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I shoved aside some Jane magazines, knocking over a bottle of tommy girl, and sank onto the coffee table. I had to be stronger than I’d been back then. The jewelry box’s corners cut into my palm so I opened my hand. I’d tried so many times to throw this memory away, but I’d dug through trashcans for it. I’d taken it to a pawn shop, only to snatch it back from the man behind the counter before he’d even had a chance to look at it. Not that it or the ring was worth anything. It was just a box.
The morning of the wedding had been the same day I’d met Henry, Manning’s best man, more of a father to Manning than his own dad. Henry had come to my hotel room to deliver my maid-of-honor gift from Tiffany—a polished, walnut wood box that had fit in the palm of my hand and had been engraved.
* * *
Lake Kaplan
Maid of Honor, 1995
* * *
I remembered back to the moment Henry had handed it over to me.
* * *
“It’s beautiful.” My voice broke. “Tell him thank you.”
“Him?” Henry asked.
“Manning. He made it, didn’t he?”
“He sure did.” Henry held out his palm for the box. “May I?”
I gave it to him, and he studied it like I had, his fingers grazing over each corner and ledge, testing the brass hinges on back. “Manning’s got talent. I heard he’s making some furniture, too.” He passed it back. “How’d you know it was from him?”
“We’re friends.” I looked for any recognition that Manning might’ve mentioned me, but there was nothing. “We were friends before . . . all this.”
“That so? I have a daughter a little younger than you. You’ll meet her tonight.” He nodded. “I always wished she and Manning were closer in age. He’ll make your sister a good husband.”
Teeth clenched, I breathed through my nose as the word scraped out whatever was left inside me. Husband.
Henry was looking at me a little funny, so I pushed through the stinging in my chest and replied, “Yes, he will.”
“I’m glad to see Manning become part of such a nice family. He’s a good kid. A really good kid.”
I’d never heard anyone refer to Manning as a kid. I tried to keep the emotion from my voice. “I know he is.”
“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” Henry asked.
“Open what?”
“The box. That’s not the gift, you know. It’s inside.”
“Oh.” I creaked open the lid. Two small diamond earrings winked at me.
* * *
I’d worn the earrings during the wedding so as not to upset Tiffany, but they were gone now, replaced by a cheap piece of costume jewelry Manning didn’t even know I’d kept.
I sat there, turning the box over in my hands, until I went and set it on my dresser. In the bathroom, I pinned my hair into a quick up-do. I was almost finished when the downstairs buzzer sounded through the apartment. Manning was a half hour early. I didn’t move. I had a choice to make. Why had he almost kissed me when he knew perfectly well it’d do nothing but damage? Was Val right that he knew I couldn’t say no to him?
Was I even strong enough to send him away?
5
Lake
Manning stood on my doorstep, hair combed back, cleanly shaven in a pressed suit and cobalt-blue tie. He looked every inch the gentleman—except for a Home Depot bag in his hand, as if he were actually holding on to a piece of his old self. He took my breath away, leaving me no choice but to stare at him.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“It’s just . . .” I didn’t like this suit much better than the first one, simply because it wasn’t Manning. That didn’t mean he didn’t fill it out perfectly, though, with his broad shoulders and trim torso. “Hardly anyone dresses up for the theater anymore.”
“You do,” he said, scanning my gown. His perusal had always had a special power over me, mostly because of how we’d subsist for weeks or months on furtive glances alone. He took me in, from my bare toenails up to my hair. “You look beautiful. Like a grownup.”
To anyone else, it might’ve sounded like an odd compliment, but to me it said everything. Manning had resisted all his urges over the years, afraid he’d corrupt a young, innocent girl. I wasn’t that girl anymore, and he saw it. Finally. One of the stupid tears I’d been holding in from my fight with Val slipped out.
“Hey.” He reached up. “Don’t cry.”
I turned my face away, wiping my own cheek. “I’m fine. What’s in the bag?”
He looked disappointed by my brushoff, but let me change the subject. “Stuff to fix your door.”
“Oh.” I stepped back as he came inside. “You don’t have to.”
“Did you think I’d let you spend a night here with a broken lock? What would you have done?”
