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“I’m going to find somewhere safe to stop. It’s okay.” Sebastian sounds far away, like he’s a hundred feet away, not right next to me.
A hand gently rests on my jean clad thigh and he rubs his thumb back and forth, grounding me. I can’t stop the tears as they flow or the way my body shakes. The urge to flee overwhelms me and as he pulls the car over to the side of the road, I grip the door handle, ready to bolt.
When the car comes to a stop, he unclips my seat belt before I can do it myself. I don’t put up a fight when he drags me over the center console and into his arms. One hand rubs up and down my back as the other holds my head to his shoulder.
I drop the ring box I’ve been clutching as if it’s on fire. It falls into the space between us. Freed from it, I clutch onto his black t-shirt and bury my face into the crook of his neck, inhaling his woodsy scent.
Minutes, maybe hours, pass as he holds me just as tightly as I cling to him. After a while, my body relaxes and my breathing finally finds a less frantic rhythm. I dry my face on his shoulder, but I don’t sit back, not yet.
“You want to talk about what just happened?”
I shake my head and he squeezes me, then gently pushes me back to look at my face.
“I think maybe you should tell me why a ring box has you freaking out like that.” His voice is soothing as he wipes away the tears on my cheeks.
“I’m fine. I don’t exactly know why that just happened.”
God, I thought I was done with these attacks. It’s been years. I thought the therapy had worked and I had figured out ways to channel my anxiety. It’s not like I’m still in law school, with all the stress and pressure that comes with that. The work I put in and the coping mechanisms I have all went out the window the moment I saw that ring box.
As my gaze roams his face, I make a mental note to call my old therapist when I get back to New York. I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing; it was just a ring.
It doesn’t mean anything.
As I go to move back to my seat, he grips my hips keeping me in place. Looking at his hands, then back up to his face, I allow the question in my mind to coat my face.
“You forgot your ring.”
I go to move again, replying with, “I don’t need it.”
His grip tightens on me. “I beg to differ.”
“I have an aversion to rings,” I lie.
He lifts a brow and pops open the box to reveal a stunning cushion-cut yellow diamond halo engagement ring.
My jaw drops before I snap it shut and say, “What the actual fuck, Sebastian?”
A boyish charm about him, he asks, “You don’t like it?”
“How much was it? Like twenty grand?” I’m mesmerized by it.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to ask your fiancé how much he spent on your engagement ring.”
“Fake.” My eyes are still on the ring nestled in the black velvet of the box.
“What?” he asks, confusion evident in his tone.
“Fake fiancé. You’re my fake fiancé.”
“Right, well, real or fake, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to ask, but you don’t need to worry, I haven’t done the traditional two months salary thing. You’d end up with something akin to the Hope Diamond if I did”
“You should return it,” I murmur, unconvincingly.
I want to try it on.
Not on my ring finger, of course.
I don’t want or need any more bad luck when it comes to my love life.
