Put a Ring On It (24 page)

“. . .A
nd so I ran away in the dead of night,” Brighton concluded as she poured another glass of orange juice at Kira's house the next morning. “The end.”

“Wait, what?” Kira asked. “That's not the end—that's a cliff-hanger. To be continued!”

Brighton put down the pitcher and dusted off her palms. “Saying ‘I love you' was the equivalent of giving him an invisibility cloak. It was like a Harry Potter novel up in there.”

Kira nibbled her bagel. “But he was coming back up.”

Brighton studied the countertop. “He was down there freaking out for a long time.”

“Maybe he wasn't freaking out,” Kira suggested. “Maybe he was just . . . gathering his thoughts.”

Brighton's head snapped up. “Why are you defending him?”

“I'm not,” Kira swore. “I'm just saying, you've both been
through a lot these last few weeks. And then you love bomb him when he least expects it.”

“You should have seen him, Kira.” Brighton closed her eyes against the memory. “He looked like I'd punched him in the face.”

“Maybe he was coming back up to tell you that he loves you, too. Maybe he wanted to have a long, heartfelt chat about his innermost feelings.”

Brighton scoffed. “Maybe he was planning to put me on a private jet to Mexico, just like he did with Genevieve.”

Kira shrugged. “We'll never know now, since you fled the premises. Why did you do that?”

“I was scared.”

“Of what?”

Brighton didn't reply. She didn't want to tell her friend the truth: Of course it would be awful if Jake told her he didn't love her—but it would be truly terrifying if he told her he
did
love her. “Look, it was great, okay? It was . . .” She paused, trying to find the right term for what she had shared with Jake. “A whirlwind romance. The kind I never thought I'd have.”

“Aww.”

“But it was temporary. It had to end and I ended it.” She waved one hand around, indicating the whole town of Black Dog Bay. “None of this is really who I am.”

“Except the jewelry-designer part,” Kira said.

“I'm an actuary,” Brighton said firmly. “That's my real job in my real life, which I will be returning to this afternoon. In fact”—she glanced at the clock on the microwave—“I should get on the road.”

“Have you told Lila you're going?”

“Yes. She keeps claiming I'll never actually leave, but she's going to have to make her peace with it. Because I can't stay here without backsliding every time my phone rings. I have to make a
clean break.” Brighton got out of her chair and carried her dishes to the sink. “Although, um, I took something of his before I left.”

Kira's jaw dropped. “You're keeping souvenirs like a serial killer?”

“I'm a junkie, not a serial killer,” Brighton corrected. “And I'm not keeping it.” She showed Kira the antique watch she'd liberated from Jake's closet the night before. “I'm going to finish restoring it. Then I'll send it back to him.”

Kira just looked at her.

“Fine, I'm a
codependent
junkie. I can't stand to think of it moldering away in a drawer for another decade. I can fix timepieces, unlike people, with my love and attention.” Brighton got to her feet and collected her bag. “I'm going. Here I go.”

Kira walked her to the door. “Drive safe.”

“I always do.”

They hugged and headed out to the white Subaru. Rory followed them and plunked himself down next to the driver's-side door.

“What do you want me to do about him?” Kira asked.

“I guess I should take him back to the guesthouse where he doesn't officially live.” Brighton kissed that giant, furry head, then unlocked the car door. Rory leaped in and somehow managed to wriggle over the console into the backseat. He stared at Brighton, tongue lolling and tail wagging.

“I think he wants to go with you,” Kira said.

“I want him to go with me, too.” Brighton nibbled her lower lip. “But I can't kidnap Jake's dog. That's unconscionable.”

“I wouldn't exactly call this kidnapping,” Kira said. “He's clearly a willing volunteer.”

They both regarded the slobbering beast with the golden eyes of an angel.

“Jake did say I could have anything I wanted,” Brighton mused.

“I think if you want the dog that much, he'd want you to have him,” Kira said. “And he
did
refer to him as a squatter.”

Brighton slipped into the driver's seat and turned on the car's ignition. “I'll text him to let him know Rory's joining me. Once I'm safely across state lines.”

She closed her eyes and held on to the warm steering wheel, hoping that if she could just hold her breath and wait long enough, the pain would recede.

Kira rapped on the window. “Everything okay?”

“Everything's fine.” Brighton opened her eyes, glanced at the gas gauge, checked her mirrors, and started back to the land of corporate meetings and ten-year plans. As she merged onto the highway, abiding by all traffic signs and speed limits, she waited for a rush of relief that never came.

A
n envelope from Black Dog Bay arrived four weeks later.

Brighton rushed into her building at seven thirty on Friday evening, her feet blistered from a new pair of pumps, her stomach growling from a workday so busy that she hadn't eaten lunch, and her eyes itchy and dry from hours of staring at a computer monitor. She was desperate to go to the bathroom, eat something, and make sure that the dog walker had taken Rory for the extra afternoon outing she'd requested.

