What's the actual meaning of this get-together?

An uncomfortable feeling was settling in my stomach as I moved around the apartment, getting ready to leave.

Why did you invite me?

The questions had been piling up in my head since the encounter in Violet's room, dragging out the day to the point where it seemed to have happened a lifetime and a half ago, rather than a day and a half ago. I'd gone to three lectures, taken several naps, even played my bass yesterday and today, with headphones on to shield my head from the outside world.

Why did you choose this specific time to tell your friend about our marriage?

Forgetting it a second time, I remembered a third time that I was searching the living room for my lipgloss, at this point frustrated with the lump forming in my throat at my uncontrollable thoughts.

Marriage. It wasn't a marriage, not really. The way it was a bridge to him getting healthy, it was apparently a bridge to keep people away from me.

It was the opposite of a bridge. Any bridge I might have had, Harry wanted to tear it down and not let anyone cross to the other side, where I was. Where he thought himself to be. Our marriage was a sledgehammer.

The bass did not save me from my brain today.

Are you just not going to let me date?

I cringed at my thoughts, hoping the wind would carry them away when I stepped out of the apartment; it wasn't like I wanted to date Miles, or do anything other than maybe talk to him about music. Not like I wanted to date at all. But the fact that he was—possibly, in theory—being possessive of me was making me all kinds of nauseous. I'd accepted that Violet's view was plausible, but processing it was an entirely different thing from simply acknowledging it.

I couldn't possibly process the idea of Harry having feelings for me. Not in the near future, anyway. The longer I thought about it and recalled certain situations that weren't solely pissing contests, the more it made sense. But it also made the obstruction in my airway infinitely larger.

A small silver lining was that I was all alone in the apartment—his friends wanted to squeeze in a few games of Madden before we arrived and I'd convinced him to leave earlier, and Violet was still at work. There was no one to witness the collapse of my sanity.

I took a glance in the full-length mirror in the hallway, concluding that blue jeans and a white sweatshirt were good enough for a night at someone's apartment—Harry had gone in sweatpants, after all. Casual-leaning-toward-lazy attire was perfectly acceptable. I started to put on my Vans but barely seconds after I'd sat down on the pouf my phone buzzed, the vibration echoing through the empty hallway, and my hands forgot how to tie shoelaces.

From: Harry M

You on your way?

Airway constricted. All over again.

To: Harry M

In a minute

From: Harry M

Need you to get something from my bag before you leave

To: Harry M

What?

From: Harry M

Check the left pocket

Despite my confusion, I shook off the one shoe I had on and got up, making my way to my room in just socks. I switched the light in the room on and padded over to the black travel bag that had stood in the same corner ever since he came to stay with us, this being the first time I was actually paying any attention to it. First I bent over to inspect it, but ended up needing to crouch down to get a better look.

What the hell was the left side of this thing?

Right after the thought, came the realization that only one side had the Nike logo, and I checked the left pocket using it as a compass.

To: Harry M

Nothing in the left pocket?

From: Harry M

The other left then

So I'd assumed he'd say, but I needed the green light to keep going through his stuff and not feel weird about it. I placed my phone on the carpet for the few seconds it took to check the other pocket, and I texted Harry again when I retrieved a small black paper bag.

To: Harry M

Found a lil black bag, lmk if that's what you meant and I'll bring it with me

From: Harry M

Bring it with you??

To: Harry M

I mean if you need it

If not I can keep looking? Just tell me what I'm looking for

From: Harry M

Motherfucker look inside

The wide eyes I had at his response were shaken off with a few blinks, and I went on to follow his directions. Clearly this meant a lot to him, for whatever reason.

It took a mere peek to realize why he was calling me names in his texts; lips parted, I pulled out the square velvet box and assessed it for all of a second before I dropped the blasted paper bag on the floor, forgotten for all eternity, to open the box.

I knew what I'd be seeing when the top popped into a fixed 80-degree position, yet it was the moment I laid eyes on it that my legs decided it was time to give up and sit my ass on the floor. There I was, on the floor of my bedroom, looking at a diamond ring while the ring looked back at me.

My hands were on autopilot as I placed the box on the floor to pick my phone up, and while the screen was the same—the same chat, the same string of messages, the same name at the top—I was barely seeing any of it. The obstruction in my throat had become an obstruction in my cerebrum and not one thought was coming through. I stared through my phone until I willed myself to focus enough to type out a message.

To: Harry M

A ring?

I bit on my nails as I waited for him to open the message and reply. Please. Please don't let it be what I think it is.

From: Harry M

Ding ding ding

To: Harry M

What do I do with it?

From: Harry M

Take it to mount doom

Bro put it on, see if it fits

The bark of a laugh I let out was funny in itself, but for a moment, I sat there and contemplated if I'd ever again find anything in life funny. If I'd live through this horrible, horrible feeling the whole exchange hit me with.

The first man I considered letting my walls down for after I built them tall and unassailable three years ago, wanted me to wear the ring fully intended for his ex-girlfriend. I was a lamppost and he was a dog pissing on me to mark his territory. Just to prove a point to his friends, or whatever. Establish dominance. Make sure none of his friends dared to have a normal, three-minute conversation about music with me ever again.

The irony was, he proved Violet completely wrong, despite the point he was trying to make. No one who had the slightest bit of affection toward me, let alone liked me, would have done something so insensitive. And if he did like me, this was a fucking weird way to go about it. Just so incomprehensibly fucking weird.

I thought about just putting my phone on silent and not showing up, but quickly realized I didn't actually want to punish him. Staring at the box next to me, I realized the feelings threatening to spill out of me in the form of tears were strong because they were at the surface. Current. Happening right this moment.

