When the sun sets, we still haven’t found it and the grid is almost done. Everyone else heads back but I keep looking, knowing that with every sweep of the detector I’m less and less likely to find what I’m looking for. Sure, I could come back tomorrow and search a wider area, but I don’t know how useful that would be because my memory is crystal clear.
I know where I stood. I know I squeezed it in my bare palm and stared into the woods, the trees naked of leaves, the cold wind blowing. I remember thinking that this was stupid, that I should just return it, that throwing it into the woods where I’d never find it wasn’t going to accomplish a single thing.
And then I remember winding up and hurling the thing as hard as I could into the trees. It flashed once in the low, cloudy light, and then it was gone. I remember how savagely victorious I felt in that moment, how triumphant. How it felt like I’d gotten some kind of revenge and that made me freer, lighter.
It didn’t. It took me years to finally learn it, but lashing out at someone who hurt you doesn’t do shit except cinch the noose a little tighter around your own neck.
BEEP.
It startles me out of my thoughts, and I sweep the detector over the area again, slowly this time.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEE—
I sigh, pushing away the leaves with my foot. Swing again. Still beeping, so I crouch, put down the detector, and start brushing away the soft, dark soil of the forest floor in the fading light.
I don’t find anything, so I dig a little harder. My fingers tear through tiny, hairlike roots, unearth tiny chunks of rotted wood, and I brush them all off, hope I don’t touch anything too disgusting in my search for what’s probably an old bolt or, if I’m lucky, a quarter.
I see the sparkle before I touch it. I hold my breath. I lean in, digging around it, reminding myself that it’s probably a stainless steel ball bearing or some ancient refrigerator piece, and I pull it out.
It’s an engagement ring. It’s the engagement ring. It’s caked with dirt. One of the prongs that holds the diamond is missing, and the ring itself is slightly bent, but the gold still shines and the diamond still catches the light.
God, I was dumb. I was dumb to throw it in here and I was dumb to propose in the first place. Our relationship had been crumbling for months. I thought that this was the way to make her stay with me, and I was heartbroken and furious when it didn’t work.
When I head into the house, my mom’s in the kitchen, drinking a glass of wine and using her laptop on the kitchen table, papers scattered around her.
“Any luck?” she asks.
In response, I just hold it up. She holds out her hand, and I walk over, put the ring into it.
“It’s pretty,” she says, turning it over, then handing it back. “Though I could have sworn I taught you boys not to throw diamond rings into the woods.”
I just laugh and walk over to the kitchen sink to wash it off.
“I’m sure we’d all be better off if we’d just listened to you,” I say.
“You’re teasing me, but you’re right,” she says.
We’re both quiet for a moment, and I can feel her watching me.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Just wondering what you’re planning on using it for now,” she says, an incredible casualness in her voice.
I shut off the water, dry my hands, dry the ring. Stick it in my pocket.
“Well, it’s an engagement ring,” I tease.
My mom sighs. She stands, comes over to me, takes my face in her hands.
“Seth,” she begins. “My favorite fourth-born child.”
“You say that to all your fourth-born children.”
“Don’t be a smartass,” she says, very calmly. “And Delilah is a lovely, vibrant, delightful person who I would be proud to have as a daughter-in-law someday, but that’s only going to happen if you do right by her now.”
I put one hand on my chest, over my heart.
“Mom, I promise not to fuck this up,” I tell her.
She nods once, then pulls me in for a big hug.
“Good luck,” she tells me.Chapter Fifty-TwoDelilahI knock again, just to be sure.
Still nothing, the inside of the townhouse perfectly quiet. He’s not here. I knew he wasn’t here the moment I drove up — no car, no lights — but I spent the last hour doing color touchups on Tinkerbell and practicing what I was going to say when he answered.
Except he’s not answering, because he’s not here, and this scrapbook feels like dead weight in my hands. Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe he’s out at a bar charming the panties off someone named Riley, and any minute now they’re going to pull up and want to know what I’m doing here. Yes, it’s six o’clock on a Monday night, but I don’t know Riley’s life.