Page 42 of Chasing the Other Woman

We would be having an entirely different experience now if I'd just listened.

She takes my hand and puts the ring in my palm. Her fingers are cold.

"I'm giving you what you really want, Brooks," she says, and her voice breaks on the words.

I close my fist around the ring.

"Sammy Girl." The only two words I can seem to manage because I'm certain my knees are about to go out from beneath me.

“No,” she whispers. “You don’t get to call me that.”

She walks away.

This time, my feet don't move.

I stand beside The Funnel Cloud with mud on my boots, rain in my hair, and my wife’s wedding ring cutting a circle into my palm.

The ring is so small in my hand.

I close my fist tighter until the edge bites skin knowing that everything I've ever tried to protect just walked out of my life for the second time.

Eleven

SAM

The first thing I do after giving Brooks my wedding ring is nearly staple my own finger to a plywood board.

Not on purpose, obviously. I’ve never been that dramatic, and there are easier ways to make myself feel something than this crushing numbness. But right now, I’m kneeling beside a stack of broken window frames outside The Funnel Cloud, trying to tack up a sign that says CHECK-IN LIST INSIDE, when the staple gun kicks sideways in my hand.

“Careful,” Hershel says behind me.

“Now you tell me.”

“You were staring at your left hand.”

“Was not.” Was I?

I start to shove my hand into my pocket to hide it from Hershel, as if that would fix anything.

The pale circle of skin where my ring used to sit is glaring. Will it always look like that? Ridiculous to even dwell on it, considering how recently I took it off. Still, I can’t help wondering if I’m always going to carry that mark.

“I was reading the sign,” I say.

“It’s four words.”

“So is shut the fuck up.” I feel a momentary ping of guilt, but if anyone can take it, it’s Hershel.

He makes a sound that’s not quite a laugh and takes the staple gun from my grip. “Go inside before you attach yourself to city property.”

“What would Ozzy do?” I ask.

“He would go inside. And maybe yell at Sharon.”

“Can I call you Sharon?”

“If it makes you feel better. And given how your thumb’s probably gonna be smartin’ after a few, you might want to start now. Go ahead. I’ll mumble something incomprehensible if that helps.”

A breath of a laugh escapes me as I look down.