Did I actually think Harry was a bad person? No. I didn't a minute ago, and I probably wouldn't after I'd gotten a chance to clear my head. I didn't believe he had bad intentions. I didn't believe he was even aware of how shitty this whole stunt was making me feel. He was just a guy.

A hard swallow was followed by my picking up the box again, and I inspected the ring more closely now. The diamond was perched on a simple white gold band. Emerald cut, not too small. Maybe one carat, but still worth at least a couple thousand. Another humorless laugh passed my lips as I wiggled it out of the cushion, at the thought that the first time I'd ever wear an engagement ring in my life would be in my college room, alone, putting it on myself.

And hating that it fit perfectly.

To: Bastard Man

Fits

From: Bastard Man

Reduce reuse recycle

With a reluctant snort and a plea to God to let me survive the night, I got up to resume putting my shoes on.

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Man, seeing him felt weird. I'd grown indifferent to the fact that he was my husband—it would go through my head from time to time, but without causing an emotional response. Much like thinking about my grocery list or listening to a college lecture.

And then I put on the engagement ring he'd bought, and it unlocked... a lot. Harry came out of the building I was walking toward, and I felt nausea in my stomach and a squeeze at my heart at the same time. The anger I'd been carrying as long as the ring dissipated at the sight of his face, but then grew again because how dare his face make me feel better when I should be pissed at him?

"Hi." Harry smiled when I approached him, looking me up and down. "You get here okay?"

"Mhm," I hummed, forcing a tight-lipped smile, but Harry's furrowed brows seemed to see right through it. "Took the bus. As usual."

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

"Sure," I said, a pitch higher, and shook my head, "Why? Do I look bad?"

"No, just... like you're..." He leaned his head to the side, "Constipated."

"Oh, fuck off."

"Hey, come on." His hand held my upper arm as I tried walking past him, and spun me around to face him. "I'm kidding. You look great. Except for the fact that you're pissed off."

I swallowed down all the words that were ready to go into battle with him, solely because I still didn't know how to align them for the attack. The half-hour it took me from my apartment to here wasn't nearly enough time; my brain was just as loud as when I opened the velvet box, but nothing coherent was coming to the surface.

"Just tired." I took a breath before adding, "I'll probably feel better after a beer."

Harry seemed convinced, giving a nod as his hand trailed down my arm to my hand, "Let's take care of that, then."

It had dawned on me that he was either the most clueless specimen to walk the earth, or he just knew he'd fucked up and was trying to distract me. Whatever the reason, another core memory was being created as he, in a non-supportive way as he had up until now, held my hand while leading me down the pathway to the entrance of the building. The yelling in my head got louder with the feel of his palm against mine, the sleeves of my leather jacket and his bomber jacket brushing, and the general proximity that hand-holding created. We were shoulder to shoulder.

God forbid he looked like there was any yelling going on in his head too. Any yelling at all. It probably looked like whatever was going on in a golden retriever's noggin. God. How dare he scramble my brain threefold when I hadn't begun to unscramble the events prior to his thumb pressing against my index finger?

He guided my hand up closer to his face, thumb brushing the ring on my finger, "Looks nice on you."

There it was—the observation that would do the unscrambling for me. A new wave of annoyance washing over me, I yanked my hand out of his just as we reached the top of the first flight of stairs. "You got anything else of Cece's I could wear?"

"Oh, is that what this is about?" He stopped on the landing between the two staircases, but I didn't. "Evie. Stop. Look at me."

There was one thing I hated, and he'd figured it out—being talked to like I was a disobedient child. I was on the third step when I swallowed, and turned around in my spot; Harry was still at the bottom, hands in his pockets, stern eyes fixed on me.

It had to be the first time he'd ever looked at me like that. I'd seen this side of him the night he packed his Nike bag to come and stay with me, but it wasn't directed at me. Or because of me. Then again, I'd never acted like this toward him—my anger at him was exclusively tied to his insistence on putting himself in danger.

It was new territory for both of us.

"What?"

His eyes softened at my curt response, but his face somehow simultaneously grew more annoyed. "Talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"If this is something that bothers you, you don't have to wear it. I just didn't think you'd care."

Went right over my 'nothing to talk about' card.

Something in my chest squeezed; I didn't want it to be something that bothered me, but I was proving to be a horrible actress not even five minutes into seeing him. How was I supposed to spend the next few hours acting if this was how my performance had started?

The opposite end of this predicament was much more nauseating—how was I supposed to go about the man standing in front of me if I admitted it bothered me?

"I don't care." I shrugged. "I'll wear it."

"Obviously you care."

"I don't."

The brief laugh that accompanied his walking up the steps to stand in front of me was a whole different kind of nauseating. I watched him once again become taller than me and averted my eyes to the floor when he insisted on looking at me pointedly. "That's rich coming from someone who just asked me for more of my ex-girlfriend's stuff."

"I'm sorry if I'm not thrilled about wearing something you bought for someone who treated you like shit. Can we please let it go?"

Harry gave a slow nod, but his face stayed the same. The blue eyes were slightly squinted at me as he spoke, "That's the reason? The whole reason?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"And I'm not a douchebag for asking you to wear it?"

"No."

He nodded again, lips pursed as he continued his way up the staircase, and I inhaled a much-needed breath when a lack of him in my personal space allowed me to breathe. I followed him up, reaching the top just as he knocked on the door where faint music was coming from; there it was. The hangout where he was going to show off his wife to his friends. Much like the first time I offered to be his wife, when his rejection practically dug me a hole in the ground, I wanted to suppress and erase the memory of this night, before it had even begun.

"You're a horrible liar."

But the door swung open before I could answer.

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eeeeek i'm excited for writing the next parts! feedback is appreciated  ♡