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I look down at Finley as we wait for our Uber, and it hits me: here is Siren on a street in Washington, her red hair blowing in a summer breeze. She’s been ripped off the map as she knows it, flung into a different fucking hemisphere…because of me. She’s here with me.
I introduced her as my girlfriend to Rachel, but Jesus—Finley’s not my girlfriend. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Hey…walk with me.” I bump her lightly with my elbow. When she blinks at me but seems a little lost, I ease my arm out of its sling and hold my hand out for hers.
“What are you doing?”
“Just walk with me.”
I can tell she doesn’t want to hold my hand. She won’t thread her fingers through mine. Then wraps her hand around mine, and she tries to keep my arm from moving. That makes me laugh.
“Have you gone quite mad?” she asks me. “I thought there’s a car called?”
“No.” I stop and cancel it. There’s a fountain right between these two clusters of shops. I lead her over to it. Get her to sit down on the bench. “Would it bother you to wait right here for me, for just a few minutes? I need to go do something.”
“It can be the first step in my being social routine.” She smiles. Rachel recommended she get out more, which is a good fucking point.
“I’ll be right back, okay?”
She smiles. “I’m not worried.”
Three doors down, there’s this little jewelry store we walked by earlier. I get some looks when I walk in, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m me or because of the two slings. The woman who comes over to help me is older, and she looks kind of fancy in a dress; I’m hoping that means she’s not a baseball fan.
I tell her that I need a ring and ask about the January birthstone. It’s red. I don’t want it to be red.
“Does she have a favorite stone?” the woman asks.
I swallow. “I don’t really know.”
“That’s okay. What about the month you met?”
“April.”
“April’s stone is the diamond.”
My head spins a little. “Is it?”
“Yes, but you don’t have to use that if it’s not your intention.”
“If what’s not?”
“Well, if you’re not wanting to get married.” She gives me an understanding smile.
“I am.”
Her eyebrows arch up. I clarify. “That is what I want to do.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?”
I try to think of Finley’s style, of what she wears. But I realize I don’t know. I realize Finley probably doesn’t know. She’s never had a lot of options. I think of what she said about her name, and how I want her to have my name. I think of what just happened with the doctor—her abusive husband just now died—and I’m not sure what to do.
“I recognize your cap,” the woman says softly. She smiles as she leads me to a case with bigger gem stones, and I realize she means she knows who I am.
“Keep it kinda quiet for me, okay? I’m here under the radar.”
“Absolutely. I just wanted you to know that I’m a fan.”
She doesn’t pry as I pick out a vintage sapphire—almost three carats—set in a platinum, oval-shaped, kind of antique-looking frame. I don’t know why, but it looks like Finley to me.
