Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 16

JACK

I don’t get in the car when I reach the parking lot. I don’t even stand by the car. I just pace, back and forth, back and forth, resisting the urge to tear all my hair out.

I need my hair. I can’t tear it out. But I’m tempted. I end up wringing my hands instead and wondering vaguely if my therapist would answer if I called.

“Get it together,” I mutter—yes, talking to myself again, but there’s no one around to hear me now. “It’s just a kiss. Nothing more than a small setback.”

A setback in what , I’m not sure. Fat snowflakes fall from the low-hanging clouds, taunting me with their peace, drifting lazily in the wind as my thoughts whirl, dozens of tornadoes confined in my skull.

What finally emerges in the forefront of my mind as the top priority is damage assessment, followed by damage control .

I need to know what Stella is thinking and feeling; I need to know what this has done to our barely-there friendship.

What do you want it to do?

“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth. “Nothing.” I brush my hands over my head, feeling my hair gradually accumulate more snow.

It’s not as soft as Stella’s was.

Stop it!

“Jack.”

I whirl around to find her there—my name isn’t a question from her but a quiet announcement that she’s arrived. And even though every instinct in my body is telling me to go to her, to demand to know her thoughts and feelings, I stay where I am. I wait.

Because I know she’ll have something to say. She always does—and more than that, I can see it on her face. The lamp in the parking lot illuminates her features enough that I can see the tension, see her mind working.

She takes a small step forward in those blasted red heels, and I catch sight of what might be biking shorts as a sudden gust of air takes hold of her skirt. She smooths it down and then straightens up, her eyes on me.

Her words, when they finally come, are so faint that they die on the wind, silent by the time they reach me. I raise my brows, a request for her to repeat herself.

“How could you do that?” she says, louder now. The accusation emerges in a puff of breath that swirls away into the night, and I find myself wondering what that cloud would look like if she spoke different words.

If she told me she loved me and then told me she hated me, would those puffs of breath look the same? Could such radically different sentiments create the same haze from her lips?

It doesn’t seem possible—but I’m not sure I’ll ever find out.

“How could I…what?” I say to her. I don’t mean for my voice to sound so mocking, but I’m struggling.

Her already flushed cheeks bloom pinker. “You kissed me,” she says as her gaze darts away.

“ I kissed you? That was mutual,” I say severely. No way is she putting this all on me. “We discussed it beforehand?—”

“We never discussed kissing like that,” she says, her eyes flashing as they return to me.

I bury my hands in my pockets and stroll closer. “Maybe not,” I admit, my shoulders falling. “But did you tell me to stop? Did you push me away?”

“I—” She falters, and I nod.

“You didn’t,” I say. “In fact, you kissed me back.”

Her jaw drops, her expression outraged. “I wouldn’t say I kissed you back ? — ”

“Your hands were in my hair, Princess,” I say with a snort, cutting her off.

And there’s that twitch in her jaw as her mouth snaps shut, the twitch that tells me she’s about to spit out a lie. I wait for it, trying not to remember how that felt—her hands in my hair, fingers twisting, curling.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” she finally says, and it’s so ridiculous that I almost laugh out loud.

“Really?” I say. I take another step toward her, my feet crunching over the snow until I’m close enough that I could kiss her again. Then, forcing myself not to hesitate, I lift my hands and slide them into her hair, careful not to touch the cut she got falling out of Maude’s tree. “This doesn’t mean anything?” My voice is soft, but I can hear the challenge in my words.

Stella stares up at me, her eyes wide and cautious and so, so beautiful.

“Let me ask you something,” she says.

A jitter of wariness shakes me, but I nod, savoring the feeling of her warmth, her silky hair.

Her gaze sharpens on me. “Was the phone call you?”

And my heart sinks as a battle emerges suddenly and violently in my mind.

Tell her, or don’t. Open that Pandora’s box—full of possibility, yes, but also endless uncertainty—or leave it safely, securely closed.

Because if I tell her, she’ll know. She’ll know that as recently as two years ago, there was a part of me that couldn’t forget her, couldn’t let go of her.

