OneThat had better not be an engagement ring.I set the pile of socks and underwear on top of the antique dresser, the one Ollie’s had since we got together five years ago. It was scavenged from Allston Christmas—the local name for the explosion of detritus, some of it shockingly valuable, left behind by lazy college students when they graduated—and he’d shored it up structurally, working magic with sandpaper and surgical applications of wood glue. Most of our décor was similarly salvaged, but the dresser had always been my favorite, maybe because he’d still been working on it when we started dating, the smell of sawdust and the faint hint of sweat as he brought it back to life—the careful, repetitive motions of sanding and planing carving out the lean muscles of his arms in a way that sent my blood rushing south—forever inextricable from the hormonal rush of new love.
Today, though, the hulking dresser just felt forbidding, the dark color he’d coaxed the wood to soak up a visual “stay away, evil resides here” warning, one I clearly should have heeded. I reached my hand into the drawer tentatively, half-afraid it had sprouted fangs.
The tiny jewelry box was tucked in the very back corner, the nap on the navy velvet worn away in places. It might not be an engagement ring, right? Still . . . what else could it be, a nuclear bomb? It felt like one. Stomach tight with anxiety, I plucked it out with two fingers, like touching it might contaminate me. I flipped open the top and my stomach dropped.
It was a ring. A beautiful yellow gold ring, with delicate filigree work cradling a teardrop ruby, tiny chips of diamond bordering the main stone. I’d seen it at least half a dozen times before—it had been Shelly’s grandmother’s, and though it had usually been passed down mother to daughter, Ollie’s sister, Lily, had made it very clear that it “didn’t match her aesthetic.” Luckily, as their mother Shelly regularly noted, voice tinged with fondness, Ollie was “the romantic of the family,” which had apparently moved her to shake things up by giving it to him.
As proven by the appearance in our apartment of what was clearly intended to be an engagement ring, one he was hiding from me. This was what I got for doing his laundry. It was like the universe was punishing my stereotypically wifely good deed with particular irony. God forbid I ever cook us dinner, I might wake up pregnant with a shoe allergy.
Before I could lose my nerve, I yanked the ring out and slipped it onto my ring finger, hoping it would somehow . . . I don’t know, transform me? Magically transmute my anxiety into certainty? It should make me feel something. Ideally something good.
I glanced up at the large oval mirror above the dresser, the slight foxing at the edges showing its age. The woman staring back at me looked like she had it together. Long caramel-brown hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, a breezy ivory silk tank top tucked into wide-legged sailor-style pants, buttons marching down the front from the high waist, subdued makeup except for the cherry lips, the one pop of color on an otherwise neutral canvas. And now a delicate ruby ring on her left hand, a soft but insistent symbol that she was taken. Permanently.
My lungs tightened as I gazed at the reflected red stone—had someone just sucked all the oxygen out of the room? Be reasonable, it’s a little strip of metal and a rock, I told myself. It can’t hurt you. Anyway, it’s a good thing that the man you love wants to commit to you forever.
But god, forever was such a long time. Even rocks—presumably even beautiful blood-red gems—got worn away by forever. And I loved Ollie, obviously—he made me laugh more than anyone I’d ever met, he got me to try new things—but it’s not like our relationship was perfect. And even if it were, how could a feeling as ephemeral as love endure something as relentless as forever? I certainly hadn’t ever seen it happen.
A wave of bile crept up my throat and I frantically tugged at the ring, wincing as it caught on my knuckle. Hands shaking, I gave it another yank, hard enough that it nearly flew out of my hand as it came off, then I tucked it in its satin bed, closed the box top, and jammed it back into the drawer, piling Ollie’s underwear on top and slamming the drawer closed for good measure.
He’d never know I’d been in there. Or . . . I was ninety-three percent sure he wouldn’t. Ollie was a true creative, which often came out in charming ways—the theme parties he’d plan in great detail, to the delight of all of our friends; the scavenger hunt he set up for me on our second anniversary—but sometimes was just maddening, at least for a confirmed Type A like myself. Completely forgetting about the concept of laundry until his last pair of underwear had been worn, leaving him literally butt-naked, was an example of the latter variety. It was why, four years into cohabitation, we still maintained separate hampers. When I had done his laundry in the early days, carried along on clouds of still novel nesting, he never seemed to realize his drawers had somehow magically been restocked, until I barked at him about it at the end of a particularly frustrating workweek. He’d thanked me, then gently reminded me that he hadn’t expected it, hadn’t asked for it, and, given my reaction, frankly didn’t want it. I’m capable of doing my own laundry, Laurel, I did it for years before we met. But I can try to do it sooner if it’s that stressful for you. He hadn’t really succeeded, but the complete sincerity with which he’d made the promise had been enough to douse my temper, and for the most part I’d tried to live and let launder.
A cloud of steam burst into the bedroom from the en suite and I jumped back, feeling caught in the act, even though the evidence had already been dealt with.
“Everything alright, Lo?” I glanced over to where Ollie leaned against the door frame, a towel slung low around his hips, just-too-long curls tendriling from the shower. Ollie had the kind of dark, almost feminine beauty that felt a little dangerous, all heavy eyelids and thick dark lashes and full lips permanently quirked in the sort of half-smile that promised a naughty secret. At thirty-one he still had the lean, ropy muscles and lightning metabolism of a man ten years younger, hints of a six-pack and sharp vee-lines visible despite the fact that he never deliberately worked out, just biked everywhere. Dark hair still glistening with damp trailed from his chest to his pelvis, disappearing beneath the towel like a provocation. Embers stirred at the pit of my stomach, my desire for him undeniable, if not as all-consuming as it had been when we first got together. Back then, I’d have already been stripping off my carefully chosen work uniform and pulling him on top of me.
Hell, back then I would have already been running half an hour late because I’d have been in that shower with him.
Now, though, I simply blinked and exhaled an awkward little laugh, striding away from his dresser toward my own, bending over to focus on my reflection as I applied another (unnecessary) coat of lipstick.
“Thought I saw a centipede.”
“Is Bubs sleeping on the job again? That cat promised me he’d earn his keep this month.”
“Don’t worry, Bubs is in the clear. Just a dust bunny.”
“Okay. But if he starts eating my yogurts again and not replacing them, when I’ve clearly labeled them with my name, we’re gonna have words.”
Ollie moved up behind me, his languid grin appearing over my shoulder as he wrapped an arm around my waist from behind.
“What are you all dressed up for?”
“My job?” I laughed, rolling my eyes and pulling away slightly. Even though part of me—a large part—wanted nothing more than to dissolve into his embrace, I couldn’t risk it. I could already feel his damp soaking into my shirt, and my latest promotion to a VP role at Pixel was too recent for me to start showing up to work looking like I’d panic-sweated through my top. Looking the part was a very important element of convincing everyone that you deserved it. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m kind of a big deal.”
“As your kept man, it’s my favorite thing about you. Well . . . second favorite.” He turned to nibble my earlobe, his hand moving downward over my stomach to find the now roaring heat between my thighs.
Copyright © 2025 by Jilly Gagnon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
