You wear it to dinner that night.
Not with Adrian.
Alone.
You choose a small restaurant with candles on the tables. When the hostess asks if anyone will be joining you, you say, “No,” and feel no shame in the word. You order pasta, red wine, and dessert.
Halfway through the meal, a woman at the next table leans over.
“I love your dress,” she says.
For some reason, that nearly makes you cry.
“Thank you,” you reply. “I made it.”
She smiles. “That’s incredible.”
You sit a little straighter.
Yes.
It is.
Adrian remains patient.
You hate how attractive that becomes.
He does not send flowers to your house. He does not buy jewelry. He does not offer to “take care of everything.” Instead, he sends articles about textile restoration after you mention your mother used to sew. He remembers your coffee order. He asks before calling. He never speaks badly of Caleb unless you do first, and even then, he lets your words have the room.
One Saturday, he asks if he can take you somewhere.
“Where?”
“A place I should have taken you thirty years ago.”
You almost say no.
Then you say yes.
He drives you to the Oregon coast.
Cannon Beach is gray and windy, the ocean restless under a sky full of moving clouds. You walk beside him with your coat pulled tight, your hair whipping around your face. The last time you came here, you were sixteen, barefoot, laughing, with Adrian daring the waves to catch him.
“This place is unfairly dramatic,” you say.
“I thought you liked dramatic.”
“I survived dramatic. Different thing.”
He smiles.
You walk until the tourists thin and the sound of the water fills the space between you.
Then Adrian stops.
“I need to tell you something.”
You tense.
He notices immediately.
“It’s not bad,” he says. “Not exactly.”
You wait.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the old silver ring from the metal box.
The one from the pawn shop.
Your breath catches.
“I’m not proposing,” he says quickly.
You laugh despite yourself. “Good, because I would run into the ocean.”
