Five Gold Rings

I find it amusing that, in this moment, I am an American girl in an English-style tea house owned by a Japanese woman listening to a Colombian man explain to me about French hens. For Adán Vargas, liking birds is practically a personality trait, but I can see why people put up with it, because his other personality traits are so pleasant. 

Right now, though, it’s difficult to pay attention to anything other than the thin band of gold encircling my fourth finger. So while Adán gushes on, my hands are in my pockets, busy twisting and turning that seamless cage, and my mind is busy pondering its circular infinity. It fits perfectly, but it is still somehow cutting off my circulation.

The fourth finger, I think, is the weakest. It can’t move by itself, physically bound to the stronger digits, and unlike pinky or thumb, it is not at all unique. Its significance is limited to the ring it holds.

“Something’s wrong,” Adán declares, leaning across the counter.

“Hmm?”

“Come on, Eve. You usually at least pretend to be interested.”

“I do?”

“Well, no,” he admits. “But you do usually at least drink your tea. Don’t you like the pear and ginger?”

I take my hands out of my pockets, slipping off the ring, and cradle the warmth of the cup. This is a Korean variety of tea. Yet another country contributing to this moment.

“Hey, did I tell you Masako’s looking for a new part-time employee?” Adán points to a gold flyer on the bulletin board, Help Wanted in elegant cursive font. “Yeah, this place can’t run on just the two of us anymore. Things are changing.”

A twinge of sadness prickles through me. Not sadness. Jealousy. I take a slow sip of my now lukewarm tea. Adán hunches over, focusing on something behind the cash register.

“Have you ever been to Seoul?” I ask after a while.

“No. Nowhere in Korea. So far only Hong Kong, Japan, and Taiwan.”

“I’ve never been anywhere in Asia.” Or anywhere abroad without him.

“Okay,” Adán says, still partly preoccupied.

I briefly fantasize about packing my bags and heading straight to the airport. Taking the longest, farthest flight. Never looking back.

“Ta-da!” He opens his palms to reveal an origami ring, expertly folded from another gold Help Wanted flyer. “Pinkies up?” he says, offering it to me.

I hesitate. “Adán, I . . . "

“I know you don’t need the job. But you spend so much time here, and, well . . . I don’t want the new hire to be someone I can’t stand. Just think about it, okay?”

Just think about it. My eyes roam over Masako's decor, tinsel and holly adorning each rustic mantelpiece. The reason I love it here is that it does feel like an entirely different place sometimes, one far away from this city and this life. 

As a child, one of our family relics brought out at Christmastime were the angel chimes, spinning golden cherubs propelled by the heat of the candles below. If you squinted into the hazy light for long enough, you could trick your eyes into seeing the angels spin in the opposite direction. The illusion only lasted a moment, but I always marveled at how my brain could be convinced of the exact opposite reality. 

Sometimes, as I sit here and drink in the surroundings along with my tea, I can pretend I am the kind of person who comes here for something other than an escape. I am a British diplomat seeking a reminder of home, or a writer feverishly composing poems, or, on the rarest of occasions, a cottagecore lesbian in search of new love.

Adán’s suggestion offers new dimension to these daydreams. I imagine it, a world of tea and scones and origami paper. Independence. Usefulness. A friend who doesn’t know me through a man who is only ostensibly mine.

How would I explain to him a part-time job of this nature? How could I ever balance it with being a fiancé, a bride, a wife? These concerns rise up, but they vanish again as I blur my present and future vision just enough so that working here momentarily appears to be a possibility.   

I slide the paper ring onto my little finger. As I lift the teacup to my lips, they are smiling.

Six p.m. Three hours until I’m meeting him for dinner. I perch on the side of the mall fountain, insulated by the crush of last-last-minute shoppers frantically plundering Target or Macy’s. My heart races as I open my text messages. Amidst the chaos of strangers, it feels safe to do so.

I find Ada's contact, rereading the words she sent to make sure they are real, and not the product of some new fantasy. I savor them.

First, from just a few weeks ago: I’m in town again for Christmas. Nutcracker. Same apartment as before <3.

Ever since I saw the text, I’ve thought about her every day, more so than usual. But every day, he’s been a constant presence, taking care to spend more time with me than ever before. It’s obvious now that it was an investment. And like everything else, it paid off.

For the dozenth time, I ask myself how different things would be if I had seen Ada’s second message before he took me out to the roof this morning, watching me watch the sunrise, descending to one knee and speaking grandly of things I have only ever found in someone else's bed.

When you freeze as absolutely as I did this morning, it is impossible to make the hard choice.

You say yes.

He was so apologetic when the work emergency came up. Either way, I would have been alone today. If anything, his promise to spend all of tomorrow together agitates me more.

My fingers graze the screen, tracing over the text that came in this morning, 8:52 a.m. on December 24th. If I had only seen it earlier . . . 

Does it matter? I am seeing it now.    

Free from 7 on. Would love to see you if you don’t have plans.

