ELLIE
Imagine the feeling that consumes me the moment I open the door to find Mike in a tuxedo.
A tuxedo.
I thought a suit was something, but him in a tuxedo is something else.
His jacket is moulded to his frame like a glove, showing me every single thing I remember from our moment on his sofa. And a heat fires inside me as I wonder how I ever thought of Mike as anything other than everything he is.
Hilarious. Endearing. Masculine and gorgeous and—his smile. Oh, his smile is something else. And he smiles—no beams—at me from the threshold.
“Hey, sweetheart. Looking good. How are you feeling?” he says, straightening up to his full height.
His hair, freshly cut, has me desperate to run my hands through it—and he’s trimmed his beard. I liked it before, but the clean angles make him look … refined, which on top of the suit and his manly scent of whatever it is, has me lost for words.
Damn him.
I’m still in a robe, hair pinned up and a full face of makeup, still thinking I had plenty of time to finish getting ready.
“I—you’re early,” I say.
“Yeah, sorry—I can wait for you out here if you’d prefer,” he says.
“No, no, come in,” I say, moving aside.
He walks into the living room and sits down on the sofa like he’s been here hundreds of times before.
“How’s your mam?” I ask, hovering by the doorway.
I know exactly how his mam is, though. She rang me this morning to apologise for her son’s erratic behaviour .
But I ask Mike on the basis that she was upset with him, and I know the reason he didn’t come over last night was because he was begging for forgiveness.
“She’s okay,” he says. “Sorry you had to be there for that. I mean, I guess it was my fault. I only told her half a story and—” He blows out a breath, resting his head on the back of the sofa.
“It took me ages to pry it from her, but she said I disappointed her. She didn’t get to see me—her only living son—get married, so yeah, that’s the guilt I’m living with for the rest of my life. ”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry, Mike.”
“Yeah, well … any news on Kathryn? Has she sent you a cheque yet?”
“No, but she has read my messages. I’m not sure if that’s worse. And I spoke to my mother today, and she said she hasn’t heard from Kathryn either, so ‘try not to worry’.” I use my fingers for air-quotes, but Mike’s not looking. He’s gazing up at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought.
“Do you know how much you’ll need?” he says, tentatively looking in my direction. “For the website and socials?”
“Not yet.”
He nods, but he still doesn’t look at me.
“If you need money … I can help, I mean, if you want, I don’t want you to think I’m thinking you can’t manage or?—”
“What’s going on?” I say, pacing to the sofa.
I don’t sit next to him, instead I get to my knees and settle myself in between his legs, prodding him in the chest.
He meets my gaze, and his breath catches for a second before he says, “oh, fucking hell.”
“What?”
“You’re sitting there and?—”
I scramble to my feet. Though the idea of kneeling between his legs has a negative effect on my ability to stand up straight.
“I can’t commit to doing that while I’ve got a fresh face of make-up. Not when I don’t have time to fix it. ”
Mike tilts his head to look at me again. “My dirty thoughts are killing me. You’re killing me.”
“They’ll be time for that later,” I say. “Once you tell me what’s wrong.”
He runs his hands over his face, groans, then stands up.
Is he shaking? Oh my God, I know guys enjoy a blowjob, but?—
He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box. The sort of box rings come in.
I gasp—I can’t help myself. I gasp, looking between the box and Mike, who looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Kitch—” he says. “I know you said … but … fuck.” His head dips to his hands before he looks at me again. “I figured if we show up and we’re not looking … you know, fully dressed, then people may get suspicious.”
I stare at his hands, visibly shaking under my watch, as he pries open the box. My heart picks up speed, already heightened after the tuxedo entry, now beating franticly in my chest.
“What—”
“I went to a jeweller today, and it’s weird because I don’t have a fucking clue about rings or anything, but when I saw these, I just …
thought of you.” He turns the box around to face me.
“It’s sort of like one of those wedding rings that fits around the engagement ring and, ugh …
I hope you like it enough to wear, I mean?—”
My eyes brim with tears. In the box sits an Asscher-cut diamond. And it’s … breathtaking.
“It’s on a platinum band and the clarity’s something like ‘VS1’ or something—I’m not sure what that means, but apparently, it’s nearly perfect. Like, you’d need a loupe to spot any flaws … one of those magnifying glasses jewellers use.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Do you like it?”
I’m trying to think of anything to say that will convey how I feel about it—because this is the most beautiful set of rings I’ve ever seen.
“I—I—” I swallow. “I love them, Mike. But I can’t accept them.”
His half-crooked smile falls into a frown. “Why not?”
“I’m not even asking how much they cost you, but it’s too much—I mean, this isn’t—I just?—”
Frustration fills my chest. I can’t find the words. I can’t find any words to explain how I’m feeling right now.
Mike takes a step towards me.
“Hey, have you ever heard the term, ‘if he wanted to, he would’? Because I wanted to get these for you, so I did. Honestly, Kitch, all the other rings in the cabinet looked like crap compared to these. I saw the set, and I knew these were meant for you.”
I stare at him, letting my mouth hang open in complete disbelief. All I ever wanted was to be seen, to be something to someone—and in comes Mike, showing me that he does see me and he probably saw me all those years back too. I mean … these rings. These rings are familiar.
“I need to finish getting ready,” I say, “I need to finish my hair and touch up my makeup and?—”
“Yeah, no problem,” he says, clearing his throat.
Then I spot the silver band he’s wearing on his left hand.
He catches me looking, then sets the ring box down on the coffee table, holding his hand out.
“I just figured it’d make sense if … you know.”
I push down the emotion that’s building, excusing myself and rushing upstairs on the premise of getting ready, but instead, I dig through the bottom of my wardrobe, pulling out my memory box, the sight of the rings reminding me of something I think I have.
I rummage through various items. Old notes, old postcards, ticket stubs, receipts.
Then I find it. Tucked in the very bottom of the box.
How did I forget this existed?
A Polaroid photo of me and Mike on our wedding day—or whatever you want to call it.
Our teenage selves not quite understanding the pivotal point that moment would play on our future.
We weren’t posing as newlyweds but as a couple of friends who weren’t actually friends, making the best of an adventure.
I stare at the photo, taking in the smiles we both wear, and with it comes the memory of the events that followed shortly after.
The phone calls I never got. The texts I never received.
And then there’s the bridal set downstairs—so similar to the one I had shown him as we gazed through the window of a jeweller, hours before the ‘wedding experience’.
I really fucking hate my sister.
I look at myself in the mirror, half-ready and heart literally aching from the whirlpool of emotions, trying to stop the tears as I pull the rollers out of my hair.
Instead of running a brush through the length, I reach for a hair tie and pull it back, setting it into a ponytail before pulling on a pair of leggings and a baggy jumper.
Then I descend the stairs to tell Mike there’s something I need to do.