Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 14

STELLA

“This feels unnecessary,” I mutter while I try to zip myself into my dress. “Going all the way to Boulder? What’s wrong with renting out the back room of Patsy’s or something?”

But of course, that wouldn’t be very Windsor-like.

My dress, on the other hand, is very Windsor-like—something I’m not sure I’m proud of. It’s red velvet, with a square neck and long sleeves. The tight bodice flares out into a flouncy skirt that hits a few inches above my knees, and I put on a pair of short biker shorts underneath just in case the wind gets rowdy. I’m not here to flash anyone.

When I finally get the zipper up—it’s been a few years—I smooth my hands down the front and examine myself in the mirror. My legs are a little paler now than they are in the summer, but they’ve still got a bit of their golden glow. I look nice, I guess.

But mostly I just feel dumb. And anxious. And possibly straight-up scared .

I should not care what my old classmates think. I really really should not care. And I keep telling myself, over and over like a mantra, that I don’t.

But I’m not convinced.

To distract myself, I get to work on my hair. It’s clean now, thank goodness, and the staples are almost unnoticeable, but it still takes me a good twenty minutes to figure out what to do. I finally settle on loose waves, a tried-and-true style.

A knock sounds at the sliding door in my little living room just as I’m clasping my necklace; I hurry over, pulling the curtains aside and then opening the door.

“Hi,” I say. My voice is breathless from both the nerves I’m feeling and my last minute bustling around. “I’m almost—” But I break off when I see Jack, my words dying as I look at him.

“ You look spiffy,” I say finally. It doesn’t come out like a compliment; it sounds more like an accusation.

And he hears it; he gives a snort and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, well, you look unnecessarily hot too,” he says, his voice annoyed. He jerks his chin at me as his eyes trail slowly down my body. “Do you need to be showing that much leg?”

“Look at your shoulders,” I counter, pressing lightly on one of his biceps. “That sweater is way too tight—hey.” I frown as he swats my hand away, still looking annoyed.

“We match,” he says finally after a second of awkward, irritable silence.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice faint. His red sweater—a perfect fit—is the same color as my dress, and a white collar peeks out from underneath. He looks like a holly jolly hottie, which is not great for my clarity of mind .

You do not find this man attractive, I tell myself firmly.

“Get your shoes and let’s go,” Jack says, his jaw ticking as his gaze darts back to me and then away again.

I nod and grab my shoes from the floor by the door, a pair of gorgeous red heels I bought when I was still on that big-city salary. They’re the perfect holiday shoe, closed-toe with an ankle strap that ties into a bow.

“Good grief,” I hear Jack mutter under his breath as I tie the bows; when I look at him, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Do you want me to go barefoot?” I say, snappish now. “You’re in a mood . Cut it out.”

“Sorry,” he says. The word gusts out of him, and even though he rubs his hand down his face, his voice is less irritated when he repeats, “Sorry. I’m better. This is fine. I’m fine.” Then he clears his throat. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I say, standing up straight again. Then, because I feel like I probably should, I add, “Sorry. I’m fine too. Just—stressed.”

“We don’t have to stay late,” he says, sounding resigned now. “Let’s give it a couple hours and then split.”

“That sounds good,” I say as relief trickles through me. I can do anything for two hours, including go to Christmas parties I’d rather not attend with old friends who are disconcertingly appealing.

So what? He’s an intelligent, confident man who makes me want to laugh and pull my hair out simultaneously. It’s not like I’ve never met one of those before. It’s not like I’ve never met someone who seems determined to take care of me?—

YOU ARE BEING STUPID, I scream at myself. He’s not determined to take care of you. He just isn’t going to let you die from a gaping head wound. There’s a difference.

“Get it together,” I mutter, patting my cheeks sharply. I’ve never had feelings for Jack before; I’m certainly not going to start now. I grab my little red purse—a clutch, really—and nod. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“I never thought I would want to have my arm wrapped around yours,” I say under my breath, “and yet here I am, hanging on for dear life.”

Next to me Jack nods, looking grim as we enter the decked-out room we were just guided to by a bunch of fancy WINDSOR REUNION signs. It’s not as large as a ballroom, but it’s still decently spacious; there’s a giant Christmas tree in one corner, and along the back wall is a long table full of delicious-looking food and drinks, with smaller tables throughout the room.

I feel like I’ve just showed up at a ritzy office Christmas party.

“You know it’s stupid, don’t you, that we’re both here where we don’t want to be, just because you said you would come,” I go on, keeping my voice low. “They don’t need you here. It’s not like you promised to be the doctor on call or something.”

