19. Elio #3
“Mr. Titone,” he says rather delicately, “When I asked you to list off words that came to you when you thought of your fiancée, never once did you use a word like ‘big’ or ‘flashy.’ And, if I may be so bold as to say so, I couldn’t help but notice in the engagement announcement it was mentioned that Miss O’Malley is a musician.
I think if something is too big, heavy, or obtrusive, it will get in the way of her playing.
Although, I suppose she could always take her ring off whenever she wants to play… ”
“Absolutely not,” I snap, reaching forward and plucking the ring out of his hand. “She will not be taking it off. Ever.”
At that moment, Curse returns carrying a small espresso cup which he passes to me.
I balance it precariously on the stiff palm of my right hand’s splint, the ring still pinched in my left.
I lean down, steady the cup against my bottom teeth, then tip it back, swallowing the shot in one go.
Curse takes the empty cup from me as I squint at the ring.
It’s just so unassuming at first glance, and I think that’s what’s bugging me. Deirdre deserves the best of the best. The most luxurious jewellery imaginable. No doubt this one is flawlessly crafted, and I believe Bruno that the stone is a special one, but is it enough for my bride?
I’m looking at the round diamond from the top down, and I angle it so I can see it from the side.
A jolt goes through me then. Because the diamond isn’t held up by simple prongs like the other rings.
Instead, exquisite lines of metal taper up and towards each other, touching at the points, the diamond balanced inside the ethereal metal shapes.
They’re fucking wings.
The diamond is held in place by four flaring, platinum wings.
I can’t think of anything better for my Songbird.
“This is the one,” I hear myself say, unable to tear my gaze from the side-view of the ring.
I can hear the satisfaction in Bruno’s voice as he replies, “Very good, Mr. Titone. I think she will be thrilled. Are there any modifications you’d like me to make? I see you’re very focused on the setting of the ring.”
“No. No changes. I like these wings.” I run my thumb gingerly along one of them.
“Ah. It’s actually called a petal basket setting. They’re meant to resemble petals, and-”
My gaze rises to his, and the look I give him is enough to have him backpedalling.
“But, really, wings and petals are so alike in shape, aren’t they? Anyway, I’m glad you’re happy with the ring.”
I shift the ring back and forth, shaking my head at the way something so small can send such a cacophony of colour ricocheting out into the atmosphere.
“What’s that called?” I ask. “When it makes all those rainbows shoot out?”
“That is what is known as the diamond’s fire. Coincidentally, that was also the first word you used to describe your fiancée when I asked you.”
“No shit,” I murmur. The more I look at the ring, the more I think it’s perfect for Deirdre. Maybe it’s not ostentatious, but then again neither is she. And I don’t want her to have to take off some big, gaudy thing every time she plays for me.
“Now,” Bruno says, “there is the question of the wedding bands.”
Thankfully, unlike choosing the engagement ring, I don’t have to engage in something one step below a goddamn séance to get it done.
Now that we have an engagement ring to set the tone for the look, it’s a lot easier to settle on a design for the band.
We decide that Bruno will make something custom, perfectly matched to the engagement ring, a platinum band inlaid with diamonds of the same colour and quality as the solitaire ring.
He tells me that he’ll make it the same size as the engagement ring, unless Deirdre tries that one and it doesn’t fit, in which case he can adjust them both to the proper size.
“And I want her wedding band engraved,” I say suddenly.
“Oh? Alright.” Bruno produces two different, small papers from his case. One is blank.
“Please write the words you want, exactly as you’d like to see them on the ring.”
I know the spelling like I know my own name, but I whip out my phone to double check, just in case. I pick up the pen with my uninjured left hand, then hiss in frustration, worried I’m going to fuck something up.
“Curse. Get over here and write this for me.”
He obeys instantly, slicing through the room to my bedside. He bends over the bedside table, writing slowly and carefully, glancing at my phone every few letters so that he doesn’t make a mistake. Then he hands it to Bruno.
“ An Eala Bhàn, ” Bruno reads slowly, his tongue tangling on the Irish words. “What does it mean?”
“It’s the name of a song,” I tell him. The first song I ever heard Deirdre play, and apparently her mamma’s favourite. “Literally translated, it means The White Swan .”
Bruno nods, looking once more at the paper before stowing it carefully in his case.
“Seems fitting,” he says. “White swan. And you chose a white-coloured metal ring with a setting that reminds you of wings.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but now that he’s said it, I feel like everything is looping back and connecting. Everything working out exactly the way it’s supposed to. Clicking into place.
