"It is right," she says softly.
The approval in her voice does something to my chest that I'm not prepared for.
We drive in silence for another few minutes, the landscape rolling past, until I decide to use the opportunity to ask the question that’s been on my mind since she got here.
"Truth or dare?"
I glance at her, and there's something playful in her expression, something that reminds me of the girl she was before everything got complicated.
"Truth."
"Why aren't you wearing your engagement ring?"
The question lands like it's been building since the moment I saw her at the funeral.
And the truth is, I've been cataloging every detail about her since she arrived—the way she tucks hair behind her ear when she's nervous, the exact shade of green her eyes turn in sunlight, the unconscious grace in how she moves through space, the smallscar on her left knee from the summer she tried to learn skateboarding.
I've noticed the absence of that ring like a beacon, impossible to ignore even when I'm trying not to look, trying not to hope, trying not to wonder if it means what I desperately want it to mean.
Because I need to know the truth.
Does she actually love him?
Is she actually happy?
She glances down at her bare left hand, thumb brushing over the finger where a ring should be.
When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Truth? I don't know."
I laugh softly, more to myself than at her, trying to ease the tension even as my heart rate kicks up.
"I don't believe that. The Nora I knew always knew what she wanted."
Her jaw tightens, and the defenses slam into place.
"Maybe I've changed."
"Maybe." I keep my tone careful, neutral. "Or maybe you're just not ready to admit it yet."
"Admit what?"
"That you don't want to wear it because it's not what you actually want."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy and undeniable.
I watch her process them, see the flash of something—anger? fear?—cross her face.
Shit, I overstepped and I know it.
"You don't know anything about me or my relationship," she says, and there's an edge to her voice now. Defensive. Raw.
I slow the car, pulling into a scenic overlook that offers a viewof the valley below. Put it in park but leave the engine running, music still playing softly.
Tension coils in my shoulders.
"You're right," I say carefully. "I don't know your relationship. I wasn't there for any of it. I don't know how he proposed or what your life looks like with him or what he does that makes you happy."