Jack stops, and I stop with him. When I glance over, he’s already looking at me, his expression serious.

“Do you feel safe?”

I just stare at him, because the way he’s looking at me feels significant—like he’s trying to ask me something with his eyes only.

“I feel safe,” I say blankly. “Should I…not?”

He glances around, at the large table of champagne glasses, at the food table in the back. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s your call.”

I…do not know what he’s talking about right now.

“I feel safe,” I say again, my voice bemused.

He shrugs. “Okay,” he says. “In that case, two hours, okay? Suck it up for that long.”

“Fine,” I say. I pause and then add, “So we’ve been together for six months? That’s the story?”

“Yes,” Jack says, “so pretend you like me, please, at very least if anyone looks too interested. I’ll do the same for you.”

I snort. “No one is going to be interested in me.”

Jack sighs, turning his head toward me, and when he speaks, it’s little more than a breath in my ear. “They’ll be interested, Princess,” he says. “Trust me.”

A shiver tickles down my spine, goosebumps spreading over my skin; I’m suddenly extra grateful for my long sleeves. I crane my neck around to hide my sudden jitters; there’s mistletoe hanging from all the doorframes, I notice, and spangled streamers reflect the candlelight glowing from the center of each table.

This whole shindig is kind of…romantic. My stomach turns.

And it turns even further when I think about what I’ve just said. Because the truth is, I’m just telling myself what I want to hear. I want no one to be interested. I want to fly under the radar. But I was well-liked at Windsor. Mine wasn’t a story of a girl who tried to fit in, failed, and learned that she was happier being true to herself. Mine was the story of a girl who tried to fit in, succeeded, and carried on .

It’s presumptuous, maybe, to assume the people here will have any expectations for me at all. But what if they do?

And why am I willing to risk these embarrassments just to help an old friend out?

“So,” that old friend says as we stroll into the room, hopefully not looking as awkward as we feel. “What are you going to tell people?”

“About what?” I say. I’m stalling—although there is a lot to be distracted by here, the mood lighting and mistletoe and glittering decor.

“About you,” Jack says, and I look back at him. “About your life, your job, whatever.”

I clear my throat as temptation dances on the tip of my tongue. What am I going to tell people, if they ask? Will I let them make assumptions and do nothing to correct them? Will I lie? Will I admit what my life has become?

Will I be ashamed of something I don’t need to be ashamed about?

“The truth,” I finally say. I straighten up, pulling my shoulders back. “I’ll tell them the truth—that I’m working at my parents’ market.”

And for a quick second, I could swear I see a gleam of something like approval in Jack’s eyes, or maybe pride—but the next minute it’s gone, and I’m sure I’ve imagined it.

“You sure?” he says, keeping his voice low. He raises one brow at me, a challenge.

“I can’t lie to everyone,” I say. It takes me a second to realize that I’ve tightened my grip on his arm, and I let my grip loosen a bit.

“We’re lying about being in a relationship,” he points out.

“It’s different.” Don’t ask me why. “So…ye ah. I’m sure.”

“They might ask questions,” he prods.

“Or they might not be interested enough in one person to delve that deep,” I say.

“That’s possible too.”

“I’ll just divert attention to my successful, handsome boyfriend.”

Jack’s body freezes, his steps stuttering to a halt for no more than a second before he starts moving again.

“Never thought I’d hear you call me that,” he murmurs. “But I didn’t hate it. See if you have any more compliments floating around somewhere, Princess.”

“Cut it out,” I say, but a smile tugs at my lips. “You know you’re attractive.”

“And successful.”

My smile tries harder to break free. “That too.”

“Ah—we’ve been spotted.”

And we have—by Sophronia and Lucretia Willstead, both wearing silver mini dresses in differing styles. Sophronia sees us first; she nudges Lucretia and then hurries toward us.

“Here comes Lucretia,” Jack says under his breath.

“That’s Sophronia,” I reply through the bright smile I’ve just fixed on my face. “Lucretia is in the sleeveless dress. Hi, Sophronia,” I go on, more loudly now.

“You came!” Sophronia says, beaming at us. She’s not subtle, and neither is Lucretia; her surprise at our linked arms plays clearly over her face, as it does her sister’s when she joins us. “You guys are?—”

“Together?” Lucretia breaks in, her gaze sparkling with interest. “Is that what we’re seeing here?” Then a frown puckers her forehead. “You didn’t act like a couple the other day. ”

“We didn’t,” I agree. “We were having a fight. Jack has been contemplating a life of crime, and I was mad at him.”

