Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 10

JACK

For a man who desperately does not want to fall back in love with Stella Partridge, I sure am doing some dumb things.

“So let me get this straight,” Benny says later that night. We’re at Patsy’s, a dimly lit bar, though neither of us really drink—Benny because he’s a health nut and me because I spend more of my time on call than not. But it’s our traditional meet-up spot, and right now, I need someone to talk some sense into me.

Benny sets his drink down on the gleaming bar and looks over at me. “Nat Flindowski is coming to this reunion, so you asked Stella to pretend to be your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” I say glumly. I can’t even meet his eye; I’m too ashamed. I look at my drink instead, swirling the straw.

He shakes his head and turns his body toward me. “You said you weren’t obsessed with her, you idiot.”

“It was like I blacked out,” I say, slumping lower on my stool. A new song comes on, louder than the last, so I raise my voice. “One second I was asking her about her architecture job, and the next thing I knew I was promising to help her house-sit. I don’t even know how it happened.” At least I had the sense to check how she would feel around alcohol, knowing that she’s in recovery.

“I’m sure it was your fault,” Benny says.

“Undoubtedly.”

He sighs and runs one hand through his hair, then tosses back the rest of his drink like it’s a cold beer instead of ginger ale with no ice. “And you don’t want to just…like her?”

“Absolutely not,” I say in a clipped voice, one that tells him I don’t want to explain further. To his credit, he rolls with it.

“Then you need a plan, man,” he says when he puts his empty glass back down. “Get it together. She’s just a woman.”

He’s right; she is just a woman, and I do need a plan.

I need a plan so that she can remain just a woman.

“All right,” I say, straightening up and nodding. “Here it is: avoid her when I can, don’t look at her when I can’t. Minimal interaction.”

Benny nods too. “No checking her out,” he warns. “Because she’s still hot.”

“No, she isn’t,” I lie, mostly to convince myself it’s true. When Benny shoots me a skeptical look, I deflate. “I guess…maybe a little.” My words are reluctant, pulled from my mouth against my will.

And the music is too loud for me to hear Benny’s snort of laughter, but I see it, and I bristle.

“Cut it out,” I say. “It doesn’t matter.” My hand tightens around my drink. “Nothing is going to happen. I don’t have feelings for her, and none will develop in the future, either.”

You want to smell her hair, you weirdo, a little voice in my mind whispers. You still remember the scent of the perfume she wore in high school. What do you call that?

Attraction. That’s what that is: pure attraction, residual only, and fading by the day.

“Fine,” Benny says with a shrug. “Then get your head on straight. She did a number on you back then. You wouldn’t even talk about her. Are you going to let her waltz back into your life and turn it upside down?”

“No,” I grit out.

“Are you a slave to her whims?”

“ No ,” I say again, louder now.

Benny points at me and nods. “You are a strong, independent man who doesn’t need a woman to complete him.”

“That’s right,” I say, thumping my hand on the bar.

“A lone wolf.”

“A lone wolf,” I repeat.

“Stella Partridge is nothing more than an irrelevant figure from your past,” Benny goes on.

“That’s r—” I begin vehemently, but I break off, frowning. “No. That’s not right. I mean—I wouldn’t call her irrelevant. I just don’t want to fall for her.”

Benny shrugs. “Sorry. Just trying to pump you up.”

I nod and clap him on the back. “You did good. I feel better.” I pause and then go on, “But you know you’re coming to this stupid get-together with me, right?”

“Fine,” Benny grunts. “But I’m not going to pretend to date you?—”

“Shut up,” I say, and he laughs.

We finish up and then head out. Several minutes after Benny has left, though, I’m still standing beneath the street lamp in the parking lot, looking up at the snow falling in thick flurries.

I just like snow—I always have. I like how quiet it is, how silent the world becomes; it’s a respite after a chaotic day, a stillness that grounds me and helps me breathe more deeply. I watch for a while, alone in my own little world, thoughts of Stella and Maude and my parents and the rings all swirling in my head like the falling snow.

