My nose started to run. I sniffed, patted my pockets for tissue, and came up empty. With a groan, I dug into the duffel instead, pawing past leggings, a bundled hoodie, and my toiletry bag. My fingers knocked against something small and hard at the bottom.
Of course.
I wrapped my hand around the velvet box and pulled it out like a magician producing a very inconvenient rabbit.
“I’m a mess,” I muttered, throat burning again. I popped the lid open, caught one glimpse of the diamond glaring up at me like a floodlight, and snapped it shut so fast the hinge clicked. The box landed on the coffee table with a dull thunk.
Kit’s eyes went sharp. “Is that?—”
“Greg’s,” I said. “Well. Mine. Whatever.”
She reached for it without asking, flipped it open, and slid the ring onto her finger. It dwarfed her hand, the stone catching every bit of weak winter light sneaking through the blinds.
“Damn,” she said reverently. “You could signal ships with this. Are we sure this isn’t actually a weapon?”
Despite everything, a reluctant laugh shook loose. “You should see it under church lighting. It basically started a small sun.”
She wiggled her fingers, watching the diamond flash. “What are you going to do with it?”
That was the question that had been tapping on the inside of my skull for weeks.
“I keep thinking I should give it back,” I said slowly. “To Greg. Like it’s ... evidence. Proof I’m still tethered to a life I walked away from.” Emotion rose sharp and hot in my throat. “Like as long as I have it, some part of me is still standing in a dress at the front of that chapel, waiting to be rescued from my own bad decisions.”
Kit snorted so violently the ring almost flew off. She caught it and shoved it back into place, scowling at me.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “Fuck no. That is your time-and-trauma tax. If you give it back, I will never speak to you again.”
A laugh escaped me. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Correct.” She slid the ring off, dropped it back into the box, and shut it with a snap. “He lied to you. You tried to martyr yourself into being the world’s saddest supportive wife. Then you detonated your life to stop doing that. The least you get out of that disaster is market value to start over.”
“I don’t even want to look at it,” I said. “I can’t wear it. I can’t shove it in a drawer. It’s too much ... everything.” I rubbed the empty place on my finger, remembering how heavy it had felt, how wrong. “It’s not even something I would have picked.”
Kit’s expression softened. “Okay,” she said. “So we agree we’re not giving it back. Next option: Convert it.”
“Convert it into what?” I asked, even though somewhere between my ribs, an answer was already stirring.
“Into something you actually want,” she said simply. “Pawn it, sell it, make a necklace, whatever. Turn it into a thing that belongs to you instead of a ghost of bad decisions past.”
The idea flared up inside me, bright and terrifying.
“I could,” I said, heartbeat loud in my ears. “Maybe. Sell it and use the money for a studio. There’s that empty storefront by the Crooked Spine.”
Kit’s eyes lit. “The one with the big front window and the awful green carpet?”
I snorted. “Yeah. The carpet looks like it’s seen some things.”
“It’s perfect,” she said, grin going soft at the edges. “You do like a fixer-upper. Very on brand, Clara Darling.”
Hope and fear tangled in my chest. “I don’t know if it’s enough,” I said. “Or if anyone would actually book me enough to pay rent, or if I’d just end up crying in a room with terrible flooring and a very expensive mistake.”
Kit shrugged one shoulder. “That’s a later problem. Right now, all you have to do is admit that there is a version of your future where your name is on a lease and not on someone else’s to-do list.”
My eyes stung again, for an entirely different reason. “It feels right,” I whispered. “In a way that makes me want to throw up.”
“Congratulations,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe that’s how you know it’s a real desire and not just something someone else told you to want.”
She pushed to her feet, scooping up the ring box and setting it carefully next to a stack of padded mailers on the tiny table by the kitchen. Then she grabbed a scrap of lace from the back of a chair and started stuffing it into an envelope.