My voice breaks as it leaves me. “No,” I say, shutting that box in my mind. “It wasn’t me. Stop asking.”

Her eyes dart over my face, and—am I imagining things?—she almost looks disappointed. But then she nods, and something changes in her expression. “The kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.” She clears her throat and wraps her grip around my wrists, gently removing my hands from where they’re still cradling her head. “We can pretend this never happened.”

I nod slowly, letting my hands fall away from her and stepping back. “Yes.” My voice is calm, controlled, but there’s a strange, painful throbbing sensation behind my solar plexus. “I think that would be best.”

She nods too. “Because I seem to recall you saying that you wouldn’t ever kiss me.”

Crap .

“In fact,” she goes on, tilting her head. “I think you said you wouldn’t even be tempted.”

“You said the same thing,” I say. It’s the only defense I have.

“It seems like we both got a little carried away,” she says, and her cheeks are pinker than ever now. “So let’s just agree that it was a fluke and forget about it. Deal?”

She holds her hand out for me to shake, and for a second I stare at it, hesitating.

But it’s just a handshake. There’s nothing dangerous about it. So I slip my hand around hers, shake once, and then let go again.

Can’t be too careful when it comes to the Stella Effect.

We get in the car without another word, and the drive back to Lucky is quiet, too. It’s only when we reach Stella’s parents’ place that she turns to look at me.

“I talked to Nat Flindowski after you left the building,” she says, and I blink in surprise.

“Did you?”

“Yes.” A little smirk tugs at her lips, and for a second, she looks almost normal—like we didn’t just make out in public. “She tried to talk to you because she wanted to apologize for how she behaved in high school. She’s married now. No kids, but they’re going to start trying in the new year.”

Aaaand I thought I couldn’t feel any dumber after kissing Stella like that, but I’ve just been proven wrong.

“Good for her,” I say heavily. I give Stella a brief wave when she gets out of the car, still grinning, and she returns it before hurrying around the house and out of sight.

Then, even though it wasn’t originally on the agenda for tonight, I make my way to Maude Ellery’s. There’s chaos inhabiting my body like a demon wearing my skin, anxiety at the thought of the kiss—how much I liked it, how much I wanted to do it again. I need something I can focus on, something to accomplish, something I can control.

So I’m going to find those rings, even if I have to search all night.

My therapist’s name is Barb, and she has had just about enough of my nonsense.

“I’m not sure I understand,” she says the next morning when she calls me back.

I threw in the towel and left her a message about two hours ago, but I’m regretting it. I think I’ve finally got my head on straight, and talking about the kiss is something I don’t want to do now.

“Never mind,” I say, my voice tired—because yes, I did stay at Maude’s house for several hours last night, after which I lay awake in bed for several hours longer. It’s a good thing I’m not on call today.

“You called me,” Dr. Barb insists. Her voice is warm but professional, businesslike but personable. “So let’s talk. You kissed someone. Where’s the problem?”

“The problem ,” I say, “is that it was the girl from high school.” I sandwich my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I open the fridge, looking for something to eat. There are several bell peppers that need to be used, so I pull them out.

“Ah,” Dr. Barb says, comprehension coloring her voice. “The one you’re not in love with.”

“I’m not,” I say as I push down the rising emotion in my chest. And it’s true; I’m not in love with Stella. Am I attracted to her? Yes. Are there maybe some residual, nostalgic emotions? Yes. But I’m not in love with her.

“I see,” she says, like she can hear everything I’m not saying. She pauses and then goes on, “Well, how is this woman now? She showed reluctance to be close to you in high school, which really hurt you, correct? Is she still the same?”

“I—” I swallow. “No. She seems to have changed.”

Dr. Barb hums, sounding interested. “And was the kiss consensual?”

“Yes,” I admit, setting the peppers on the counter and pulling out my cutting board, “but that doesn’t make it any better.”

She goes on as though I haven’t spoken. “Did you both enjoy it?”

Into my mind flashes memories of Stella’s lips on mine, the way her arms wrapped around me. “I—maybe.”