What do you say? It’s Christmas Eve, Eve.

What do I say?

“Fancy running into you here.”

Startled, I look up to see a skinny boy wearing a cheap beanie, expensive sunglasses, and an oily grin. Addison Anderson, family friend and entitled cockroach. The last person I want to talk to right now.

Well. Second-to-last.

He plops down beside me on the fountain ledge. “‘Almost seems like fate, that we should find each other in of all this tourist trash.”

“Addison. You’re eighteen. Please stop flirting.”

“Nineteen.”

“Whatever. I have a boyfrien-” This statement catches in my throat, and I cough to disguise it. At this rate, the word fiancé would probably cause me to choke and die.

Addison cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t mind a little competition. You haven’t even heard my proposal yet.”

“Pr-proposal?” Another hoarse stutter. God, if I can’t find my voice around fucking Addison Anderson, how pathetic am I?

“Well, more of a performance, really. You know I collect rare coins, right?”

I ignore him, rubbing my eyes, and then recoil as he makes a grabbing gesture near my ear.

He opens his palm to reveal a dingy gold coin with a large hole in it. “Indian pice. Cool, right? And there’s more where that came from. Enough to take you out on the town for a nice dinner. Maybe order a fine wine.”

“Yeah, hard pass,” I mumble. “Again, I have a boyfriend. And you’re nineteen.”

“I have my ways. Magic, remember? So what do you say?”

What do I say? This time, it's easy. “That I would rather suck every penny in this fountain.”

“Kinky.”

My patience snaps, and I turn on him. “How many ways do I need to say get lost to get it through your thick virgin skull?”

He looks stunned. “Whoa. I thought we were friends, Eve.”

“Friends?” I say, with an unintentionally bitter laugh. God, I love how mean it sounds. Guys like him deserve to get hurt every once in a while. I watch it barrage him, face flushing, fists clenching. He stands.

“Some lucky coin,” he huffs, and chucks it to the floor. 

I watch it clatter against the marble and roll to a stop at my feet.

“Addison,” I hiss through my teeth. “Fuck. Off.”

“Bitch,” he mutters, and flees. 

I flip him off. As soon he’s out of sight, I peel off my glove, pluck up the coin, and slip it around my middle finger. I deserve all the victory tokens I can get.

She asked me to run away with her once. Back in March, the day before her ballet closed and she left town. I remember her propped on a graceful elbow, staring out the window to the street below. I recall wrapping my limbs around her from behind and burying my face in her neck.

One of the many things I loved about Ada Perona: how we fit together. My arms fit around her waist, my tongue fit in her mouth, our legs interlocked perfectly. We became each other’s negative space.

In some ways, the ecstasy of it all added to my justification. What I was doing with her was so completely different from what I did with him. They barely existed in the same universe.

Even now, there is no real guilt, only curiosity at my own guiltlessness. My only regret is not going with her when I had the chance, unwilling to uproot and to expose myself and to risk my own survival. What a coward I was. 

“Come back to Boston with me,” she had said.

I had stuttered and stammered and shut down. When you freeze as absolutely as I did then, it is impossible to make the hard choice.

You say no.

“Can’t you see it?” she had persisted. “You could travel with me, to shows. You’ve always wanted to see other cities.”

I could see it, and that was what scared me. The thinking got to me, worries whirring inside of me like a broken record, and thoroughly immobilizing me, just like this morning when he got on one knee.

Maybe that’s why I refuse to think now. As I shove clothes and possessions into the unfashionable hiking backpack I’ve never used, I strike down every fear that rises up by mentally chanting Ada or Yes or Fuck off. Now that I’ve started saying it it is addictive, not to mention powerful ammunition against my own thoughts.

I decide to pack the engagement ring too, as a trophy. Maybe I’ll sell it, or destroy it.

I slam the door on my way out.

What happens next happens as if in a dream. First, one of ecstasy, as I march, no, float, no, soar down the hallway. I clutch a gold key ring, saved from spring, twirling it around my index finger.

I slide the key into the lock. The room is dark, seemingly empty. She isn’t home? She did say seven, didn’t she? I’m reaching for my phone to check, but then I hear the rustle of sheets, and see the silhouettes.

Both of them.

“What’s going on?” says a soft voice I do not know, and then, “Get out! Do not disturb!” says a melodic voice I do.

She does not recognize me. She takes me for a cleaning lady. It’s been mere hours since she invited me here, and she has already forgotten me.

Not forgotten. Replaced.

I close the door before they can see my chest combust. Before the entire room is stained by the raw and bloody shrapnel of betrayal. Because that’s what this is. When my boyfriend lets me down, it is a normal day. For her to let me down is the end of normality as I know it.

I make my emergency exit, sprinting down hallways, stairs, sidewalks, gasping for air as blood pounds and tears pour. Soon, my run collapses into a jerky gallop, then a stuttering walk. I don’t care, as long as I am moving away.

