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“Because pretending it doesn’t exist seemed worse.”

I opened the box. The ring sat inside, curved band, center stone, two smaller diamonds at the sides.

Lorrie looked at it for a long moment, her hand rose and then dropped back to her side.

“You remembered,” she said.

“The jeweler on State Street.”

That had been part of the pleasure at first, knowing some little thing about her she didn’t realize I’d remembered. It had made me feel attentive. Now it made me wonder how many larger things I had failed to see while congratulating myself over tulips and rings.

“I bought it because you liked it,” I said. “And because I wanted to marry you. And because everyone expected me to buy a ring, which is the part that makes me want to crawl under your mother’s patio furniture and stay there until Labor Day.”

She gave a watery laugh.

“I don’t know what to do with it,” I said. “I thought about leaving it at home, but that felt like hiding. I thought about giving it to you, but that felt like asking. So I brought it, and now I’m standing here holding it like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

She looked up at me then. Her eyes were tired and bright.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

I closed the box.

There should have been a sound to that, something large enough for the thing it ended.

Instead there was only a small click. I put the box back in my pocket.

“Your money is yours,” I said.

Her expression changed, and I held up one hand before she could answer.

“That isn’t an argument. I’m not asking you to forgive me for knowing about it, and I’m not trying to sweep away months of cowardice. I only want it said here and now. Your money is yours. My father would never touch a cent, nor would I. If we did marry someday, it would still be yours. If you wanted to buy every record in Dean’s store and make him alphabetize them by color, that would be your business.”

Her lips parted, and the little laugh that came out sounded surprised. “Dean would hate that.”

“His friend, Brian, might enjoy it.”

“Brian would file Fleetwood Mac under purple.”

“He probably already has.”

She looked down at the table.

“Are you still going to Cleveland?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

That answer sat there, plain and unattractive.

“I don’t know what happens with my father’s firm or whether I’ll still have a job next month. I don’t even know what tonight is, except that it isn’t a proposal.”

“You hate not knowing.”

“Yes.”

“You look a little pale.”