“Hold this so it stays taut,” he said, pressing the end of the floss in my hand. He poured a little of the oil into a cup and dipped his finger in, rubbing over the top of the floss and around my finger. The floss was wrapped so tightly that when he tried to tug the ring over the floss, it slid a lot more easily up my finger. Encouraged, he wrapped more floss right around my knuckle, squeezing my finger. Within seconds, the ring slid completely off and he quickly unwrapped the floss from my finger.
“You’re a genius,” I praised, rubbing the feeling back into my finger.
He was holding the ring between two fingers, examining it. “What’s the story with this?”
I moved to the kitchen sink to wash the oil from my fingers as I contemplated what to say. I didn’t want to reveal too much, but so much had happened in the time that Leo and I didn’t speak that I couldn’t blow him off.
“I met this guy and we’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”
Leo joined me at the sink. “And what? He proposed?”
I shook my head almost violently. “No. I … I found the ring and tried it on. I don’t even know why. But it belonged to his dead wife.” My stomach clenched at the thought. “And we got into a fight. I left still wearing it.”
Leo nodded thoughtfully as he washed his hands. “I’m surprised he kept it.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Well, wouldn’t you bury your wife with her ring? Why would you keep it? Unless it’s a family heirloom.”
Bile shot up my throat. “Fuck, don’t talk so morbidly, please.” But what Leo said had made sense. The setting looked old, the gold a little dull. And I’d run out of his house wearing it.
Really, my humiliation was growing by the minute.
But it was no match for the pain in my heart, the pain that had eased some by Leo’s presence and reassurance. When he left later that night after promising to see me over Thanksgiving break, I only cried for ten minutes instead of all night, like I’d anticipated.
I slept until noon. It was almost stubborn, as if my body had taken initiative to force me to be either incredibly late for Nathan’s class or to skip it entirely. I opted for the latter, but visited campus ten minutes before class was over, the ring sealed in an envelope, and slipped it under his door. I’d held onto the frame of the door longer than I cared to admit, almost wishing he’d end class early and come find me.
But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t.
It wasn’t until I was on the train out of the city that I received Nathan’s first communication with me since our argument. I had been expecting it, after missing class, but didn’t think he’d actually message me until he noticed my absence the following Monday, as I wasn’t planning to return until after Thanksgiving.
To: Alice Carroll
Date: Friday, November 20, 2015 02:27 PM
From: Nathaniel Easton
Subject: I’m sorry
I thought I’d get the chance to see you today, but I don’t blame you for skipping class. I’m so sorry, Adele. I hate what I said to you. Please, let me know that you got this. You didn’t answer my call or my text.
N
• • •
I debated for several minutes whether or not I should reply. On the one hand, getting an apology from him was like a temporary reprieve from the non-stop churning heartache I was feeling. But on the other hand, once I closed my phone and allowed myself to fall into thought, I was still so deeply hurt that I feared talking to him would only open my heart up for more destruction.
And considering I was on my way home, willingly placing me in the clutches of my family, I needed to avoid whatever stress I could, to steel myself for whatever I faced at home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Here.”
My father handing me a beer was the most gracious he’d been in all twenty-one years of my life.
I accepted it almost unwillingly, looking at the brown bottle as if it held poison.
“I’m pleased you’ve changed your major.”
They were six words, but they were the most my father had spoken to me in years. And the first time, in recent memory at least, that the words weren’t coated with revulsion.
I’d need to drink to process this. I tipped the beer back, absorbed the bite of the fancy shit and then held the bottle out in front of me as I swallowed. I knew, because this was a craftsman brew, that this bottle alone cost two to three bucks. And to think of the cases my father had in garage, to imagine the hundreds of dollars he owned in beer, made me a little ill. I had scraped change together for my Charlie card for the subway more times than not, often bumming a ride off of Leo’s card when funds were low. And one of these beers could have paid my daily fare to class.
“What did you change it to?”
Finally, he said something that required an answer. Often when my father spoke, it wasn’t to receive an answer but to simply express his thoughts, because his thoughts were of value.
I was going to milk him for all he was worth.
“Journalism.”
I saw the twitch of his lips and continued before he could tell me it, like creative writing, was another unworthy degree. “It relies heavily on English still, yes, but it can transition me to a number of careers.”
He stared forward, at the fireplace before us. “What? Like newspapers? You do realize that traditional circulation for mediums like magazines and newspapers is declining, right?”
I’d braced myself for this conversation the moment I’d arrived home the Friday before. The fact that it had taken my dad six days until Thanksgiving Day to bring this up, a day before I was to return to campus, was telling. He’d kept silent for six whole days, letting me sweat his reaction while my mom busied me with her new curtains and latest dessert recipes she’d tried. All the hobbies she’d filled her life with since becoming an empty nester, married to a man who spoke little.
No. My father waited until Thanksgiving Day, hours before we were all to gather around the table for our first meal together, to discuss my future and how his wallet factored heavily in my plans. It was so like him, to let me walk around on eggshells, waiting for him to ask. He loved the control it gave him, the fact that I needed him was a power trip.
And because I knew him and because I was still trying to heal from the heartache that was thanks to another man who had taken my news not so well, I nearly slumped in my seat, letting him tell me in so few words how stupid I was to choose a degree like journalism.
Instead, I straightened the spine he’d forced upon me—that line of steel—and said, “You’re right. With the evolvement of print publications moving to a digital format, there’s been a decline in newspaper and magazine subscriptions, but that’s because that content is now easily accessible online. The internet is the new frontier for journalism, and demand is high. And that’s still only one route I can take with a journalism degree.” I paused, waited for his rebuttal, but when he remained silent I continued. “Because journalism focuses on critical and analytical thinking, I can transition into other fields. Many public relations firms hire people with a journalism background. I can work in advertising, as a copywriter, or I work as a market researcher. These are all occupations that have need and won’t become obsolete.”
I waited, for him to say something, anything.
“Well, I suppose it’s better than going to school to learn something you already know how to do. You shouldn’t have to study creative writing; you should be born inclined to be creative.”
It was how he delivered what amounted to praise from him, with a bite reminding you how absurd he thought you were.
But because he hadn’t asked me a question, I knew that was my sign to not continue. He’d heard enough. And, blessedly, he’d decided to support me.