He Gave Her Cash, I Gave Her a Ring

You wired half of our ten years' savings to that intern.

I tossed the transfer screenshot onto the dining table.

He froze, then smiled. Don't read into it. Something came up with her family. I just helped her out for a bit.

You helped her out. With our money.

He didn't answer, just bent his head over his rice.

It struck me as ridiculous.

Ten years, and he'd never once brought up when are we getting married, yet helping someone else out came so easily to him.

Let's break up.

His chopsticks paused. He looked up at me. Is it really worth all that?

I didn't explain.

Three days later, I posted to my feed: a close-up of one of my hands, a diamond ring now on the ring finger.

The caption was one word: Done.

Amos Henson sent thirteen messages in a row. The last one was

Whose ring is that?

I didn't reply.

Some men, you stay with for ten years and they never feel any rush.

The moment you're with someone else, they panic.

Too bad. Too late.

He set down his chopsticks and stared at me for two seconds.

I want that money back next month.

I didn't move.

Fine.

He frowned, probably not expecting me to agree so easily.

He picked his bowl back up, put a piece of pork rib in his mouth, and chewed.

Her mom's in the hospital. She needed cash fast. Just three days.

I picked the transfer screenshot up off the table, folded it twice, and tucked it into my pocket.

I threw out that gray sweater of yours. It pilled too badly.

His chopsticks stopped.

That one cost over a thousand.

I know.

He looked at me, cheeks still puffed out, the half-chewed rib seemingly stuck and impossible to swallow.

After a while, he took a sip of water.

What exactly are you trying to say?

I pulled out my chair, stood, and took his bowl away.

We're breaking up.

He sat there without moving, chopsticks still pinched between his fingers.

You're serious?

I didn't answer. I turned on the faucet and rinsed the bowl.

The water was loud. I didn't catch whatever he said after that.

He came over and turned it off.

I'm asking you. Are you serious?

Yes.

Over a few thousand dollars?

Five hundred thousand.

He froze, his lips moving twice.

I can get that money back.

Don't bother.

What did you say?

I dried my hands and draped the rag over the faucet.

I don't want the money. Call it a dowry for your intern.

His face went white.

Watch your mouth.

Sure.

I turned and went back to the bedroom, opened the closet, and started gathering my things.

He followed me in, leaned against the door frame, both hands in his pockets.

Can you just calm down?

I ignored him, folded two pieces of clothing, and stuffed them into the bag.

He walked over and pressed his hand down on my suitcase.

There's really nothing between her and me.

I lifted my head and looked at him.

How many times did you have dinner with her last month?

His eyes flickered.

Having dinner for work is completely normal.

That photo she sent you, was that on your birthday?

He let go of the suitcase and stepped back.

What photo?

Your birthday. You told me you were working late. She posted to her feed, the photo was you, and the caption said, Thanks for the cake, big brother.'

He opened his mouth.

That was her birthday, not mine.

Oh. So on your birthday, who'd you spend it with?

He went silent.

I zipped the suitcase shut.

You've been checking up on me?

No. It just came up in my feed. Small world.

He leaned back against the door frame and stared down at the floor.

"That was a company dinner. Plenty of people were there."

"Mm."

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe you."

He lifted his head and looked at me.

"Then what are you angry about?"

I smiled.

"I'm not angry. I just think it's all pretty pointless."

I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door. He blocked the entryway.

"Where are you going to go?"

"Anywhere but here."

"Is this really necessary? Five hundred thousand, I'll pay you back, that's all. If it bothers you, I'll keep my distance from her."

I looked at him. Ten years, and this man still had no idea what I cared about.

"Move."

"No."

I set the suitcase down, took out my phone, and sent him fifty cents.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That's how much we're worth. You and me."

His face changed, and his hand came down slowly.

I picked up my suitcase and walked out.

He called out behind me.

I didn't turn around.

As the elevator doors slid shut, I saw him still standing in the doorway, wearing those slippers I'd bought him last year.

The elevator reached the ground floor and the doors opened.

He came running down barefoot.

"Wait."

I wheeled the suitcase toward the door, and he grabbed the handle.

"Over this? Ten years with me, and you'd walk out just like that, over an outsider?"

I pried his fingers loose.

"It's not that you don't want to get married. You just don't want to marry me."

He said nothing.

"You went to the movies with her last month. Don't think I don't know. Two tickets, and you paid."

