CHAPTER FOURTEEN
STERLING
I’d thought Rorke would’ve been back by now. Even though it’s summer break, he was called in to meet with the principal about something. I wonder if being called into the principal’s office has the same effect on a teacher that it has on a student.
We’ve been together constantly the past couple of days. If I’m not at his place, he stays here with me. I thought about insisting he go home, but he’d probably just sleep on my porch. Besides, I like having him around, in my bed.
He doesn’t say it, but I know he’s worried about what happened, about everything I told him. The fact that I haven’t been out of his sight until today is proof enough of that. So I’m taking this time to do some things around my parents’ place.
I should’ve done this earlier in the day. It’s brutally hot outside. I’ve got the back garden weeded, but thought I’d put in some new plants for Momma and Daddy since so many of them got trampled by the party guests. The guy at the nursery swears these daisy plants can survive the most brutal Alabama summers. He better be right because I bought enough to line the entire back of the house. I’m almost done. The spot under my window is the last plot of ground to cover.
Sticking my little hand shovel into the dirt, I scoop enough out to get the desired depth then use my hands to dig out a little more. My fingers curl around something hard, probably a rock. I toss it into my pile of trash, a glimmer catching my eye.
Picking it up and flicking the dirt off, I see it’s not a rock, but a ring. I remove my momma’s gardening gloves, trying to dust it off some more, before taking my shirt and rubbing it. It doesn’t look familiar at all. My family has lived on this land for a few generations, and I don’t recall seeing this ring or hearing about a lost piece of jewelry.
Getting to my feet, I go around to the side of the house, rinsing it off with the hose. It looks like a wedding band, only it’s silver. It’s a band that looks like a bunch of eternity symbols connected with a small stone that I assume are diamonds.
It’s simple and beautiful and must’ve meant the world to some girl. My mind starts to wander about who it could belong to, some fine southern lady or a slave woman having a forbidden romance with her master. Before my imagination gets anymore carried away, I decide to call Momma and ask if she knows anything about it.
She doesn’t, but she talks and talks about their trip. I’m only half-listening, consumed for some reason by this ring. I flip it over, studying it, then snap a picture, sending it to her to see if she recognizes it. She doesn’t. And I know Daddy would be useless. When I hang up, I’m not any closer to finding the owner.
I try to go back to planting but can’t. There is a deep need in my chest to return the ring to its owner. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe it belonged to one of our guests at the party. I doubt it, because it was buried awfully deep, but I have to try. I spend the next several hours calling the guests—all of them, asking if anyone is missing a ring. No one is.
Undeterred, I clean up and head to the only jeweler in town. They don’t recognize the ring, but they do clean it up for me, informing me that the stones aren’t real diamonds, but cubic zirconia, that the ring is worthless. I hear what the guy is saying, but I highly doubt it’s worthless to the woman who’s missing it.
I’m stumped about what to do. Should I take an ad out in the paper? Online? It’s got to be someone local, right? But Momma knows everyone in this town, and she didn’t recognize it. Who else besides Momma would know?
Perhaps the oldest person in town. Ms. Mirabelle.
And lucky for me, she’s always at her bookstore. A sun shower starts just as I reach the awning of her store. I look up into the blue sky, hoping for a rainbow. When I was a little girl, Momma used to tell me that sun showers were a good time to go rainbow hunting.
Ms. Mirabelle pushes open the door for me, inviting me in. “Devil’s beating his wife today,” she says, admiring the rain and the sun.
That’s one saying I haven’t heard in ages. Here I am thinking about rainbows, and her old southern ways tell a very different story about sun showers—demon domestic abuse. But my mind is on happier unions.
Placing the ring in her wrinkled hand, she studies it carefully, like she’s unlocking the vaults of decades past in her mind. Unfortunately, her vaults are empty when it comes to the ring, but she holds me hostage with story after story of our town’s history and people. Some I’ve heard before, others not.
She takes the ring and my hand, slipping it on my ring finger. “Maybe it’s your ring, dear,” she says. “Maybe it’s found its owner.”
*
RORKE
The worst part about being a teacher is the politics. You think you’re going to become a teacher, make a difference, inspire the kids—like Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society or some shit. Come to think of it, there was a suicide in that movie. Bad example.
If you’re lucky, you might get one or two of those Oscar-worthy teaching moments. Today, I got the fucking politics of teaching. Mrs. Quaid strikes again, throwing her weight around, demanding her boys not be made to attend summer school, demanding I give them their final over again, insisting I have it out for them. Blah, blah, blah. I swear it’s a wonder more teachers don’t snap under that kind of barrage. But I held my ground.
