a relief when I can breathe air and feel the warm sun on my skin again. I could swear my body was floating through the air, but then I see him.
‘Well now,’ he says. ‘That sure is one way to cool off.’
I freeze in his arms as he carries me out of the fountain. Not just a man. A… cowboy. With a Texan accent. Wearing a wide-brimmed, sun-faded cowboy hat sitting low on his forehead, casting a shadow over eyes that are so blue they are practically glowing. His hair is sandy, longer on top, like he’s run his hand through it a thousand times. And his jawline – wow – you could forgive yourself for mistaking him for one of the statues here.
Alternatively, I have hit my head very hard, and I’m imagining all of this. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true; he’s too perfect. He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Built in that way people only achieve by lifting heavy things for a living – you just can’t get this kind of build from the gym, no matter how long you spend there.
And he is looking at me… and smiling. Me, the drowned rat he pulled from an ornamental fountain.
He sits me back on the edge of the fountain. I look over his shoulder and see a horse staring back at me. Okay, yeah, I’ve definitely hit my head.
He looks at me, then behind him, then back at me.
‘Yeah, there really is a horse there,’ he tells me, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile.
‘Oh, thank God, I thought I was in a coma,’ I reply.
‘You’re still very much conscious, ma’am,’ he reassures me.
Ma’am! His voice makes me feel tingly. I don’t think I’ve ever been called ma’am – I get the odd ‘love’ from taxi drivers.
The cowboy tips his hat so I can see his face a little clearer.
‘This is Biscuits,’ he tells me.
‘The horse is called Biscuits?’ I repeat back to him. Am I failing a concussion test right now?