But first she had to get the mail. That was her daily routine, the one she was trying so hard to resume. If she could get her body and brain back into her old schedule, her heart would follow. Eventually. Hopefully. Frazzled and impatient, she stopped at the bank of little brass doors in her building's lobby and twisted her key in the lock. Amid a stack of bills and credit card offers, she found a lavender envelope sealed with purple wax and bearing a Delaware postmark.

She didn't recognize the shaky, spindly handwriting. Someone in Black Dog Bay was reaching out, but not the person she most wanted to hear from. A month after she'd left the town limits, little pieces of her screw-up summer were still drifting back, reminding her of everything she'd left undone.

Jake hadn't contacted her since she'd sent the text informing him she'd absconded with Rory. His silence could be interpreted in a million different ways. Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was mounting a high-powered legal defense team to reclaim his dog. Maybe he'd already moved on to the next woman at the Whinery.

Most likely, he'd taken the next logical step and followed up with the divorce attorney. Every day, she expected a process server to arrive at her office with the separation papers, but nothing so far.

He didn't file and she didn't file, and so they remained in marital limbo. Not together, not apart, with no resolution in sight.

As always, Rory greeted her at the door with frantic, slobbery enthusiasm. While he shed all over her suit and sat on her briefcase, Brighton kicked off her shoes and prepped a high-protein dinner of chicken and goat cheese vinaigrette. After she brought her dishes to the sink, she grabbed the lavender envelope, settled into the sofa, and kicked her feet up on her IKEA coffee table. She broke through the wax seal and pulled out a clipping from a publication called the
Wilmington Social Record
. The paper was thick and rich and featured a black-and-white photograph of a dark, handsome groom and a beautiful blond bride on a beach.

“A Whirlwind Romance,” the caption read. “Ms. Genevieve Van Petten, daughter of Russell and Jacqueline Van Petten,
married Javier Mendoza of Mexico City after a brief courtship. The couple met when the bride, a philanthropist with a degree in art history, agreed to consult with Mr. Mendoza's resort development firm. ‘As soon as we locked eyes at the airport,' the bride gushed, ‘we just knew.' The couple plan to move to Manhattan, where they will host a reception for family and friends.”

After rereading the announcement five times, Brighton snatched up her phone, dialed Kira, and relayed the story to her friend. “She went down there four weeks ago and they're already married!”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around,” Kira observed.

Brighton rolled her eyes. “When
I
do it, it's different.”

“Oh, okay.”

Brighton squinted down at the photo, trying to discern the details. “She has a veil and a bouquet and a diamond ring that could plug the hole in the ozone layer. This was not some drunken night in Vegas. Someone coordinated this whole thing with military precision.”

“She moves fast,” Kira said. “Guess she'd rather marry the guy than work for him.”

“Hasn't she heard the expression ‘Marry for money, earn every penny'?” Brighton tsk-tsked.

“I'm going to go out on a limb and say she doesn't care. But I do wonder what the guy was thinking. He's a friend of Jake's, right?”

Brighton had an immediate physical reaction to the mere mention of his name. She closed her eyes against a wave of loss and longing. “He did mention that Javier was hell-bent on breaking into East Coast society. And now he's married to a Van Petten who will get him into every polo tournament and yacht club. He got the society connections he wanted, she got the cash flow she needed. A win-win transaction.”

Kira's tone softened. “So how's your reentry to the real world?”

“Everything's just the way I left it: a slow, gray march toward death fueled by coffee and fluorescent lighting.” Brighton heaved a melodramatic sigh, then laughed. “No, it's fine. It's nice to see my work friends again, and I'm up for promotion. How's everything in Black Dog Bay?”

“Everything's just the way you left it. Small-town scandal galore.”

Brighton's smile faded. “I miss it.”

“Come back anytime,” Kira offered. “My house is your house.”

“I can't. I'll relapse.” Brighton knew she shouldn't ask the next question, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. “Do you ever see him?”

Kira paused. “Who?”

“Who do you think? Jake Sorensen, my legally wedded husband.”

“I see him around from time to time.”

Brighton put her feet on the floor and sat up straight. “And?”

“I have to go, Brighton. My next client's here.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.” Brighton hung up, but she couldn't seem to put the phone down. She wanted to call him; she wanted to hear his voice. Her chest literally ached from missing him.

But nothing had changed. He still couldn't love her and she still couldn't trust herself not to love him.

She put the phone in the kitchen so she wouldn't be tempted, then retreated to her bedroom and pulled the antique Patek Philippe watch out of her nightstand drawer. Every night before she went to bed, she cleaned and calibrated, but it still wasn't perfect. The stainless steel case had a chip on one edge of the dial casing; the piece would never look brand-new again. But it was still beautiful. She'd poured her heart and soul into the project, attending to every detail and using the polished steel as an outlet for all the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

The time had come to let go and give this piece of his past back to him. She would return his priceless antique Swiss watch—the Jake Sorensen equivalent of returning a T-shirt and photos after a breakup.

She packed the watch carefully in layers of tissue and cardboard and Bubble Wrap, then addressed the package to Don't Be Koi. She hoped he would wear it and appreciate it.

She hoped that he would remember the good when he saw it, even though it meant good-bye.