Ring shopping is a disaster. They have 133 styles, all available in gold, white gold, and platinum—which looks exactly like white gold, which really just looks like silver or nickel or tin—yet every single one is some variation of the classic gold band Alex chose for Scott, and none of them are as good. I give up and look at the diamond rings for a while, not because I think Scott would prefer one, but because there's some actual variety here.
I have better luck online. There are rings with sound waves or fingerprints etched in, wood grain patterns, and intertwined bands. I can even commission custom designs. I'm tempted to spring for a large hexagonal Art Deco ring that would look incredible on him, but it draws too much attention. I want something more understated. I settle on a simple platinum band, wider than most, with a round taper at the rims. The outside has a faceted texture beaten into it, and the inside, where only we can see, is paved with diamonds. I slip a safety pin around it and keep it in my bag or pocket at all times. I don't how when the moment will come, but I'll be ready.
It's with me when we say goodbye to Arlington and step back into tour. I stitch it into my pocket instead of pinning it when I plan to pass though airport security. I accidentally send it to the dry cleaners in Miami, but it comes back, still fastened inside my pocket, before I realize my mistake. It's with me when we release Яɘvolution together. It burns a hole in my pocket when Scott kisses me breathless and says maybe we've been slow enough. He's getting more confident. "Soon," is all I can promise. This time, he doesn't shrink back or misinterpret it. He's learned better now than to believe it's because there's something wrong with him. It really is soon. I can feel the moment coming. My fingertips know every surface of his ring, and I know every detail of Scott, and we're so close to the right time that I can think of nothing else.
The ring is in my bag when I get back home and collect my mail. It's with me when I ask Scott to please consider Alex and Jake's invitation. It's an olive branch, not an insult. This is a big step for Alex. It's in my breast pocket when I attend the ceremony alone. It rests cold against my heart as they exchange vows, rings, a kiss. In the receiving line, Alex shakes my hand and accepts my heartfelt congratulations like I'm just anyone. His grip is firm and his smile is warm, but he has eyes only for Jake. Jake gives me a quick, tight hug and looks genuinely delighted that I could come.
I catch up with a few old acquaintances at the reception, but the only person I really know here, besides a few people at the head table, is Esther. She seems to know everyone, though, which leaves me munching on strawberries and Brie and wondering how soon it's socially acceptable to dodge out. I wish Scott were here.
Alex loves Jake and Jake loves Alex. That's all I really wanted to know, and I could see it the moment I looked at them. I stick around for the speeches and cake cutting, then slip back to the parking lot without taking a slice. I should probably go back to my apartment and change, but Scott and I are working on a song together, and I'm eager to finish the bridge. That's always my favorite part. I leave my jacket in the car, untuck my shirt, undo a couple buttons, and rumple my hair so I don't look so much like someone who just attended a wedding. I don't want to make a big deal about it. I really wish Scott could forgive Alex, but I have to understand that it's just not that easy.
Scott isn't at his house. His phone is here, but his car is gone. I should probably just work on the chorus while I wait for him to get back from wherever, but I need him for the bridge, and I'm impatient. His car GPS puts him at the grocery store. I can wait another hour, I suppose. I'm good at waiting.
When the chorus and the final verse are done 45 minutes later, though, I grab my keys. It feels wrong. I walk directly to aisle six, where stands a tall man, tears streaming from his eyes, hands shaking, head turned up toward the spirits on the top shelf.
I watch, frozen. Walk away, Scott. Walk away. Please, walk away. Why did you leave your phone at home? How long have you been here? Walk away. You can do it. Please. Please. Please.
His hands shake harder, and he clenches them into fists, and now his arms are shaking. I watch for what feels like forever. Maybe he's been here for hours. He doesn't see me. If he can walk away, if he can take the first step by himself, then maybe he's okay. I stare openly at the fragile man in aisle six, and he stares at the vodka, the tequila, the absinthe, and the vodka again. My heart shrivels as I realize what I'm witnessing. He's losing. He isn't going to walk away.
"Scott." His head whips around and he steps back, away from me. "Come home."
"I jus-just have to pick up some groceries." His voice is high, clipped, strained. "No more eggs." He tilts his head toward the freezer section on the far wall, as if I caught him on his way there, and quickly changes the subject. "How was the wedding? I-I always cry at weddings. Even when I'm not there, I guess," he chuckles weakly. That's not why he's crying.
"It's over now." I step tentatively toward him. "They're going to live happily ever after. Just like we will, love."
"You don't have to say that. I know it's not the same."
"I'm glad we're together, Scott. I'm glad it was Jake and not me. You know that."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm always happy to remind you I love you."
We go home. We write the song, and I stay in the guest room. A month goes by, and I never catch him drinking, but I know. I think it started even before the wedding. His ring is in my pocket as I drive him to rehab. He's sobbing out apologies, confessing everything and telling me how sorry he is for everything he's done, everything he is. How he's going to change. How he doesn't need to go to rehab. How it doesn't help anyway. How he has it all under control.
I know he knows how desperate he sounds, and it breaks my heart. "I love you," I tell him over and over. "I'll never leave you." I check him in and I drive away. I try to cry myself to sleep, but I can't. He's not sleeping tonight either.
It was never going to be that easy. This time, though, I'm staying. I'm hoping it's worth it, because it's harder than I could have imagined. I was prepared for a lot of it, but I wasn't prepared to feel so betrayed. I know he can't help it, but I also know he chose it, and it feels like he chose it over me. Maybe if he loved me a little more or believed in us as much as I do... this was never going to be easy. I just hope this time I'll be strong enough. This time, and maybe next time, and the time after that. How long can I do this?
