I woke amidst disheveled sheets and a sour taste. The gentle sound of snoring brought the memories of last night rushing back. Carefully, I untangled myself, fumbling for my phone that had found its way to the floor. My heart sank as I checked the time—I had overslept.

I dressed carefully, making sure not to disturb him. Leaving always felt unscrupulous. We had shared a night of dull passion and cheap wine that somehow woven a deceptive tapestry of vulnerability and closeness. But to linger would invite awkward pleasantries like “Would you like breakfast?” or worse yet “Please, stay.”

On my way out, I pocketed the Polaroid we drunkenly took before things intensified. Old habits and all of that.

Back at my apartment, I stripped myself again of clothing. This time I stepped into the boiling water of my shower and sighed as my skin bubbled, and my scalp caught fire. After a few moments of silent pain, I sat down. The water cascaded around me as I hugged my knees to my body. Either too soon, or maybe not soon enough, the water turned frigid, and suddenly I had the strong urge to cry. Instead, I turned off the faucet, pulled on the large skull t-shirt that belonged to October’s fling, and stepped into ripped jeans that could be considered trendy—they were just thoroughly worn. My fingers deftly clasped the necklace that was a gift from my mother, the pendant had seen better days, but it was a favorite. I seemed to have the proclivity of holding onto things that were broken.   

My gaze went to my foggy mirror where jagged fractures marred my reflection, the glass bore shattered whispers of a time of violence. The distortions danced, casting a surreal, almost ethereal quality over my pale, square visage. My short, wet hair still curled, and my hazel eyes cast a sense of judgment at the woman peering back.

I turned and continued with my day.

My routine was seldom disturbed, and I liked it that way— I expended less energy. I woke up, showered, studied at my preferred coffee shop, and wrote poetry. I came home, completed monotonous chores to upkeep my modest apartment, ate somewhere in between all of this, settled down with a decent book, and half-heartedly swiped on Tinder for a potential night of disappointment.

Today was like any other, except as I got ready for bed, I realized my ring was missing. I swore I had it on when I showered this morning, but with my memory as unreliable as it was, I could’ve imagined it. I wouldn’t care for such things if it wasn’t the only piece of him that I kept. Years passed, and I still found myself holding on to the one who shoved his hands into my chest and became the reason my heart beat—and the few times it stopped. So, I did the one thing I disliked as much as hangnails: I texted my frequent late-night tryst. 

9:44 PM

Me: Hey, I think I left my ring on your nightstand. Can I come by and grab it real quick?

9:44 PM

Tom: Hey, Raina! Yeah, I’m about to head out, but I’ll be at Luxe with some friends tonight. Meet there?

Fuck. I flung myself onto my bed, spiraling into thoughts of him. I jolted upright at the distinctive ding of my phone, yanking me from the past.

                        10:34 PM

Tom: Location 11/11/23

I stared at the location he sent. Was it worth it to subject myself to going out for a dumb piece of jewelry?

                        10:37 PM

                        Me: Be there soon.

                        10:37 PM

                        Tom:  🙂

I didn’t know what my problem was. It’s not like Tom wasn’t a good guy- he was great, actually. Disgustingly sweet and intelligent and knew how to make me…laugh. I had been seeing him off and on for the last few months when grad school started back up in August. Our arrangement was one that he readily accepted, but I knew it wouldn’t keep him satisfied for much longer. When we met, his friendship was what drew me in. His kindness and consideration were foreign to me, but they kept me interested. His aloofness to everyone around him made me want to conquer him, to prove to myself that even the most emotionally unavailable, and socially inept, were not immune to my flirtations and stigmatization. After all, who could resist the manic pixie dream girl whose bags under their eyes weighed more than the man’s opinions of them?

I resolved that if Tom forced me to go to the club, I’d make the most of the free drinks and suffocating idle conversation. I squeezed into my black mini dress, tattoos on display, drew semi-symmetrical wings, and layered mascara. I added a neutral gloss, spritzed my favorite vanilla perfume, and shoved my feet into my battered “docs” by the door.

When I got there, I texted him.

                        11:13 PM

                        Me: Where you at?

I brandished my ID to the bouncer and made my way inside Luxe. The smell of body odor and Axe had me reeling the moment I made it to the bar. I squeezed myself through the people waiting to be served and those dancing.

                        11:21 PM

Tom: Sorry, ran into my old roommate from college. We’re back by the Marilyn Monroe painting you like.

As I approached the full table, I saw Tom’s smiling face as he took me in. His puppy dog chestnut gaze shone in appreciation. His tousled, golden hair – usually a cascade of curls—was now neatly combed back. It was a familiar sight.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Tom yelled in my ear as I settled into the seat beside him. “Here is your ring; you left it in the bathroom.” I extended my hand, keen on reclaiming it from his possession. He dropped the plain silver ring, its singular moss-green stone glinting, into my awaiting palm. I regarded it for a moment, only to startle when I looked up and met eyes of the same verdant hue from across the table. I snatched my hand back, my mouth agape, mirroring the man whose composed demeanor was now equally astonished.

“Michael?” was all I could get out as my heart lodged in my throat and a tremble racked through my body.

“Do you know each other?” Tom asked pleasantly. He didn’t have many friends, and those he did have, he’s known for years. Tom was loyal like that.

Michael beat me to answer. “Yes, Raina and I were really good friends in college.”

Really good friends. Ha! Did you mean that we were soulmates, Michael? That our very souls were forever tied together? That no matter how much time has passed, all I can think about is you. Is that what you meant? Surely, you meant that we stayed up for hours to talk about the world, about how your father used to beat you and how mine was dead, and you were jealous. Micheal. My Micheal. Did you mean that?

“Yes, really good friends,” I agreed, smiling politely. Michael’s frown indicated he noticed Tom had my ring, his ring. The one he gave me as a promise. As a “I will always be here for you” and “you were the most significant thing about me.” That ring. The one I wore every day and seldom took off. Only when, and for some goddamn reason, I was with Tom because it felt wrong. Because, sweet Tom, who would love me the way I needed if I let him, deserved better than me. Better than the sharp tongue, the late nights, and the splintered past.

“You cut your hair off,” Michael observed. I couldn’t help but peer down at his left hand which bore a constellation of jagged, silvery scars over his otherwise unblemished olive skin. Michael caught me staring and withdrew his hands, hiding them beneath the table. He appraised me as if encountering a ghost, eyes that had always held me captive, now imprisoned me. It had been almost two years, not enough time to notice much change, but there was a palpable melancholy etched into his features.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped as I stood, drawing everyone’s attention. With one last glance, I all but sprinted out of the bar.

My fingers fumbled for the right key as I jammed them in the ignition. Music blasted through my stereos. Shaking, I turned the volume down.

Breathe, Raina. In and out. In and –

There was a knock on my window. I hesitated, then rolled it down.

“You left your ring,” a voice said, his untarnished hand reached out in offering. 

“I know…uhm, wanna…” I trailed off, not sure of what I was asking. The weight of the question hung in the air.

Then— “Absolutely.”

Written by M. R. Hadley