Inevitably, my breath evens. I almost don’t want it to, because spur-of-the-moment pain blurs reality, reality I am desperate to escape. But my breath slows, and my sobs turn to liquidy blinks. And I walk and walk and walk.

I can’t go back to our house. I made a decision, I jumped, and now there is nowhere to land. Who else can I turn to? My “friends” are all his friends first. 

Instinctively, I think of Adán--but no, he’s barely an acquaintance, I can hardly show up in this state on Christmas Eve. It occurs to me I don’t even remotely know where he lives.

I have no one and nowhere. I really pinned the entirety of my hopes on Ada, on a three-month fling of the past.

The highway roars beside me, and still I walk, stumbling through ditches and cornfields and the darkness that surrounds me. At the first rest stop I come to, my body gives way, and I collapse onto a concrete picnic bench. But immediately the panic sets in, undercutting my exhaustion and reminding me that I could be, should be traveling further still.

So, as a final resort, I drag myself to the nearest street lamp and stick out my thumb.    

She pulls up in a Prius, leans out the window, and at first I think her a hallucination.

It’s been years, and her black hair is much straighter and cut in a sharp asymmetrical bob. But those high cheekbones, pale skin punctuated with moles as if blots from an ink pen, and most of all her eyes that stare right into yours. Unabashed. Unashamed. I wish I knew the feeling.

“Magpie,” I say.

Her eyes widen. “No way. Eve? And here I thought you were just some nicely dressed rando I could give some jewelry to."

"Um, what?"

"Never mind. I gotta say, I never pegged you as a hitchhiker. You on your way somewhere?”

“Just . . . away,” I manage.

Magpie whistles. “I feel that. New place, new start. Well, hey, given you're not a stranger, climb aboard.”

I gratefully lug my backpack into the passenger seat. “Wait. I need to get rid of something.”

“Me too, actually.” She gestures to a trash bag in the backseat. “But I have my own methods.” 

I rifle through my belongings until I find them all, and arrange them for disposal. Origami ring on my pinky, grimy gold coin on my middle finger, keychain and key to Ada’s apartment on my index finger. Finally, ornately crafted engagement ring on my ring finger.

“Hold up.” Magpie turns and fishes in the black garbage bag, before procuring a ring of her own. A simple gold band in a fancy case that must have cost a pretty penny. “I won’t ask if you won’t,” she says, and without another word, slips it onto my thumb.

I clench my hand into a fist. “Now drive,” I say, and she steps on it.

I roll the window down, and Magpie follows suit. We are buffeted by frigid air. We scream. And just as our exhilaration reaches a fever pitch, I tear off all five rings and throw them out the window with all of my strength.

“Are you, like, on something?” It’s been a couple hours, and my fatigue is setting in. I don’t intend to ask the question. It just pops out.

“Just the boring stuff, unfortunately,” says Magpie.

“Sorry?”

“Prescription. Don’t you remember how everyone used to call me Adderall in high school?”

I shake my head. 

“Huh. Well, by senior year I was already Magpie ‘cause I’d started lifting.” 

I remain confused. “Started lifting . . . weights?”

She laughs out loud at that. “You are too much. Shoplifting, Eve. Stealing. You can’t control whether your reputation is destroyed, but you can control why. Play the stereotypes and be the one that works for you, not the one that keeps everyone else quiet and comfortable.” 

“Magpie, I really don’t want to get arrested,” I say.

“I told you, I’m giving away the haul,” she says emphatically. “All of it, to friends or strangers, whatever seems right. I’m starting over. Honest.”

“Nothing shady?” I say, half hating myself for jumping into another situation where someone’s word is all I have to rely on. “You swear? Even with this car, and everything?”

“I’ve had this car since sixteen, thank you very much. Legally,” she adds, seeing my hesitance. “Christ, do you need to see some ID, officer?” 

She fumbles for her driver’s license and shoves it in my face, keeping her eyes on the road. I glance at it, taking in her shaved head and confrontational eyes, and the name printed above it: Magdalinski, Adelina.

Magpie says, “Aren’t these questions you should’ve been asking before you hitched a ride?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I guess I just needed to get out of there as fast as possible.”

Her fingers drum on the steering wheel. “So, what did make you decide to skip town? Last I heard you were dating that bigshot business guy . . . what was it, Adam Something-ton?”

I go to speak but just make a strangled sound of assent.

“Kinda ironic, no?” Magpie continues. “I mean, Adam and E--”

“Don’t!” I practically yell.

She side-eyes me sympathetically. “Probably heard that a hundred times, huh?”

A hundred million. At least.

“So what happened between you two?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Him. Ever.”

A long pause ensues.

“I’m gay,” I say.

Magpie clicks her tongue. “Cool.”

Raindrops on the passenger window blur with artificial light from outside. With my eyes half-closed it almost seems as though the car is standing still, and the streetlamps are the ones moving backwards in retreat. But I won’t be tricked. We will keep moving forward until the past is the illusion, far enough away to be practically out of sight.