Chapter 13
I could rant and rant all day about Andy asking me to pick up this ring – like, does he think I have nothing better to do?
I, however, do not have anything better to do. Yes, anything might be better, but my schedule is wide open.
As JJ keeps telling me, there’s no amount of editing that is going to sell my book; it could be incredible, it could be absolute trash.
The issue is getting it through the door, and I’m waiting for another biography job to come in, so I’m in work limbo as well as relationship limbo – as well as life limbo.
It really, truly is such a big old mess. All of it.
Still, we move, so here I am, ring box in hand, clutching it like it’s a live grenade.
The swanky jewellers where I collected it from only made it all the more painful.
The place was pure luxury. I had to go through two locked doors just to get in – briefly being held in some kind of glass chamber while they checked what a pleb like me was doing at such a fine establishment (in hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have worn Crocs, even if these ones do have a heel).
They even gave me champagne when I arrived – although I noticed they stopped topping up the glass once they realised I was collecting the ring on behalf of someone else, not for myself.
So I signed the form and took the ring into my custody, then jumped straight on the train to Rosewood Grange – and here I am. I’ve got some time to kill so I’m walking around the gardens, thinking about my life choices.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
JJ
Don’t lose it!
Whitney
Wow, I hadn’t thought of that…
JJ
I know you. You won’t mean to do it, but you’ll accidentally feed it to a swan or something, then feel so guilty about it – it will be a whole thing.
Whitney
Fair point. I’m keeping it safe.
I’m keeping it so safe that I’m carrying it in my hand – the box, that is – so that I can’t accidentally leave it behind or lose it from my bag. JJ is right: I can be clumsy, and I can be accidentally careless. I need to keep my eye on this one.
That said, I may be keeping an eye on it, but ironically, I haven’t actually looked at it – at the ring, inside the box.
Lovely as the box is, I want to look inside so badly, but I know that it will probably upset me.
It won’t matter what it looks like. If it’s expensive, whether I love it or hate it.
It will only make it feel real. I guess I need to try not to think about it.
The gardens here are huge. There must be so much land, and yet it’s so busy.
There are visitors pretty much everywhere you turn.
I wonder how they make money – I suppose they rinse you in the tea rooms, or the gift shop, and I’ll bet the weddings are so expensive.
Plus, if they deal in fancy horses, I’ll bet they’re not cheap.
Still, their gardening bills must be astronomical. I can’t even begin to imagine, but I know how much my bikini line costs to keep in check, and that takes seconds. Here it’s all lawns and hedges and flower beds – so much to keep on top of.
It’s an undeniably dreamy spot for a wedding, no doubt about it, especially now that the weather is much warmer and the sun is shining.
It’s such a beautiful spot, the perfect place to fall in love – or cement your love with someone, I guess.
I follow the path through the gardens because Andy told me to meet him and Cordelia at the main house at eleven, and I’ve still got like twenty minutes to kill. I may as well explore, stroll away some of the time, try to keep my mind from…
I look at the ring box in my hand. The live grenade. So far I’m yet to pull the pin, to open it, but I’m so, so tempted. Just to see…
I need to focus on my surroundings, to try a grounding technique maybe.
What is it? Five things you can see – the fountain, the perfectly trimmed hedges, an influencer shooting a vlog, a statue of a man with a sword, a magpie.
Then four things you can feel – the gravel beneath my feet, the sun on my head, the ring box in my hand…
Looking down at it snaps me from my thoughts.
I want to see it. I know, I shouldn’t, but I do. I’ll look at it, just quickly.
I sit down on the edge of the fountain and slowly open the box.
Christ, it’s like the briefcase from Pulp Fiction. The rock on this thing is so big it pings sunlight in all directions. Oh, and if one diamond isn’t big enough, the band is covered in them too.
If anything it serves as a reminder that Andy is actually doing really well. He can afford stuff like this; he definitely doesn’t need a roommate, so I suppose I’m lucky that he’s chosen to keep living with me for as long as he has.
It’s a beautiful ring, it really is. He has great taste. I wonder, if I’d told him how I felt, if we’d got together, if he had ultimately proposed to me, would he have chosen this ring for me?
