"I want her to cry the right way."
I tilt my head, genuinely curious now. "There's a wrong way to cry at a proposal?"
"Cal." He turns to look at me, and his face is so serious, so completely devoid of irony, that I feel bad for making jokes. This matters to him. This matters to him more than anything has ever mattered to him, and here I am talking about circles.
I slump back in my chair and accept my fate. I am never getting out of here. When Ramsey told me he was going to propose, I was genuinely delighted for him. He and Poppy make sense in that way some couples just do, like they were always heading toward each other and the rest of us were just watching the inevitable unfold.
But I figured he'd order a custom ring, obsess over the details in private where I didn't have to witness it. Instead he dragged me to four different jewelers because Poppy is "notthat kind of girl," whatever that means, and apparently I'm the kind of friend who can't say no.
"I need the ring to be perfect," he continues, voice gone so quiet I actually pay attention.
"I need her to see it and know that I thought about it. That I didn't just walk in and point at the first thing that sparkled."
I study him for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders. Then I look at the ring he's pointing at. Oval cut, rose gold band, small diamonds set along the sides. Delicate but not fragile. It catches the light differently than the others, warmer somehow, less aggressive.
"That one looks like her."
He smiles, drops his eyes to the ring, really looks this time, then back at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I nod slowly, surprised to find I mean it. "It's warm. It's not trying too hard. And it's tougher than it looks."
He doesn't say anything for a second, just stares at the ring with an expression I can only describe as reverent. Then his face relaxes, the tension releasing from his shoulders.
"Can I see that one again?" he asks the woman.
We'reat the pub by seven, sitting with two beers and a bowl of chips neither of us is eating. Rome's meeting us at half past, which gives Ramsey approximately thirty minutes to fidget with the ring box through his jacket pocket like a man who has never owned pockets before.
"Stop touching it," I tell him as his hand drifts to the spot for the fifth time in as many minutes.
"I'm not touching it," he lies, dropping his hand to the table like that proves something.
"Man, you are so gone for this girl." I shake my head, but there's no judgment in it. "And you're getting worse by the day."
He shrugs, doesn't even try to deny it. There's no point. Anyone with eyes can see that Ramsey would walk into traffic for Poppy, and he'd do it smiling.
"When are you going to do it?" he asks, and I know before he finishes the sentence that I'm not going to like where this is going.
"Do what?"
"This." He gestures vaguely at his pocket, the pub, the concept of commitment in general. It's a broad gesture. It encompasses a lot.
"I'm not."
"Ever?"
"Not a priority."
Ramsey leans back and considers me.
"You know, there are probably nice girls in Harbor Hill," he offers, tone deceptively casual. "You don't have to drive two hours every time you want to have dinner with someone."
"I'm aware of the local population, thanks."
"So when are you going to stop with the out-of-town trips?"
"When Harbor Hill stops being a town where Ruth knows what you had for breakfast before you've finished chewing." I lean back, matching his posture. "You saw what happened with Cherry last year. One conversation at the bar, and not even a nice one, mightI add, and suddenly the whole town had me engaged to her."
"Cherry was a specific situation," he counters.