“Then where’s the issue?” Her voice is gentle now. “I think this could be good for you, Jack. I know you think you don’t have feelings for this woman?—”

“I don’t?—”

“And how you want to feel is just as valid as how you do feel?—”

“Nobody has feelings for someone they haven’t seen in years!” I say, the words exploding out of me. “The last time I saw her was at the prom in high school. It was just a stupid crush then—there’s no way I still have feelings for her.”

“Maybe; maybe not,” Dr. Barb says, musing. “But all the things you liked about her are probably still there, to some degree. Yes?”

I grunt but don’t answer, forcing myself not to think about her smile, or the way she helped her elderly neighbor, or the way she looked Lucretia and Sophronia right in the eye and told them she was working at her parents’ market instead of some fancy architecture firm.

She still has some of the qualities I liked—but now she has qualities that she was lacking in high school, too. She no longer seems desperate to make a good impression or be universally adored.

But it doesn’t matter. She could have the best personality in the world, and I still wouldn’t fall for her again.

“Do you think your resistance to any romantic feelings comes from your desire to be in control of your life?” Dr. Barb says, interrupting my thoughts. “Or your fear of being abandoned?”

“This was a bad idea,” I mutter, and she laughs.

“Just think about it,” she says. “You know this about yourself, Jack. You have a deep-seated desire to control your life and your circumstances. You also worry about allowing people into your life because you don’t want to lose them the way you lost your mother and then, emotionally, your father.”

I don’t answer, but she doesn’t need me to.

“You’re under no obligation to love this woman or marry her or even so much as take her on a date,” Dr. Barb continues. “But if she could make you happy and you think you’d be a good fit, it would be a shame to miss out on that relationship.”

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be in control of my life,” I say.

“Of course there isn’t,” she says. “We need to be in control of certain things. But other things don’t need to be controlled. You need to look deep inside and ask yourself if your feelings for this woman are something that need to be controlled or not, and you need to be honest with yourself.”

Yeah, this was a bad idea. Dr. Barb knows me better than I know myself. Why would I want to talk to someone like that?

Oh—right. Because sometimes I’m a real mess.

She’s wrong about this, though.

“All right,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll think about it.”

“Will you?” she says, and I can picture the exact expression on her face—one penciled brow raised over kind eyes, a little smile on her lips.

I clear my throat. “I will,” I say. “Eventually.”

She laughs. “You’re accountable to yourself, not to me,” she says. “But I think this could be a productive path for you to take. Give it some thought.”

I thank her, even though I dislike most of what she said, and then we hang up. One thing I’ve learned, unfortunately, is that when I dislike what Dr. Barb says, it’s usually because she’s right, and I’m in denial.

The thought makes me uncomfortable, so I set it aside for later examination, taking this time to ground myself in the present instead.

The bell peppers on my cutting board are crisp and colorful even though we’re in the dead of winter; I cut them slowly and throw out the seeds, then load them all into a bowl and drizzle a bit of ranch dressing.

I’m not always the most mature man in the world, but part of growing up for me was discovering that I feel better when I eat healthier. I’m nothing like Benny, but I try to incorporate more vegetables and fresh foods into my diet—veggies and eggs and fewer processed foods, along with lots of water .

It’s a start, anyway.

I make myself do my dishes when I’m done eating, and then I return to my couch, feeling unusually lazy. I guess I could go for a run or something, but…I let my eyes drift shut instead.

I’m asleep in no time.

STELLA || FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

I should be having the time of my life right now.

Prom is something I’ve been dreaming about for months—years, even. Food and dancing and music; a beautiful dress, beautiful hair, surrounded by friends.

My dress is beautiful. It’s black, floor-length, classic, with a halter top and a low back. It’s the end of junior year so I finally have some curves, and my dress hugs them all the way down until it hits my knees, where it flares out. My hair is pulled into an elaborate updo, and although my shoes are secondhand, I’m confident no one can tell or even see them well enough to wonder.

There’s a little tiara on my head because I’ve been crowned Junior Queen; my friends and I are laughing and dancing in the hotel ballroom where Windsor holds the prom every year, the lights low overhead, the music loud, the air buzzing with excitement.

