The Ring He Was Putting on My Finger, the Money He Was Sending to Her Chapter 03
The next morning, the sound of the keypad lock beeped in the silent apartment.
Dylan walked into the bedroom, carrying the chill of late autumn with him.
In his hand was a paper bag with the logo of that artisan donut shop on the west side—the one where, years ago, I’d casually said I wanted some, and he’d waited two hours in below-freezing weather, held the box against his chest so it wouldn’t get cold, and brought them home to me.
He set the bag on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.
He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
Just before his fingers touched my skin, a faint whiff of perfume hit my nose.
Tiffany’s favorite scent.
Last night, he’d put his jacket on her.
My body reacted before my brain did. I turned my head away, dodging his touch.
His hand hung in the air for a second. His fingers curled slightly, then he pulled back like nothing happened.
“Okay, I was out of line yesterday.” His voice dropped, all weary and pleading. “But you have to understand. The Morgans went bankrupt. She’s got nothing. Her depression’s back, and she won’t stop talking about ending it.”
“What am I supposed to do? Just let her die?”
He opened the bag, stuck a toothpick into a warm artisan donut, and held it to my lips.
“Come on, eat it while it’s warm. Afterward, we’ll go reschedule your fitting.”
The rich sweet smell mixed with that faint perfume in the air.
I didn’t get mad. My body still had the old muscle memory.
I obediently reached out and took the toothpick.
A flicker of relieved smile crossed Dylan’s eyes.
But then I turned and dropped the whole warm donut, toothpick and all, into the trash can next to the bed.
Thud.
“It’s cold. Too tough to bite,” I said, pulling out a wet wipe and carefully cleaning the fingers that had held the toothpick, without even glancing up.
The smile on Dylan’s face vanished.
He stared at the trash can, like he couldn’t believe his usually docile girlfriend would do something like that.
“Claire,” he said, his voice cooling into that superior, commanding tone. “Don’t push it.”
He threw the words out and walked into the bathroom.
I tossed the dirty wipe into the trash too.
From that day on, for an entire week, Dylan always had an excuse not to come home at night.
Every time he came back in the early morning, that perfume smell on him was a little stronger.
I didn’t call him out. I didn’t make a scene.
I ate, slept, and worked on my design sketches like usual.
I just stopped texting him first. And stopped asking where he’d been.