This whole week has been a mistake. I’d forgotten how potent the Stella Effect is, the way she pulls me in without even trying—the way she turns her snobby little nose up so that I’m dying to take her down a few notches, but also the defiant vulnerability that appears when she’s trying to do better, be better. She looks at me with those doe eyes and just dares me to tease her, to push her buttons, and I fall for it every time.

But no more; no longer.

I trudge to my car and get in, not bothering to brush the snow off my clothes or out of my hair. I’m just starting the engine when my phone pings, despite the late hour, and despite not being on call; I frown and pull it out of my coat pocket.

It’s Stella. She’s Princess in my phone now, and she’s sent me a photo with a message. I open the picture to find a view very similar to the one I was just looking at: a gray sky, low-hanging clouds, and snow, visible by the light of a street lamp.

The message is only seven words.

Princess

Another peace offering, because you like snow

That’s…strangely kind.

Or so I think, until another message comes through.

Princess

It’s the same temperature as your heart

That’s more like it.

I don’t let myself smile. I don’t even let myself respond. I just put my phone back in my coat pocket.

But as much as I try to deny it to myself, the corners of my lips twitch.

The next day ticks by with no word from Stella, and I find myself wavering in my plans. Christmas is in eight days; Maude returns in seven from her tropical vacation. Stella asked me not to take the stolen rings while she’s house-sitting, but…when else will I be able to? It’s going to be a lot harder to get my mother’s rings when Maude is around.

So finally, two days after our encounter at her parents’ market, I text the woman I’m absolutely not going to fall in love with. Asking permission to come to my stepmother’s house would set a bad precedent, so I don’t; I inform her instead.

Me

I’m coming over tonight to look for the rings.

Princess

Excellent

You can help me put up Christmas lights

And also you can feed the birds because I really think they’re plotting against me

I can FEEL it

Me

I’m not going to do all the things you’re getting paid to do.

Princess

I’m not asking you to! Please just feed the birds

They freak me out.

And help me with the lights because you’re tall

Me

Fine.

I’ll be there around nine.

Did Lucretia text you about the reunion? It’s this weekend. You’re coming.

Princess

I already said I would

I’ll be your arm candy

But it makes me grouchy to think about, so let’s talk about it later

I snort and shake my head, putting my phone away and then leaning back on my couch—because it’s eight in the morning, but I’m still tired.

In truth, thinking about this reunion makes me grouchy, too. But I feel better knowing that Stella is coming. Nat was no joke back then, and on the off chance she hasn’t changed, I don’t want to deal with her on my own. For all I know she’s married with five kids by now, but just in case…

I shudder. It will be uncomfortable pretending to be lovey dovey with Stella—especially so soon after reconnecting—but it will be worth it if I can avoid?—

My thoughts come to a halt, though, when my phone rings. I pull it out and blink in surprise when I see that it’s Stella.

“What?” I say by way of greeting.

“I was just thinking,” she says conversationally. “You know it’s completely conceited to think that Nat Flindowski is still going to be interested in you a billion years later. Right?”

“I know,” I say.

“Because you’re not all that and a bag of chips.”

“I may not be all that ,” I acknowledge, “but I like to think I’m at least a bag of chips.”

A snort of laughter trails down the line. “You have a giant sign stamped across your forehead that reads LEAVE ME ALONE. ”

“You might be surprised,” I say, my voice musing. “Have you ever considered I’m just like that to you? ” It’s not entirely true. I’m not a warm or welcoming guy, and people generally do steer clear of me. But I’m not overtly unpleasant, either.

I don’t think so, anyway—am I?

I’ll have to ask Benny. Or my therapist.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Stella says. “Because you always were—” But she breaks off, and I know why. Talking about the past is awkward, ill-fitting, like trying to put on a jacket you wore years ago and discovering it’s no longer comfortable.

All the same…

“We should probably talk about what happened between us at some point,” Stella says, surprising me as she plucks the idea right from my mind.

“Yeah,” I say, exhaling. “Later. Not now.” Because I need to prepare myself for that conversation—prepare what I want to say, and more importantly, what I want to reveal.