I should be having a blast. But all I can think about is a conversation I had with Jack three years ago, the summer before I started at Windsor.

“What about the dances at Windsor? Are they fancier?” I asked with stars in my eyes .

Jack snorted and threw an acorn at the bird feeder in his parents’ backyard. “Dances are stupid, even at Windsor. Are you really gonna go to that stuff?”

“Of course!” My voice bubbled with excitement as I leaned away from the tree trunk we were both propped against. “It will be fun!”

“Well, if you go, I’ll go too,” Jack said grudgingly. “Save me your first dance at prom.”

“Deal,” I said, and I smiled.

I shake my head now and take a deep breath, trying desperately to get rid of the knot in my throat. It doesn’t matter that we said those things; we were closer then, and younger, and we didn’t know that things would change.

But as much as I tell myself this, my heart isn’t convinced; it still weighs me down, heavy in my chest. I move past it fine—until the first slow song begins playing over the speakers.

My date, Graham, reaches for me from across the group of us who are circled together, and I step forward, feeling uncomfortable.

I’m halfway to him when I find my path blocked by a tall, dark figure who seems to have materialized from nowhere.

Jack—it’s Jack. Where did he come from?

“Jack,” I say, blinking with surprise; he reaches for my wrist and pulls me away, his grip firm but his steps slow enough that I don’t stumble. I follow him without thought, without hesitation, maybe because although my date is fine, dancing with him isn’t something I’m terribly interested in.

“Hey,” I say when we’ve reached a different patch of the dance floor, surrounded by slow-dancing couples. “What are you—” I break off, looking him over. My jaw drops. “Is that a suit?”

“I’m not a heathen,” he says with a roll of his eyes. His arms snake around my waist and pull me close. “I own dress clothes.”

“I know,” I say quickly, stepping into him. He looks good, his hair neater than I’ve ever seen it, his tall frame lean and muscular. He’s still wearing that same black bracelet he’s worn for years though, the braid fraying. “I’m just surprised.”

He grunts, and I go on.

“Why are you here? You hate everything about prom.”

And I know my friends are probably staring; he whisked me away from my date, this senior troublemaker who skips class and wears black every day. But at this very moment, I want nothing more than to be with him—even if only for this song. Jack is a punk and a jerk sometimes, but I’ve never once doubted that he’s safe.

He feels like home in a way no one else does.

“I’m here,” he says, leaning down to speak into my ear, “to claim my dance. If you’re going to run around pretending to be a shallow, happy-go-lucky airhead, I won’t interfere. But I’m not going to let your prepubescent date take something that belongs to me. And this dance, Princess,” he says in a low voice, “belongs to me.”

I swallow as the knot in my throat grows. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“Of course I remember,” he says with a humorless laugh.

“In that case…it’s yours.” I clear my throat and slide my arms around his neck, something warm blooming in my chest. “This dance is yours.”

His arms tighten around me, his hands finding the bare skin of my back; I startle at his touch, and I notice his eyes widen the tiniest bit too. He swallows and then nods, a sharp jerk of his head.

I’m closer to him than I’ve ever been right now, our bodies pressed together as we sway back and forth, and yet…I don’t hate it.

Why don’t I hate it? Why isn’t it weird? In fact…it feels nice. He smells comfortingly like himself—spearmint and crisp cologne, the way he always smells, and there’s something reassuring about him, too.

He knows me. He knows me so well—not popular, bubbly Stella, but the real me. And as much as we’ve grown apart, he’s still here—honoring our promise.

I swallow. I haven’t been very good to him. And I don’t think it’s coincidence that I also haven’t been very happy.

When the song ends, I don’t let go. Jack doesn’t either; not for a long moment. He looks down at me, something torn in his expression, his arms banded tightly around me. Finally he leans in, and for one wild second I think he’s going to kiss me; my heart jumps into my throat. But when his lips touch my skin, it’s not on my mouth—it’s on my forehead.

The lightest kiss, a brand of fire, and so tender I want to cry.

“Goodbye, Princess,” he murmurs, so low I barely hear.

Then he’s gone—sweeping away, through the crowd of happily dancing people.

And I don’t see him again.