He froze for a second.

"Several coworkers from the company were at that movie too."

"Really? Then why did you tag your location as the office, and she tagged hers as the theater?"

He let go of the handle.

I'd taken two steps with the suitcase when he caught up again.

"Fine, I admit it, I saw a movie with her that day. But it was just coworkers grabbing a meal and a movie. There was nothing to it."

I stopped and looked at him.

"You eat with her, see movies with her, wire her five hundred thousand, and then tell me there's nothing to it?"

He opened his mouth.

"Then let me ask you. When was the last time you took me to a movie?"

He thought about it.

"Can't remember, can you?"

He didn't answer.

"Ten years with you. My birthday, your birthday, Valentine's Day, our anniversarywhen did you ever once ask me out yourself?"

"I don't like all that formality."

"You remembered her birthday clearly enough."

His face was ugly.

"Okay, I handled it badly. But walking out like this, don't you think you're overreacting?"

I gave a small laugh.

"You know, my mom called last week and asked me. She said you two have been together so long, isn't it time you thought about getting married. I told her soon."

"And the next day, I saw you wire her that five hundred thousand."

He lowered his eyes.

"I'll admit I didn't talk to you about that money. That was wrong of me. But her mother really was sick, she came to me for the loan, and I couldn't very well say no."

"She asks for a loan and you hand it over? Then why is it, when I ask you to marry me, you won't?"

He raised his head and looked at me, his lips moving a few times.

"Give me one more chance."

I turned, pulling the suitcase along.

"No need."

He shouted after me.

"Come back! Let's talk this through properly!"

I flagged down a cab and put my suitcase in.

He ran over, his hand braced against the car door.

"Don't go."

I looked at him for a few seconds.

"You never once said 'I love you' to me."

He froze.

"Ten years. You never once said it."

The car door shut. He was still standing at the curb, barefoot.

As the taxi pulled away, I glanced back.

He hadn't moved, his phone clenched in his hand.

The screen lit up.

I didn't look.

Three days later, I posted to my feed.

The photo was just one hand, with a diamond ring on the ring finger.

The caption: Done.

My phone buzzed thirteen times.

Amos's messages came one after another.

The last one read: "Whose ring is that?"

I didn't answer.

The call came in. I hung up.

It came again. I hung up again.

On the fifteenth one, I picked up.

"Whose ring is that?" His voice was hoarse.

"None of your business."

"You're lying. Where would you find someone? You were with me for ten years. Where would you even get someone?"

"There's a lot you don't know."

He drew a breath.

"Come back, let's talk. Forget the five hundred thousand, it's all yours. Whatever you want, I'll agree to it."

"Amos, do you remember my thirty-second birthday?"

He said nothing.

"I waited for you until eleven that night. You said you were working late. I lit a candle by myself, blew it out, and made a wish."

"What wish?"

"I wished that by this day next year, either you'd have married me, or I'd already be gone from your side."

The line went silent.

"It came true."

"You can't do this to me."

"I can."

His voice shook.

"Who is he? Do I know him?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters. I want to know who it is."

"You wouldn't know him even if you met him. He doesn't work at your company. He won't post on social media to fool me, and he won't take my money to help some other woman."

A long silence.

"Her mother was never in the hospital."

I held the phone and didn't move.

"I asked around. Her mother's perfectly fine. She just wanted to borrow money from me to buy an apartment, with her boyfriend."

"Mm."

"You already knew?"

"I guessed."

"Then why aren't you cursing me out?"

"Would it do any good?"

His voice dropped lower and lower.

"I'm coming to find you right now."

"Don't bother."

"Why?"

"I'm not in that city anymore."

Something shattered on the other end of the line.

"Where did you go?"

"Somewhere you don't know."

"Come back"

"No."

"We had ten years"

"So what? Ten years and you never figured it out, but three days and suddenly you have?"

He didn't answer.

"Amos, it's not that you don't know how to be good to someone. You just didn't want to be good to me."

"It's not like that"

"Then what is it like?"

He had no answer.

I hung up.

He called many more times after that. I didn't pick up a single one.

In the end he sent one message.

"I hope you'll be happy."

I didn't reply.

The diamond ring was a little tight on my finger. Wear it long enough and you get used to it.

After I put on the ring, Amos lost his mind.

First came a call at three in the morning.

"That post on your feed. Delete it."

I was in the middle of a face mask, pressing the corner of my mouth down.