Ugh, this is like pressing a bruise only to see how much it hurts. If it were ugly, if it were gaudy, if it was something I could make fun of, then maybe I could delude myself into feeling okay. I could take comfort in… something.
But this? This is simple and elegant – but still impressive and clearly expensive.
It sends a strong signal, one that says: this is how committed I am, this is how much you mean to me.
I’m not even the kind of person who believes that you need expensive things – even the most expensive ring in the world can’t make love appear where it isn’t – but coming from Andy I know what this means.
I glance around. Sure, the grounds are busy-ish, but there’s no one near me. No one watching me or judging me – not that anyone could tell what I was thinking about doing.
What am I thinking about doing? What am I thinking? I’m thinking it’s only me here, sitting on the edge of the fountain, and it’s not worth my time making a wish. All I can do is wonder about how my life would have been, if he’d asked me instead.
I wonder what I would feel like… I wonder what the ring would feel like, on my finger, if I were to just try it on. Maybe it will feel right. Maybe it will feel horrible. I don’t think I can move a muscle until I know.
For a moment, one small pause in the timeline, I let myself pretend. I imagine Andy’s hands holding mine. Andy’s eyes looking at me with love and adoration. Andy saying my name. I imagine him looking at me like I’m the only person in the room – or the garden, as the case may be here.
I imagine a different universe. One where I told him how I felt sooner. One where he came home without Cordelia.
I take the ring from the box and finally slide it on to my ring finger, as though I just said yes.
Huh. Well, I don’t feel any more upset, but it doesn’t feel right on me anyway.
I suppose it’s not meant for me – it’s not even the right size; it’s too tight.
The only thing I feel really is silly, for letting myself fantasise about what I can’t have.
It’s more like torturing myself than fantasising.
‘Okay,’ I whisper softly to myself. That’s enough. Time to take it off and hand it over to its rightful owner.
I grip the ring and tug. It doesn’t move. I try again and… nothing. Not a millimetre. Fuck.
‘Right, okay, let’s not panic,’ I say to myself, as I frantically pull at my finger. I need to take calm, deep breaths, and let it just… FUCK! It was supposed to come off that time.
My finger suddenly feels so swollen. Like it’s decided now is the perfect time to retain water out of spite – or like my body simply will not let the ring go.
I dump my bag out on the stone I’m sitting on, looking for something in there that might lube it up, help it pop off, but I’ve got nothing. Next, I twist around to dip my hand in the fountain water. Maybe a little bit of that will help, but now it’s just wet and stuck.
I pause for a second, trying to ignore my pathetic reflection in the water below me.
A moment of calm, a few deep breaths and then one big pull to pop it right off. And then I repress the whole thing, I lock it shut in a box, chuck it to the back of the brain, and go back to being regular tragic rather than super fucking tragic.
One… Two… Three… SPLASH!
I don’t know if it happens in slow motion or if it’s all over in an instant. The splash comes quickly, the water covering me from head to toe, but I could also swear I was falling forever, time slowing down in the way it only does when you’re making a total fool of yourself in public.
Cold water floods my clothes. It slaps me across the face.
I live in the fountain now – I’m too mortified to come back up.
And yet I’m rising slowly from the water, and it’s a relief when I can breathe air and feel the warm sun on my skin again.
I could swear my body was floating through the air, but then I see him.
‘Well now,’ he says. ‘That sure is one way to cool off.’
I freeze in his arms as he carries me out of the fountain.
Not just a man. A… cowboy. With a Texan accent.
Wearing a wide-brimmed, sun-faded cowboy hat sitting low on his forehead, casting a shadow over eyes that are so blue they are practically glowing.
His hair is sandy, longer on top, like he’s run his hand through it a thousand times.
And his jawline – wow – you could forgive yourself for mistaking him for one of the statues here.
Alternatively, I have hit my head very hard, and I’m imagining all of this.
I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true; he’s too perfect.
He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Built in that way people only achieve by lifting heavy things for a living – you just can’t get this kind of build from the gym, no matter how long you spend there.
And he is looking at me… and smiling. Me, the drowned rat he pulled from an ornamental fountain.
He sits me back on the edge of the fountain. I look over his shoulder and see a horse staring back at me. Okay, yeah, I’ve definitely hit my head.
He looks at me, then behind him, then back at me.