Page 18 of Sterling Fight

The top three dates for engagements are Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, and Valentine’s Day. Rather cliché, if you ask me. If I ever was to get engaged, which I don’t suppose will happen, I’d like the proposal to happen on a random day. A date that becomes significant because I got engaged on that day.

Judd sighs and his hand covers mine. He toys with the ring. A strong forefinger and thumb pinching the gemstone. He gently rocks it side to side. His eyes never losing focus on it.

“Once upon a time, I’d thought about asking her. Last summer. Once. Then, my brother Ford and I had a discussion.” Judd is pensive a moment, thoughtful as his brows crease. “I sounded shallow when I described her.” He swallows. “And even shallower when I thought about the reason I might marry her.”

“Which was?”

“She liked me.” He pauses his movements with the ring and looks up at me. His tone is sharp as he spews the juvenile-sounding words. The look in his eyes strikes me, though, and I realize that sorrow in them might not be sadness, but a lonely boy turned into a lonely man.

“But I had an entire checklist of reasons why we weren’t right for one another.”

“And today just felt like the day to breakup.”

Judd lowers his eyes again, staring down at the ring on my finger once more. He slides his fingers down the length of mine, pressing the tips of his to the tips of mine, forcing my hand upright. He twines our hands together and, with our wrists resting on the countertop, we hold onto one another.

Being single as long as I have, I’ve had time to evaluate handholding. In some cases, it can be the most intimate contact between a couple. In other cases, it can feel distant, uncomfortable, almost distracting. Like how long do I hold his hand before I can pull away.

Judd holding my hand lands firmly in the intimate column, and leads me to wonder once more; what are we doing?

More importantly, what is happening between us?

We aren’t those kids in a grade school classroom. The one where I asked him to be my friend when he was assigned to be my reading buddy. We aren’t angsty middle schoolers, staring across a crowded library wondering: is he looking at me or someone else? And we aren’t those high schoolers on the cusp of adulthood, using Math Club to fulfill a college application (him) and earn extra credit in geometry (me).

We’re different people now, and I don’t know him.

I might have never known Judd.

I certainly didn’t know why he’d stand me up for his prom.

Like I don’t know why he’d blurt I was his fiancée in a state of panic.

“Today felt like the day for lots of things,” Judd whispers, staring at our fingers that are clasped together.

We’re linked.

“Endings and beginnings,” I whisper, afraid to pop this strange bubble that seems to be expanding around us. “So, this is your mother’s ring?”

As if heading off a question I hadn’t asked, Judd lifts his head, and says, “I never intended to give it to her.”

Judd sits upright and runs his other hand down the buttons of his dress shirt. The movement reveals the chain he wears underneath the crisp material and the ring remaining on it.

“I’ve been wearing that ring”—he nods at our clasped hands—“since I was eighteen. I’ve been holding onto it.”

I swallow hard. “Did you ever intend to give it to someone?” Maybe he’d planned to keep it as a keepsake.

And now I was wearing it.

“I’d always planned to give it to the woman I love. A woman I hope to spend the rest of my life with.” Judd lifts his lids, his focus narrowing in on me. A strange shiver runs down my spine.

Along with a cold sweat.

“Well, I never plan to marry,” I state bluntly, sticking a pin in the bubble around us and gently tugging my hand free from his.

Judd’s expression shifts, first stricken, then tense.

I glance down at the ring myself. “This is too much. I shouldn’t be wearing it.” This ring is important to Judd. Special and unique, like I’ve described him. He should continue to hold onto it. Save it for that woman he’ll love.

I grasp the top and bottom of the ring and give it a tug, struggling to remove it. After three attempts to pull it over my knuckle, I hold out my hand. “Maybe you should remove it.” It might hurt like hell for him to tug at my finger, but if that is what it takes to get this thing back off me . . .