He never seems to understand. It’s his constant pity—his sympathy, not his stupidity—that makes me want to kill him.
I take a step forward, lower my voice. “If you are idiotic enough to think I will allow you to be the one to give her this wedding ring, you have clearly underestimated me. I might not be able to kill you, Kishimoto, but I will devote my life to making yours a palpable, never-ending hellscape.”
He cracks a smile. “I’m not going to give her the ring, man. I wouldn’t do that. I was just messing with you.”
I stare at him. I can hardly speak for wanting to throttle him. “You were just messing with me? That was your idea of a joke?”
“Yeah, okay, listen, you are way too intense,” he says, making a face. “Juliette would’ve thought that was funny.”
“You clearly don’t know her very well if you think so.”
“Whatever.” Kenji crosses his arms. “I’ve known her longer than you have, asshole.”
At this, I experience an anger so acute I think I might actually kill him. Kenji must see this, because he backpedals.
“No—you’re right,” he says, pointing at me. “My bad, bro. I forgot about all the memory-wiping stuff. I didn’t mean that. I only meant, like— I know her, too, you know?”
“I’m going to give you five seconds to get to your point.”
“See? Who says stuff like that?” Kenji’s brows furrow; his anger is back. “What does that even mean? What are you going to do to me in five seconds? What if I don’t even have a point? No—you know what, I do have a point. My point is that I’m sick of this. I’m sick of your attitude. I’m sick of making excuses for your crappy behavior. I really thought you’d try to be cool for J’s sake, especially now, after everything she’s been through—”
“I know what she’s been through,” I say darkly.
“Oh, really?” Kenji says, feigning surprise. “So then maybe you already know this, too”—he makes a dramatic gesture with his hands—“news flash: she’s, like, a genuinely nice person. She actually gives a shit about other people. She doesn’t threaten to murder people all the time. And she likes my jokes.”
“She’s very charitable, I know.”
Kenji exhales angrily and looks around, searching the sky for inspiration. “You know, I’ve tried, I really have, but I just don’t know what she sees in you. She’s like—she’s like sunshine. And you’re a dark, violent rain cloud. Sun and rain don’t—”
Kenji cuts himself off, blinking.
I walk away before the realization hits him. Nothing is worth listening to him finish that sentence.
“Oh my God,” he says, his voice carrying. “Oh my God.”
I pick up speed.
“Hey— Don’t walk away from me when I’m about to say something awesome—”
“Don’t you dare say it—”
“I’m going to say it, man. I have to say it,” Kenji says, jumping ahead of me on the path. He’s walking backward now, grinning like an idiot.
“I was wrong,” he says, making a crude heart shape with his hands. “Sun and rain make a rainbow.”
I come to a sudden halt. For a moment, I close my eyes.
“I want to throw up now,” Kenji says, still smiling. “Really. Actual vomit. You disgust me.”
I’m able to manufacture only mild anger in response to this slew of insults, as the feeling dissipates in the face of irrefutable evidence: Kenji’s words belie his emotions. He’s genuinely happy for us; I can feel it.
He’s happy for Ella, in particular.
I experience a pang at that, at the love and devotion she’s inspired in others. It’s a rare thing to find even a single person who desires your unqualified joy; she has found many.
She’s built her own family.
I exist on the outskirts of this phenomenon: hyperaware that I eclipse her light with my darkness, worried always that she will find me wanting. These relationships mean a great deal to her; I have long known this, and I have tried, for her sake, to be more social. To be nicer to her friends. I don’t protest when she asks to gather with the others; I no longer suggest that we take our meals alone together. I follow her around, sitting quietly beside her as she talks and laughs with people whose names I struggle to remember. I watch her bloom in the company of those she cares about, all while I try to drown out their voices, to kill the noise in my head. I worry, constantly, that despite my efforts, I will not be able to be what she wants.
It’s true; I am insufferable.
I wonder whether it is only a matter of time before Ella discovers this fact for herself.
Subdued, the fight leaves my body.
“Either give me the ring or leave me alone,” I say, hearing the exhaustion in my voice. “Nouria and Castle are waiting for me.”
Kenji registers the change in my tone and switches gears, activating in himself a rarely witnessed solemnity. He looks at me for longer than I am comfortable before reaching into his pocket, from which he withdraws a dark blue velvet box.
This, he holds out to me.
I experience an unsettling spike of nerves as I study the box, and collect the object with trepidation, closing my fingers around its soft contours while staring into the distance, trying to collect myself.
I was not expecting to feel like this.
My heart is hammering in my chest. I feel like a nervous child. I wish Kenji were not here to witness this moment, and I wish I cared less about the contents of this box than I actually do, which is impossible.
It’s desperately important to me that Ella love it.
Very slowly, I force myself to open the lid, the delicate objects inside catching the light before I’ve even had a chance to examine them. The rings glitter in the sun, refracting color everywhere. I don’t dare remove them from their case, choosing instead only to stare, heart pounding as I do.
I couldn’t decide between the two.
Kenji told me it was stupid to get two rings, but as I seldom care for Kenji’s opinions, I’d ignored him. Now, as I stare at the set, I wonder if she will think me absurd. One is meant to be an engagement ring, and the other a wedding band—but they are both equally stunning, each in their own way.
The engagement ring is more traditional; the gold band is ultrathin, simple and elegant. There is a single center stone—repurposed from an antique—and though it’s quite large, it seemed to me a study in contrasts that reflected how I saw Ella: both powerful and gentle. The jeweler had sent me a selection of stones, each extracted from rings salvaged from different eras. I’d been fascinated by the unusual faceting of an old mine cut diamond. It had been forged by hand a very, very long time ago and was, as a result, slightly imperfect, but I liked that it wasn’t machine-made. The tedious, painful honing of a dull but unbreakable stone into a state of dazzling brilliance—it seemed appropriate.
Kenji had assured me there was such a thing as a princess-cut diamond, which he thought would be a hilarious choice for Ella, as it recalls his ridiculous nickname for her. I told him I had no interest in choosing a ring based on a joke; neither did I want my wife’s wedding ring reminding her of another man. Besides, when I saw the shape of the stone in question, it felt wrong. The square was too sharp—all hard edges. It didn’t remind me of Ella at all.