Next to me, Jack coughs, suddenly spluttering as he chokes on nothing but air. But the twins laugh, and I find myself laughing too—more genuinely when Jack glares at me.

“Just kidding, of course,” I say, patting his arm.

“Well, I guess I’m not surprised,” Lucretia says with a sly smile. “Back at Windsor you were always staring at him when you thought no one was watching.”

In my peripheral vision I see Jack’s head whip toward me, but I just clear my throat and try not to think about the fact that my face is probably turning the same red as my dress. “Was I?” I say, and my voice comes out high pitched and nervous. “I don’t remember that.”

It’s true. I don’t remember doing that. But I guess it’s possible. I missed him back then; I missed having him around.

“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Jack cuts in, looking back at the twins. “She thought I was devastatingly handsome, but she figured I was way out of her league.”

“He really was,” I say with feeling. He was self-assured, strong—he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. And I was a coward; I treated him like garbage.

He was out of my league in every way.

Still is, for that matter.

“This place looks amazing,” I say, because I desperately need a change of topic. “Did you guys do all this yourselves?”

“Oh, no,” Sophronia says, waving the questions away. “We hired someone to come do it. ”

They hired someone to decorate for a school reunion—spent actual money on it. Amazing.

“But it looks great, right?” Lucretia says. “The food is yummy too, and there are some gluten free options and some light options over on that side of the table”—she gestures to the right end of the table—“if you’re looking for those!”

I am not looking for anything of the sort, but I nod all the same. “Thanks, Lu,” I say. It slips out of my mouth, the name, but Lucretia’s smile softens.

“It’s really good to see you,” she says. “We mean it.” Sophronia nods enthusiastically, and I swallow.

“It’s good to see you guys too,” I say. Then, because I’m suddenly strangely emotional, I nudge Jack. “Let’s go get some food.”

We wave at the twins, who flit off with ease to mingle with other people just arriving. Then we amble our matching behinds over to the food table, arms still linked, neither of us speaking.

“Out of your league, huh?” Jack finally says as we arrive at the stretch of food. “I was joking, but you sounded like you meant it.”

“I did mean it,” I say, eyeing the options as I tuck my clutch under my arm. These are less finger foods and more hors d’oeuvres —no pig-in-a-blanket or ants-on-a-log here. I would have been right at home back in high school, excited to be surrounded by such class.

But now?

Now I could really go for some mozzarella sticks.

I spot what I’m pretty sure is asparagus wrapped in some sort of meat, maybe prosciutto, so I put a couple of those on my plate; there are figs, too, with some sort of unidentifiable spread. I grab a few more dishes that look safe and pile them on next to the asparagus, then look at Jack. “Are you getting anything?”

But he doesn’t answer. He’s staring at me, his features illuminated by the flickering candles lining the back of the food table.

Once again—this is weirdly romantic for a Christmas party.

“Jack?” I wave my plate at him. “Food?”

When he responds, though, he doesn’t even acknowledge the food table. “I’ve never been out of your league, Princess,” he says, his voice gruff.

My answering smile is sad. “Haven’t you, though?” I glance around the room, at the glitz and the glamour. “I ditched you for all of this. That’s what happened, Jack, and we both know it.” I didn’t plan to have this conversation here—over a table of fancy appetizers—but now that it’s come up, I barrel forward. “You were my best friend, and I cared more about what people thought of me than I cared about being a good person.”

Jack moves closer, his steps easy, his expression curious. “I deserved better, maybe, but…” His eyes reflect the candlelight as they dart over my face. “That’s not the same thing as being ‘out of your league.’”

Is it not? It sort of feels like it is the same thing. But I just shrug.

“It doesn’t matter now,” I say.

“It might matter now,” he murmurs, his voice musing, so quiet I almost miss it—and I blink in surprise.

“What?” I say.

He freezes, his eyes widening slightly. Then he shakes his head, looking frustrated and bemused. He flicks himself in the forehead and then proceeds to grab a plate—the one in my hand.

“I’ll take that,” he says, stepping smartly away again. “Thanks.”

My jaw drops, and then I scowl. “I hope that asparagus makes your pee stink for a week,” I say.

“That smell,” he says, “is due to the body breaking down asparagusic acid into its sulfuric byproducts.”

I wave my hand airily. “Don’t make up words.”

He snorts and grabs a few puff pastry creations, popping one in his mouth. “Get yourself some food, Princess. Don’t just stand there.”

With a roll of my eyes and lips trying to smile, I grab another plate.