Page 85 of Five Stolen Rings
I barely catch it because I’m so surprised. When I look at my stepmother with a gaping mouth, she frowns.
“You may find this difficult to believe,” she says, “but it’s nice to see you so fired up about something. Take the rings if they mean so much to you. I have no use for them anyway.”
And it truly is not possible for my jaw to drop any lower. “I’ve asked you for them in the past,” I say incredulously.
“Yes,” she says, the word careless, like she’s already losing interest. “But that’s different from trying to steal them, isn’t it?”
“I—”
“Do you know how to fix my window?” she goes on.
“What?” I say. The word is weak as it leaves my mouth, because I’m not sure my brain is functioning properly.
“My window,” Maude says impatiently. “The one you crawled through at your leisure while I was gone. Do you know how to fix it?”
“I—probably,” I say, taken aback. “Yeah. I could fix it.”
She nods sharply. “Do that, and I won’t call the police. And you,” she barks at Stella. “You owe me several rolls of plastic wrap, I believe.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Stella says as her leg begins to bounce again.
“Send me an invoice for your services via the payment app of your choice,” she goes on. “You have my number.” Then Maude stands up, adjusting her sparkly purple…dress? I think it’s a dress. We’re clearly being dismissed. But on her way out of the room, she looks over her shoulder.
“There’s an architecture firm in Boulder,” she says to Stella. “Newer, but very good work. If you’re open to someplace smaller than your previous company, try Steadman’s.”
“Steadman’s,” Stella echoes, sounding dazed.
And with one last nod, Maude sweeps out of the room.
STELLA
My parents could not be more thrilled that Jack and I are now a couple. My father, bless his sweet heart, is genuinely shocked—he picked up on absolutely nothing yesterday.
He has strengths in other arenas.
Jack comes over on Christmas morning, still in his pajamas (my instructions) and without having eaten breakfast (my mother’s instructions). The four of us eat cinnamon rolls on the couch while watching the 1966 Grinch. We open presents afterward, at which point my mother presents Jack with five wrapped gifts of his own.
“Just a few things we put together,” she says, beaming. She got up early with me to go to Walmart, and I love her for it. Jack looks just as shocked to be handed his own gifts as my dad looked when he found out we were dating.
I think it’s been a very long time since he spent Christmas with anyone that felt like family.
“I have something for you,” he tells me later that day, when we’ve snuck out of the living room and into the kitchen for more cinnamon rolls.
I eat mine straight out of the pan with a fork. “I have something for you too,” I say with my mouth full, and Jack wrinkles his nose.
“Chew and swallow, you heathen,” he says. Then he grabs the fork that’s halfway to my mouth and pops the bite into his own instead.
“Hey,” I say, but I’m smiling. I reclaim my fork and nod to the pocket of my pajama pants. “Look in my pocket.”
“Now, now, Stella girl,” he says as a grin unfurls on his face, a wicked glint in his eyes. “It’s too soon for that kind of thing, don’t you think?”
I lick my fingers one by one and then reach into my pocket myself, pulling out the bracelet I made.
“Here,” I say, waving it in his face. When he doesn’t respond, I snap my fingers. “Jack,” I say.
He startles, his eyes wrenching away from my lips. “Huh?” he says. “Oh—” But when his gaze falls on the bracelet, his expression softens. “Look at that, Princess. We thought alike.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bracelet of his own, deep purple and braided.
I tie his onto his wrist, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. He smells like spearmint and cologne and home, and I like the sight of him in his pajamas in my family’s kitchen. I like the gentle way he ties my bracelet on next, with steady and practiced hands.
