“That’s beautiful,” he says, his voice low. I can tell in the way he says it, he means it, that he’s not saying it just to fill space, say the right thing.
“It’s…” I shrug lightly, aiming for indifferent and landing somewhere closer to evasive. “Yeah.”
He turns it in his fingers, angling the stone just enough that the light catches. It fractures instantly, scattering across the walls and ceiling in a thousand tiny sparks. For a second, the whole room feels brighter.
From Ty, there’s no joke. No teasing. No “ha ha” about commitment or faking like he’s going to put it on. He just looks at it. Which, for the record, is not helping.
“It’s beautiful. Whoever’s getting that,” he says, glancing up at me for half a second before looking back down, “is a pretty lucky woman, huh?”
The words land soft. Too soft. Can something be so soft it tears you apart on the insides? For a second, I feel it—that echo of something I used to believe without question.
I press my thumb lightly into the edge of the counter, grounding myself.
“Yeah,” I say, reaching out and plucking the ring from his fingers before I can think too hard about it. “Well.” I slip it into the box, closing it with a quiet, final click. “She would’ve been.”
The words hang there for half a second too long before I fakea small laugh, shaking my head like I can reset the moment if I just tilt it sideways.
“Actually,” I add, standing a little bit taller and glancing back up at him, “hewould’ve been the lucky one.” I tap the box lightly with my fingertip, a quick, dismissive gesture. “But that’s not really how this story goes.”
I push off the counter slightly, letting my smile fully pull us back into place—this is the part of me that is easier, lighter, practiced. Don’t look at my wound, let’s help you. It’s my own shell game, if you will. It works.
“Well, what is the story, then?” he asks, eyes innocent and wide, and really wanting to know.
“People come in here for happily ever afters,” I say. “They don’t come in here for the truth.”
“What do you mean, the truth?”
I glance up and find Ty watching me, and not in that polite, passing way people do when they’re waiting for you to finish talking, but like he actually wants the answer. Like he needs to know it now. So, I let out a small breath and rest my hands on the counter.
“This place…” I gesture lightly around us. “It was my grandmother’s idea. She always said jewelry isn’t about the thing itself. It’s about the moment it stands in for.”
His gaze flicks briefly around the shop, then back to me. “Makes sense.”
“She wanted people to be able to walk in here and leave with something that marked a piece of their life,” I continue. “Something they could afford, something they could hold on to. A promise. A beginning. A memory.”
I can practically hear her voice as I say that:“We’re not selling jewelry, Vivian. We’re giving people a way to remember who they were when everything felt certain.”
I swallow lightly and keep going. “So it’s always been about the story. The sweet version of it, anyway. The part where everything lines up and means something and ends the way it’ssupposed to.” My mouth curves faintly. “That’s what people want when they walk in here, to Sullivan’s Fine Jewelry. They want the moment. The shine. The version where it all works out.”
I glance down briefly, then back up. “They don’t come in here for the part where it doesn’t.”
“If there’s a story behind that ring,” he says after a second, nodding toward the box still sitting between us, “I’d love to hear it. I’m not really here for the happily-ever-after version.”
His tone stays easy, but there’s something steady underneath it. “I mean,” he adds, one shoulder lifting, “I am, technically, since you’re helping me with my sister’s ring.”
A flicker of a smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “You did break it after being told to not go near it.”
“Shush,” Ty laughs, rolling those gorgeous hazel eyes of his. They’re filled with gold flecks today, I’ve noticed they appear when he’s laughing. And that laugh. It’s the most wonderful noise to hear. It’s deep and infectious, and makes me smile instantly. “What I need is for you to tell me more about that ring. What happened?”
For a second, I’m not entirely sure what shows on my face. I drop my gaze, buying myself a moment. Can he tell? Does he know? Is this one of those things where it’s obvious and I’m the last person to realize it? I could give him the curated version of the story. The one that takes four sentences and requires no follow up questions.
“Nothing dramatic,” I say finally, which is both true and not even close. I reach for the box, opening it again, because somehow it’s easier to talk about it if I’m not looking at him.
“The ring was designed by the bride,” I say, my voice settling into something steadier. “Every detail. Every angle. I worked on it for…about eighteen months.”
My thumb brushes lightly along the edge of the ring. “I went through everything. Stone size, setting, band width. It was to feel like her, but also like…something that would last. Something that wouldn’t go out of style or feel like a phase.” I let out a quiet breath, the memory, not quite faint, still making me feel emotions in the pit of my stomach I forgot existed.
“Sounds like she knew what she wanted.”
