Chapter 6
Six
I slammed my apartment door shut and went straight to the freezer.
The H?agen-Dazs Cookies and Cream sat faithfully on the second shelf, and I snatched it out a little too aggressively. Like a dependable old friend, it didn’t ask questions. Not even when I got into a tug-of-war with the utensil drawer that refused to give up a single spoon.
“Fuck!” I yelled, slamming the drawer with the side of my fist.
And that’s when I saw it.
The ring.
Still on my finger.
The one I’d forgotten to give back.
All the anger, the frustration, the adrenaline that had carried me home drained from my body in an instant. My back hit the wall, and my legs gave out beneath me.
The kitchen light was dim, but the diamond still sparkled—like it didn’t know it had come from . Like it hadn’t been picked out for show. Like it thought it actually meant something.
My head lolled back against the cabinet, and I closed my eyes, but it was no use. The memory slipped through the cracks, uninvited and vivid.
Dean’s hand, sliding the ring onto my finger. The way he’d looked at me when he did it—steady, certain, like it was more than a game.
I hated how it had made me feel.
There was a time I used to dream about this. A ring on my finger. A man who loved me. A family of my own. I’d given up on it a long time ago, but tonight made me realize those dreams still lingered in quiet corners. Buried, but not gone.
I still believed in love. I’d seen it—real, messy, unconditional love. For Jake and Katie. For John and Tuesday. But me?
I was different. Broken in ways I didn’t know how to explain…
Not even wanted by my own damn mother.
The thought caused the ache in my chest to deepen, to curl around my ribs like a giant fist.
My mind slipped—unprompted and uncontrollable—into one of the only memories I had left of my childhood.
I’d been told the gaps in my memory were from trauma.
The kind that rewired your brain permanently.
Years spent drifting through foster homes could do that to a person.
Years of being unwanted left me chasing scraps of affection in all the wrong places—in the arms of men who held me when it suited them, then lost interest the second they got what they wanted.
Most of those hurts eventually dulled. The names, the faces, the sting of being left behind…
But not this.
This memory stayed.
I looked down at the ring still wrapped around my finger—feeling it tighten like a vice. It had been part of the lie, just a prop in a story. But now, it felt like something else entirely. A symbol I hadn’t asked for. A weight I hadn’t meant to carry.
I reached for it, gripping the band between my thumb and index finger, and pulled.
It wouldn’t move—just like the memory that pressed in, heavy and inevitable.
I twisted harder, my breath catching in my throat.
“Come on,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut.
But it was too late.
The memory had already taken hold, unspooling inside me, beginning to end, whether I wanted it to or not.
“Hurry up,” my mother snapped, yanking my hand until I stumbled over the lip of the sidewalk. “You’re making me late again… always dragging your feet like an infant.”
Her heels clacked against the pavement—loud, sharp, fast. Her grip around my wrist pinched, but I didn’t dare say a word. I just tried to keep up, taking two steps for every one of hers. My jelly shoes slapped against my heels, rubbing a blister I wouldn’t dare complain about.
She didn’t look at me. Not once.
But I looked up at her—always.
She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her skirt swished when she walked, and her jacket had shiny gold buttons that gleamed in the sunlight. But it was her shoes I couldn’t stop staring at—the deep red ones with tall, skinny heels that clicked like a secret code only she could understand.
She had a whole collection of them, lined up in her closet like soldiers. I wasn’t allowed in there, not even to peek.
"Those are not for playing,” she’d snapped once when she caught me slipping one onto my foot. “Do you know how much those cost? They're for women, not babies.”
So, I stopped asking. But I never stopped watching. One day, I promised myself, I’d have a pair just like the red ones she wore that day. I'd learn to walk like her too—tall, fast, untouchable.
We reached a tall building with glass doors, and she pulled me inside without slowing down. “You’re going to stay here for a while,” she whispered, crouching just enough to speak low and quick. “Keep to yourself. Don’t bother anyone. Don’t try to follow me.”
The place smelled like floor polish and something sharp, like medicine. I tried to read the letters on the wall, but I didn’t really know how to yet. She pushed the elevator button and dragged me in behind her.
When it started to rise, my stomach flipped, and I reached out without thinking.
She actually let me hold her hand.
I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I just held it—lightly, carefully—afraid she’d pull away.
When the doors opened, she led me through a maze of hallways until we reached a quiet waiting room at the back. Rows of chairs. A vending machine humming in the corner.
She walked straight to it, crouched to her haunches, and took a handful of quarters from her purse. “Watch,” she said, her voice clipped, like patience was something she’d already used up hours ago.
She slid the coins into the slot one by one, pressed a few buttons, and a candy bar dropped with a heavy thunk behind the glass.
She unwrapped it, handed it to me, then guided me to a row of chairs and sat me down.
A man in a wheelchair sat across from me—old and gray, his eyes foggy, staring straight through me like I wasn’t even there.
“Stay here,” she said, quieter now. She tucked a few extra quarters into my pocket. “If you get hungry, use these.”
I nodded, clutching the candy bar in both hands.
“When it gets dark, someone will find you.”
And then—
She walked away.
I waited.
I nibbled at the candy bar slowly, careful not to drop any pieces. I didn’t want to make a mess. I didn’t want to be a problem. My fingers still got sticky, so I wiped them on the back of my legs, because she hated when I wiped them on my clothes.
My legs swung from the chair, not quite long enough to touch the floor. I watched the door. Every time it opened, I looked up, hoping she’d be there.
She never was.
People passed by. Some smiled. Most didn’t. The old man was taken away eventually, wheeled out by someone in a matching top and bottom that looked like pajamas. Then I was alone.
A woman in a pale blue shirt came over and crouched in front of me. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”
I nodded quickly. My mother had told me not to talk to anyone. I wasn’t supposed to speak. Just wait.
She asked a few more questions I didn’t answer. Then she placed a warm hand on my back and said she was going to help me. She gave me juice and asked if I wanted to lie down.
But I didn’t. I sat there, waiting—long after the candy was gone, and the quarters were forgotten in my pocket.
My mother never came back.
That was the last time I saw her.
Tears rolled down my cheeks with a sharp, familiar ache. Like something had splintered inside me and never healed quite right.
I looked down at the ring still stuck on my finger—clinging to skin it had no right to touch.
All I could think about were those red heels clicking away down that long, shiny hallway.
I shoved off the ground, my feet hitting the floor harder than I meant them to. I wouldn’t do this tonight. I wouldn’t spiral.
The ice cream was left abandoned on the counter, soft and unappetizing. I picked it up and tossed it into the trash.
Then, without thinking, I grabbed the soap, pumping a few drops onto my hand.
“Shit,” I yanked at the ring, but it still wouldn’t move.
I let out a breath, defeated, and gripped the edge of the counter.
PING!
The sound shot like a thunderclap through my silent apartment.
I glanced toward the small table by the door, where I’d thrown my phone when I’d arrived home. The screen glowed in the darkness, yet I already knew who it was before even reading the text.
John: I’m coming over. I’m worried about you.
My chest instantly tightened. Shit!
I unlocked my phone, fingers trembling in my urgency to type out a message.
Me: Please don’t come over. I’m already in bed.
John: Liar.
He knew me too well.
Me: I’m fine. Promise. Please…
There was a long pause before another text came.
John: We’re having a barbecue at Jake’s tomorrow. Come.
Not a request.
An order.
I stared at the screen, my thumbs aching to type out something rebellious, but I didn’t dare.
Me: Okay.
John: Promise?
I inhaled deeply, and my chin began to wobble with emotion I’d been bottling up for far too long.
Me: I promise.