The other paper Bruno shows me has examples of font that he can use to hand-engrave the band. I choose a simple cursive style, smooth and romantic, but not too curly or flowery.
“And what about your band? We’re working with a tight timeline for your wedding date. If you want something custom, we should decide on a style as soon as possible.”
I blink at Bruno, completely forgetting about my whole wedding band conundrum. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do.
I stare down at my left hand, perfectly smooth and encased in the black leather I’ve grown so used to. There’s that cliché saying, to know something as well as the back of your hand. But I know this leather much more than the mottled skin beneath it.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. The espresso hasn’t helped my headache, and now that we’ve got the important stuff for Deirdre out of the way, I’m ready for this to be done. “I wear the gloves all the time. Seems kind of pointless to wear a ring just to hide it. And it might bug the scar tissue.”
But even as I say the words, I feel a vicious throb.
It feels like loss. I want a fucking ring to match my bride’s, goddamnit.
If I hadn’t already killed my father for what he did – for abandoning us in that fire, letting me destroy my hands to save his younger son – I’d murder him all over again just for making this moment so tinged with fucking bitterness.
I’ve accepted how fucked-up my hands are now.
I’ve got my gloves, and I don’t give them much of a second thought these days.
But now, struggling with the fact that I can’t just put a ring on like any other brainless shmuck might, I feel an anguished fury expanding in my veins, sending raging ticks of pressure through my throbbing head.
For the first time, I notice there are a few men’s wedding bands in Bruno’s case.
I stare at them like a pathetic, starving dog stares at the butcher’s back door.
I fucking want one. I want Deirdre to slide it onto my finger during our wedding.
I want the whole world to see that I’m hers as much as she is mine.
“Just wear it on top of your glove,” Curse suddenly interjects.
My gaze cuts to him. I stare at him, momentarily speechless, because what he just said is so fucking obvious and yet it never occurred to me before.
“You don’t think that’s gonna be fucking weird?” I ask, even while my mouth waters. I feel literal hunger at the thought of wearing a band matching Deirdre’s, prominently displayed on the crisp, buttery black of my hand.
“Wearing leather gloves all day, every day no matter the weather, is already weird,” Curse replies. “Who the fuck cares? You want a ring? Then wear a ring.”
I shake my head. Between this and all the perfectly-timed, helpful shit with the engagement announcement, I swear Curse has missed his true calling as a fucking wedding planner. Or maybe it’s less that he’s good at wedding shit, and more that he’s exceptionally skilled at solving problems.
A lot of my problems just happen to be wedding-related lately, I guess.
“Alright, then. No sparkly shit for me. Just a plain band. Platinum to match Deirdre’s,” I tell Bruno. He nods, then deftly measures my left ring finger with my glove on.
“Perfect. No other modifications for your ring? No engravings?”
I mull that over for a second, then nod. “I do want something engraved.”
Bruno pulls out another small sheet of paper.
I write this one myself. Since it’s in English, I’m not worried that my sloppy left-hand writing will confuse Bruno when he’s trying to do the engraving the way I thought me writing the Irish with my left hand might.
I scrawl the four words then hand it back to him.
Bruno’s brows furrow as he reads it.
“ Property of Deirdre Titone .” He glances at me uncertainly. “And you’re sure that’s what you want engraved? It’s for your ring, remember. Not hers.”
“Of course that’s what I fucking want engraved,” I retort. “It has nothing to do with who owns the ring itself and everything to do with who owns the man wearing it.”
Bruno’s face clears of confusion, settling into something blankly pleasant and professional.
“Ah. Of course.” I think I see an amused glint in those dark blue eyes of his, but I can’t quite tell, because he’s bent his head and is busily placing the chosen engagement ring in a small black box before snapping shut the case he brought.
“Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” He hands back the engagement ring in its box to me. “I’ll commence work on the two custom bands right away and will be in touch about billing within the week.”
“Good. We’ll talk then, I grunt. Curse escorts Bruno from the room.
I don’t watch them go. I’m too pre-occupied with the little black box in my hand.
Even the box looks luxurious, some kind of perfectly carved and polished wood that’s been lacquered to obsidian perfection.
It’s so glossy and uniform that it makes the smooth expanse of my glove look cracked and gritty.
It’s so small. And yet, it feels oddly heavy in my hand. Positioning my thumb against the seam of the box, I pop it open.
Inside the lid there’s a tiny light that automatically comes on when the box is opened. The light cascades down over the diamond, showing off the gem in all its glory. Shattered bands of colour explode outward, like fireworks, from the white centre.
I sit and stare mutely at the ring for a long, long time.
Entirely fucking mesmerised by its fire.