Page 70 of Five Stolen Rings
“I know,” I say quickly. “I know. I truly do. I just…” I trail off and then go on, because it needs to be said. “I like you. I like you, and I want you to be happy and functional. I don’t want you to go to jail or get in trouble. That’s all.” My words are small, quiet, but at least I get them out.
And who am I to tell him what to do? But I am trying to be happy and functional myself. I lost sight of who I was after what happened at Smith and Sons; I lost Stella Partridge. But I’m starting to find her again.
I don’t want Jack to lose his future becauseof something that happened in the past—even something as wonderful and worthy as his mother.
The future is more important than what we’ve left behind, and I don’t know that we can wait around for all our wrongs to be righted. Sometimes I think we might have to move forward anyway—even when life has been unfair. Even when the bad guys won, or the other team cheated and beat us down.
I probably won’t get justice for what happened to me. But I think I need to go on anyway, or I’m going to get stuck in the past, and that’s not where my life is.
“Just…think about it,” I say into the silence that’s blossomed between us. “Okay?”
“I—” He breaks off, looking irritated, and then tries again. “She’s coming backtomorrow, Stella.”
I shrug, and he rolls his eyes, a wordless sound of frustration leaving his lips.
“Fine,” he growls, slamming the lid of the box shut. “Fine. I’ll take—” He stops, swallows, and then goes on, through gritted teeth this time. “I’ll take them back.” Every word sounds like it’s being wrenched from him.
“If you take them back,” I say, “you’re not allowed to be angry at me. You know that, right?”
“Yes,” he says—another eye roll—“I know. You’re?—”
I raise my brows, waiting.
“You’re right,” he finally spits out. Then he curses, grabs the box, and storms toward his front door. “Are you coming or not?”
My stomach growls. “Can we get food on the way?”
“Yes,” he snaps, “but you’re paying.”
I just smile.
JACK
Stella freaking Partridge.
I think I might fall in love with that woman—love her wildly, desperately, because she’s beautiful and infuriating and precious, and I’m weak.
A giant, loud part of my brain is screaming at me to shore up my defenses, to reinforce the walls around my heart before Stella breaks them all down; a different, quieter part just wants to look at her for a while, all bundled up in my too-large clothes like a teddy bear.
That quiet part of my brain is the same one asking the question, over and over:Would it really be so bad?
Letting myself love her, when for so long she was the one thing I denied myself—would it really be so bad? Because I’ll tell you this: I don’t want to be her friend. If friends don’t see each other every day, if friends don’t touch or flirt or kiss—and obviously they don’t—I’m not satisfied with that.
I will say, though—who gave Stella permission to be rightabout my mother’s rings? Where does she get the audacity to be correct the one single time in my lifeIwant to be correct instead?
A wave of frustration washes over me, not at Stella but at the situation in general. I could talk to a lawyer, I guess. But I think more efficient would be talking to Maude herself—with thethreatof a lawyer.
I wasn’t close to my father. When he died, I involved myself only minimally in his affairs. But maybe I should have done more.
Still, I can’t deny that there’s a tiny part of me that feels relieved right now—relieved that I’m taking a different path. It’s going to be a longer path, with more hurdles and potholes, and I’m not a particularly patient man, especially when it comes to dealing with nonsense.
But I guess I’ll do it.
“What should I name a cat, if I get one?” I say to Stella, trying to keep my weariness out of my voice.
“Hmm,” she says, and even though I keep my eyes on the road, I see her glance over at me. “Name it Stella.”
A snort of surprised laughter escapes me as I flick the turn signal. “No can do, Stella girl. Pick a different name.”