I don’t want Stella to know I had feelings for her. She doesn’t need to know that, and it’s not relevant to us now. But there’s no point in holding on to a years-old grudge, either. I’m not angry anymore—just a little jaded and a lot wary.

“Fine,” she says, her voice light. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”

“Fine,” I say too. “Later.”

I hang up without waiting for her response, my heart thudding loudly in my ears as my thoughts swirl. It’s weird to have my phone ring and see Stella’s contact pop up—weird that we have access to each other like that.

It’s been a long, long time.

Just resist the Stella Effect when you see her tonight, I tell myself as a spike of anxiety hits me. And whatever you do, don’t let her find out about the phone call.

Easy. Easy peasy. I heave myself off the couch and grab my keys and don’t let myself think about it anymore.

Work is busy enough that I don’t have time to dwell on anything but the patients anyway. There’s a certain level of chaos innate to what I do, and I don’t mind it as long as I have peace and quiet in other areas of my life. I used to have nothing but peace and quiet; somehow Stella has changed that.

When the end of my shift rolls around that evening, I head out on tired feet and trudge to my car. I call Stella once I’m on the road.

“Hi,” she answers after several rings. Her voice sounds odd, strained and high-pitched.

“Hi,” I say slowly, my brow furrowing. “You…sound weird.”

“Do I?” she says. “I’m fine—everything is fine. But you know, actually, maybe you shouldn’t come over tonight. Just come by tomorrow. I’m probably—” She breaks off as a scraping sound filters down the line, and then she’s back. “Sorry!” She’s out of breath now, and my frown deepens. “Everything is good here,” she says, the words rushing out of her, “so just come by tomorrow, okay? Bye!”

The line goes dead, and immediately I press on the gas a little harder. Because something is obviously wrong with her, or wrong with the house, maybe, and she doesn’t want me to see—which means I probably should.

It’s maybe nothing. But…it’s also maybe something. My body, exhausted before, suddenly feels like it’s been hit with a jolt of electricity, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel.

She’s an even worse liar now than she was when we were kids; how is that possible? And why did she sound like she was in physical distress?

I arrive at Maude’s mansion in the foothills much faster than I should, technically speaking, and while my dignity would prefer for me to walk up the driveway to the door, I sprint across the lawn instead. I grab the door handle only to realize I don’t have the key code, and it won’t open without. I swear loudly.

“Stella,” I call, pounding on the door. I ring the bell a few times; I can hear it chiming throughout the house inside, but Stella doesn’t answer.

Crap. I’m going to have to go around the back and through that stupid window.

I hurry around the house—not a quick journey, given the snow and the size of the home—and emerge on the back lawn. I jump the fence like I’m a rebellious teenager again, turning my head this way and that, craning my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse inside the windows?—

Until my eyes catch upon the string of lights pooled at the base of a tree in the backyard, strands of starlight in a pile. My gaze goes up, up, up the trunk of the tree, until it finds a foot sticking out from the sharp, craggy branches, then a leg, and then?—

Relief crashes over me as my eyes find Stella, ten feet up, perched precariously on a tree branch, hair tangled around her.

This girl.

A grin splits over my face as I saunter over to the base of the tree, looking up. The mass of Christmas lights at my feet are the only source of illumination, but they’re bright enough and she’s low down enough that I can see her all right. “Well, well, well,” I say. “If it isn’t?—”

“Don’t you dare,” she calls down furiously.

“—a Partridge in a pear tree.”

“This is not a pear tree,” she says, shuffling her feet. “And I’m not stuck.”

“Didn’t say you were,” I say, folding my arms. I raise one eyebrow at her. “But now that you mention it… ”

“I’m not,” she snaps. “I’m only—my hair got caught. So I’m untangling it. That’s all.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say as something bizarrely like laughter tries to bubble up in my chest. “How’s that going for you?”

“It’s going fine,” she says, “if you would just stop distracting me—” But she breaks off with a yelp as her foot slips, and she falls, almost in slow motion?—

Down, down, down, crashing to the ground below.