Page 60

OCTOBER

Sienna

8 weeks and counting

I’m so overwhelmed that tears are making my eyes gloss over, refracting the dazzling lights of Tiffany’s after-hours even further, searing them onto my retinas like fireworks. I’ve been in the Fifth Avenue store before – most likely rushing to find a gift for someone else – but it’s never looked like this.

Romantic music plays into the vast space that smells of vanilla and cocoa. As I turn on the spot, taking in everything from the polished surfaces to the towering roof and spiral staircase, then ornate chandeliers, I will my tears to dissipate.

As a girl, this is the kind of dream my mom would make up as a bedtime story for me. She watched all the old classic romance movies and she’d tell me how one day my life would be like this – modern-day princess. Then she’d tell me I had to work hard and be the best if this is what I wanted.

The sound of my picture being taken pulls me back to the here and now.

“Just one for me,” Jax says, as if this is real and we’re making memories.

But not even his doe-eyes can stop me from remembering that this isn’t real. It’s all a façade. An extravagantly arranged shopping trip for a fake ring, appropriate for a PR and red-tape stunt, that will be over, like my visa, in eight weeks.

I’m so grateful that he went to all this trouble. That I’ve had a taste of the movies, with the All-Star hockey player. But I’m pleased now for my Pilates kit that’s wildly out of whack with the occasion. It’s a reminder of what’s true.

“Thank you,” I tell him honestly, and later, I’ll tell him that one day, as reluctant as he is for it to happen, the right girl will come along, and he’s going to make her incredibly happy. She might even thank me for giving him some house manners.

He’ll chuckle when I say it, and I’ll have this sick feeling deep in my core that has nothing to do with over-exercising it. It’s something that’s worrisome, given our temporary arrangement.

Right now, though, he nods and says, “You deserve it, Si.” Our eyes remain locked, the yards between us feeling too distant, as he holds out his arms and says, “Pick one, baby,” in that suave, rich boy, arrogant way that I’m starting to not hate on him.

It’s crazy and it will pass. He’s turned my bedtime stories into a sparkly non-fiction, that’s all. But the urge I have to cross the space between us and sink into his hold is new, odd, highly inconvenient.

I don’t have to go to him because he makes strides to me. His warm palm comes to my face. He tilts me to look up to him and strokes his thumb along my cheekbone. And I have the feeling that I did for a split second when we were playing softball, like this isn’t only for appearances in front of our audience of Tiffany’s staff, but he might really kiss me.

I close my eyes and have one of those vivid images of Las Vegas. I’m certain we kissed, hungrily, frantically, clawing at each other, but I wish I could remember exactly how it felt. I want to relive it now. Do I, though?

Jax swallows deeply and leans down to my ear, breath catching my neck and leaving goosepimples in its wake. “Enjoy it for what it is, Si. You’re helping me out by keeping my reputation intact. You deserve it.” Then he meets my gaze again and adds, “I want you to have it, anything you want. Something you love. Something you can wear… after, too.”

Water blurs my vision again – I won’t cry. I’m not a crier, and what am I even crying about – that this is a PR stunt? Or that he says he wants me to have everything I deserve?

“People don’t just give me things. Not hugely extravagant things like this.”

“Then you haven’t met the right people.” His lips rise at one side in that cocky superhero way they do and I roll my eyes, thankful for the return to something more akin to our normal banter.

But he’s right. This is a once in a lifetime moment, so I’ll pretend like my leggings are a high-end trend and I’ll… go wedding ring shopping.

One of the store assistants – Katherine – steps from behind her counter and as someone else tops off my champagne, she asks, “Where would you like to start? What’s your jewelry style?”

Jax stays by my side the entire time I’m trying on rings at the various counters. With the exception of when he asks the staff to order in sushi and he practically inhales it – I joke, “My husband is always eating,” while low-key disgusted that he’s troughing like a wild hog – he considers every ring I try. Holding the tips of my fingers and bending my knuckles to get a better look, sliding a thumb across the precious metal and making my skin tingle all at once. Saying things like, “Not shiny enough,” or “Too plain,” never, even when I choose a ridiculously expensive band, too lavish or too expensive.

Each time I put a ring in the shortlist tray, he asks Katherine, “Does this one have a matching men’s band?”

We narrow it down to three options and I stare at the Mr and Mrs bands sitting neatly in the presentation tray next to each other feeling a wild concoction of excitement and grief.

Jax holds out his left hand to me. “Let’s try them together.”

I try not to overthink how intimate it feels – especially for two people who barely tolerate each other being in a shared condo and who’ve never slept in the same bed, sober. I slide the ring on his wedding finger, keeping my gaze down because it looks too… right on him. And the sheer intensity of this happening with an audience, in possibly the most romantic setting I’ve been in all my life, is making me feel… odd.

Jax takes hold of my left hand and slips our first choice onto my wedding finger. My ring is too large, where his is a perfect fit, but there’s no denying that the simple platinum and diamond encrusted bands look good together.

He crosses his hand over mine, laying the rings next to each other. “These two?” he asks, his voice uncommonly gravelly as he does, making me wonder if he’s feeling as out-of-sorts by this entire experience as I am.

This should be something he does with the woman he loves and I hate that I’m spoiling it for him, while being happy, oddly, that I get to see him like this.