"Why should I?"

"It's an eyesore."

"Then don't look."

He took a deep breath, like he was holding back his temper.

"What does he do? How old is he? How did you two meet?"

"We were set up on a date."

The other end went quiet for two seconds.

"Set up on a date? You went on a date three days after leaving me?"

Mm.

He let out a laugh. It was harder to hear than crying.

So you had a backup all along, didn't you? Just waiting for me to slip up so you could walk out with a clear conscience?

I peeled off my face mask.

Amos, be reasonable.

I'm not being reasonable? You got involved with someone else, and you want me to be reasonable?

His voice kept rising.

What's his name? Where does he live? I'm going to find him.

What for?

I want to talk to him.

What do you have to say to him?

I want to see what he's got that made you put on his ring in three days.

I hung up.

He called again. I blocked him.

Five minutes later, the landline in the living room rang.

My mom answered.

It's for you. Some guy. Sounds like he's about to cry.

I walked over and picked up the receiver.

What do you want?

I want to see you.

I don't want to see you.

Just tell me one thing. Is it real? Is that ring real?

It's real.

His breathing came heavy.

Do you even know him? How long have you two known each other?

I've known him for ten years.

The line went quiet.

What's that supposed to mean?

I've known him for ten years. Longer than you.

His voice shook.

You're lying to me.

I'm not. We met in college. He's liked me this whole time. I just never said yes.

Why now? Why are you saying yes now?

Because I finally figured it out. Some people are worth waiting for, and some people are just there to be missed.

He was silent for ten-odd seconds.

Amos, are you listening?

I'm here.

He hung up.

I thought that was the end of it.

At seven that evening, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and Amos was standing there with a bunch of flowers in his hand, his eyes red.

He'd lost weight. Three days, and he'd shrunk a whole size. He hadn't shaved, his shirt was rumpled, and there was a grease stain near the collar.

Are you out of your mind? How did you find this place?

Your mom told me. I begged her for half an hour.

I stood in the doorway and didn't let him in.

Go home.

I'm not going home.

He took half a step forward. Just hear me out. I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have gone to the movies with her, shouldn't have lent her the money, shouldn't have stayed at work and never come home. You were right about all of it. I just didn't appreciate you.

It's no use saying any of this now.

I know it's no use, but I have to say it.

He drew a deep breath. I love you.

I froze for a second.

What did you say?

I love you. I've never said that to anyone in my life. You're the first. Please. Don't marry someone else.

His eyes went red, and the flowers trembled in his hand.

I looked at that face of his. A few seconds.

Then I laughed.

Amos, you said it too late.

Someone came up behind me, a hand settling on my waist.

Max Dickerson had appeared behind me at some point, in his loungewear, his hair still wet, like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

He glanced at Amos and spoke, not loudly.

Who's this?

Amos stared at the hand on my waist, frozen in place like he'd been nailed there.

The color drained from his face.

The flowers dropped to the floor.

Max looked down at the bouquet, then back at Amos, his tone flat.

Oh. So you're the one.

The man who wasn't quite up to it

Max's hand was still resting on my waist.

Amos stared at that hand, his eyes rimmed red, his throat working once.

Who the hell are you?

Max didn't let go, and he didn't step back.

Max Dickerson.

I asked who the hell you are.

I told you. Max Dickerson.

Amos took a step forward. Max didn't move.

They stared at each other across the threshold, the air sinking heavy between them.

Amos turned to look at me.

You're living with him?

I said nothing.

I'm talking to you. Are you living with him or not?

Max shifted, putting himself between us.

She's done with you. Clean.

I wasn't asking you!

Amos shouted it at him, then locked his eyes on me again. Answer me.

I looked at him. Stubble, red-rimmed eyes, one shirt button done up wrong, the collar crooked.

Ten years, and I'd never seen him this wrecked.

Go home, Amos.

I'm not going home.

Then standing here won't do anything.

He pointed at Max. What gives you the right?

Max's brow flickered, but he didn't speak.

I looked at Amos. Just go. Stop making a scene.

Making a scene?

He laughed, and it was uglier than crying. Ten years with you, and you call this a scene?

He looked down at the flowers on the floor, bent, and picked them up. A few petals had broken off and lay scattered.

He held them out to me.

Take them.

I didn't.

His hand hung there in the air for a few seconds, then slowly came back down.

