Page 48 of Five Stolen Rings
I swallow. I haven’t been very good to him. And I don’t think it’s coincidence that I also haven’t been very happy.
When the song ends, I don’t let go. Jack doesn’t either; not for a long moment. He looks down at me, something torn in his expression, his arms banded tightly around me. Finally he leans in, and for one wild second I think he’s going to kiss me; my heart jumps into my throat. But when his lips touch my skin, it’s not on my mouth—it’s on my forehead.
The lightest kiss, a brand of fire, and so tender I want to cry.
“Goodbye, Princess,” he murmurs, so low I barely hear.
Then he’s gone—sweeping away, through the crowd of happily dancing people.
And I don’t see him again.
STELLA
Do not think about the kiss.Do not think about the kiss.
Here’s the problem with trying not to think about something. The second you remind yourself not to think about it,you’re already thinking about it.
The morning after the Christmas party, I do my best to avoid the memory anyway. I wake up abnormally early, and I’m too restless to fall back asleep, so I get up and do some exercises in my living room.
Byexercises,I mean I lift a heavy stack of books off my bookshelf so I can get to the book I actually want behind them. And when I lower myself onto the couch, it sort of looks like a squat. Everyone knows that reading is basically just exercising your brain.
So I’m counting it.
But even Jane Austen fails to hold my attention today—I’m sorry, Queen Jane—so I meander upstairs and help mymom around the house for a while, until she leaves to go to the market.
Don’t think about the way he sagged with relief when he finally started kissing you, like holding back was taking all of his energy.
No! Stop it.
All right, fine. Don’t think about the way he buried his hands in your hair?—
“Stop!” I say loudly.I pat my cheeks a few times, grateful that my mom has gone. I hurry back down to my basement unit and make myself some food, because there’s something stirring in the pit of my stomach that mustsurelybe hunger.
When my phone rings, I jump so violently that I drop my fork, and my bite of scrambled eggs falls to the floor. Except it sort of bounces, because I am not good at cooking scrambled eggs that aren’t rubbery. I roll my eyes in disgust and then answer the phone, feeling unaccountably annoyed.
“Hello?” I say without even checking the caller ID.
“Stella?” a voice says, and I blink in surprise, my irritation at myself momentarily gone. It’s one of the twins; Lucretia, I think.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, it’s Lucretia,” she says. “So listen, you left your clutch at the party last night—the cute red one?”
Dangit, she’s right.
“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks heating with memories of why I fled the reunion so fast. “I totally did.”
“Oh, no worries!” Lucretia says. “A few of us are having brunch this morning. Do you want to come join us, and you can pick it up?”
“Uh, sure,” I say. I don’t know that I want to eat with anyone from Windsor this morning, but I could just grabthe clutch and leave. It would probably be good to get out of the apartment anyway. I’m not doing anything here but driving myself crazy. “Yeah, I can do that. Where are you meeting?”
“We’re going to Petit Déjeuner,” Lucretia says, her French accent perfect. “At ten. Can you come?”
“Yes,” I say, glancing down at my lounge set. Cute, but not brunch appropriate. “Let me just change, and I’ll head out.”
“Perfect,” Lucretia says, and she sounds genuinely happy. “I’ve got your bag with me.”
“Thanks, Lu,” I say.