If the principal chooses to cave to her diva demands, then it’s on him. Can’t believe I wasted half a day of my vacation with this shit. And to top it off, Sterling’s not where she said she’d be. I checked inside her parents’ house, her car is gone, and the backyard is still littered with tools and not quite done.
Pulling out my phone, I check to make sure I haven’t missed a text or call from her—nothing. I’m worried about her after what happened the other night, everything she told me. But I won’t be an overbearing asshole, demanding to know to where she is every second of the day. I won’t do that, no matter how much I worry about her.
I sit on her back steps, assuring myself that she’s fine, and my pissed off feeling is simply leftover from school. Hitting the mail app on my phone, I start to go scroll through when I see one from Sterling. The subject line reads, “Trip to New York!”
The thought of a couple summer trips with her softens my mood. But that doesn’t last long. When I open the email, our flight itinerary pops up. She booked the flights already? Yes, we talked about the dates and times. Yes, we talked about booking them today. But we talked about doing that together. Not her booking us for first class and charging it all to her credit card. Fuck! She might as well have booked a private jet!
It’s not like I haven’t thought about the fact that she makes more money than I do. But thinking about it, telling myself I can handle it, and being smacked in the face with it are two totally different things.
“Rorke, you here?” she calls out.
“Out back.”
“I can’t wait to tell you . . .”
“I just saw it,” I snap.
“You couldn’t have seen,” she says, coming into view.
“New York.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, I did that this morning. I’m not talking about that.”
“And I see you paid for the whole thing, too!” I bark, seeing her whole body deflate like a child’s balloon.
“You’re taking me to New Orleans,” she says. “And I’m taking you to New York.”
“Please, it’s a three-hour drive to New Orleans, and last time I checked, my Jeep didn’t have a first-class section.”
“I don’t usually fly first class. But I wanted to make it special,” she says.
“Do you know the cost of those tickets is more than a week’s pay for me? What the fuck, Sterling?”
“I paid for it.”
“I didn’t want you to pay for it. I don’t need you to pay for it. Jesus Christ, my girlfriend is paying my way. Do you have any fucking clue how that makes me feel?”
Her chest puffs up a little, and I know I’m in trouble. “Rorke, I never thought you were insecure.”
“It’s not insecure. It’s about me wanting to be able to provide for you. What the hell is wrong with that?”
“Nothing. But we are going because I have to go, so it’s my expense. It’s that simple.” She steps closer to me. “You provide for me in all the ways that matter.”
“We both know that’s bullshit,” I say. “I can’t give you the things you’re used to. I can’t take you on vacations and buy you a new car or fancy clothes or jewelry.”
“I’m rich,” she says. “I work hard. I won’t apologize for it. I think we can work out some solutions that make you comfortable. But you have to put your ego aside.”
“Ego?”
“Yes,” she says. “Your big ass ego. I’ve been through this enough times. I’ve seen both types of men. Those who only date me because I have money, and guys that can’t handle the money. I’ve yet to find one who can put the money aside and just focus on the relationship. Is that you or not?”
Damn, she’s got her hand on her hip and the whole bit. My eyes catch a sparkle. “What’s on your hand?”
“Nothing.”
I reach out, taking her hand. It fits her perfectly. It looks like I put it there. “Did you get married while I was gone?”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you before. I found it in the yard when I was planting. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Is it real?” I ask.
“No, but I think it’s beautiful and for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about who it belongs to.”
She keeps talking about how she tried to find the owner, all the people she called and talked to. How Ms. Mirabelle put it on her hand.
“And now it won’t come off,” she says, her skin blushing. “Anyway, I’m not going to give up looking. I read all these stories online about people who’ve lost rings and then had them returned or found them years or even decades later.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s sappy, huh?”
I take her finger, looking down at the ring. She doesn’t even care that it’s fake, only the emotion behind it. Fuck, I’m a Grade A, certified ass wipe. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It was a bad morning.”
“Rorke, don’t make excuses.”
“I don’t want you paying my way, Sterling. It doesn’t sit well with me.”
“You know how little girls always love fairy tales. Prince Charming?” she asks.
“Yeah, so?”
“You know the first character I ever had a crush on?” she asks, stepping a little closer. “It wasn’t a prince or the rich billionaire. It was the farm boy in Princess Bride.”
I used to love that book. “As you wish,” I tease.
“Exactly. This is a business trip for me,” she leans up, nuzzling my nose. “And it’s first class.” I feel my resolve weakening. Not because it’s first class, but because she’s so damn adorable. “And it’s easier to become members of the mile-high club in first class.”
That does it. We both start laughing, and I pick her up, giving her a little twirl. What can I say? I’m a man. The promise of sex can cure just about anything.