Max spoke. She doesn't want them. Don't push her.

Amos threw the flowers to the ground.

Petals scattered everywhere, and water splashed onto Max's slippers.

Max looked down at it. He didn't move away.

Feels good now, doesn't it? Amos asked him.

No.

You won. You're pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you?

Max looked at him. There's nothing to be pleased about.

Cut the act.

Max's voice stayed level. You think I'm the one who edged you out? You did that to yourself.

Amos's fists clenched.

I tugged Max's sleeve. Don't. Leave it.

Max stepped back and cleared the doorway.

Amos stood there, his chest heaving.

He looked at me, his eyes shot through with red.

Just answer me one thing. You and him, is it real?

It's real.

Since when?

After we broke up.

You're lying.

I'm not.

Three days after we split and you're with him? Tell me you didn't already have someone lined up.

Max spoke. She never came to me. I'm the one who came to her.

Amos stared at him.

I bought the ring. I pursued her. She didn't come looking for me.

Amos's chest heaved hard, his knuckles white.

I took a step forward. Go home, Amos. Don't come back.

And if I don't?

Then you'll only humiliate yourself more.

He stared at me, something turning over in his eyes.

I turned and walked back inside without looking back.

Max stood in the doorway and didn't close the door right away.

Amos's voice came from behind me, badly hoarse.

If you ever treat her badly, I'll kill you.

Max said nothing and shut the door.

In the moment it closed, I saw Amos still standing there, the crushed flowers clutched in his hand.

Max turned and glanced at me.

Are you okay?

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.

I'm okay.

Outside, something slammed against the wall, then footsteps, growing fainter and fainter.

Max didn't move. He stayed in the entryway, waiting for me.

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"Go put your shoes on."

He glanced down at the soaked slippers on his feet, made a small sound of agreement, and turned to change them.

I went to the window and lifted one corner of the curtain.

The street below was empty. The lamp was on, and a few petals lay on the ground, rolling a couple of turns in the wind.

Max came over in his shoes and stood beside me at the window, hands in his pockets.

"Will he come back?"

"I don't know."

I let the curtain fall and turned to get water in the kitchen.

He followed and leaned against the fridge, watching me.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come out."

"You'd have met sooner or later."

He nodded and didn't say anything else.

I took a sip of water and set the glass down.

"Do you regret it?" he asked.

"No."

"Then why are your hands shaking?"

I looked down. My fingertips really were trembling.

I curled them into a fist and pulled them back.

Max came over, took my hand, pressed his palm against my fingers, and slowly closed it around them.

"I'll cook you some pasta."

"I'm not hungry."

"Just a little."

He turned and opened the fridge for eggs, the motion easy, as if he'd lived here a long time.

In truth, he'd only moved in last night.

I sat at the table and watched him cook.

He brought the water to a boil, dropped in the pasta, cracked the eggs, added salt.

Every step unhurried.

"When you were with Amos, who cooked?"

"He never did."

Max turned the heat down and stirred the pasta with chopsticks.

"So who did?"

"I did. For ten years."

He didn't answer. He turned off the heat, lifted the pasta out, and set it in front of me.

"You won't have to anymore."

I looked down at the bowl, steam rising into my face.

Max held the chopsticks out to me. I didn't take them.

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to eat."

"I'm serious."

He laid the chopsticks across the rim of the bowl. "Eat this, and I'll tell you."

I picked them up and took a bite. It was bland. He'd been light on the salt.

"All these years, I've wanted you to finally see who really cares about you," he said.

I chewed without looking up, my eyes stinging a little.

The doorbell rang again.

The chopsticks stopped midair. Max glanced at me, then went to the door.

I looked through the peephole. Amos was back, no flowers this time, dust on his clothes, his eyes still red.

Max opened the door but didn't let him in.

"You're still here?"

"I need to say one thing to her."

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

Amos tilted his head and looked past him into the apartment. "You come out, and I'll say just one thing."

I went to the door and stood behind Max.

"Say it."

Amos's voice was dry. "That five hundred thousandI've wired it back."

I said nothing.

"I kept your account number. That fifty cents you sent me, I've paid it back too. I wired you five million."

Max turned his head and looked at me.

"Are you out of your mind?" I said.

"I'm not. I'm just telling you I don't owe you anything."

"Whether you owe me has nothing to do with money."

A vein jumped in Amos's neck. "Then tell me. What does he have that I don't?"