Page 54 of The Clinch
She blinks.
“An engagement ring,” I clarify, keeping my voice even.
She sets the glass down with care, shoulders going rigid. Caught off guard.
“It’s optics,” I add, faster than I mean to. “Necessary. We’ll keep it understated.”
She weighs that without helping me out of it.
“Visibility matters. Fire Island’s next weekend.” I don’t say the rest. That the idea of her wearing it locks something down in me I’d rather not examine.
I also don’t say how difficult having restraint is getting. She sleeps ten feet away, and I’m supposed to act like proximity is harmless.
Camp starts mid-August. This ends before then. That’s the line I keep touching to remind myself it’s still there.
“I don’t have to wear it all the time,” she says carefully, testing my reaction.
“No,” I agree. “Just at events. And next weekend.”
That finally pulls her full attention.
“You’re very pragmatic about all this.”
“I am.”
She picks the smoothie back up and takes another sip. “This is good, Brooklyn. I want the recipe for when I’m back at my place.”
My hand tightens around the coffee cup hard enough to matter.
She sets her glass down and pushes off the counter. “Let me go change.”
I stay rooted in place while she disappears down the hall. I rinse the blender twice. Then a third time.
By the time she comes back, she’s changed the temperature of the room. A short summer dress. Bare legs. Sandals. Hair pulled back with loose strands catching sunlight. No makeup worth naming.
Murder on sight.
I keep my face blank on principle. She grabs her bag from the chair. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out later than it should.
She settlesinto the passenger seat of my Rover, tucks one leg under the other, and starts scrolling on her phone.
I pull into traffic and immediately become too aware of everything: the morning sun on her skin, the coconut scent in her hair, the tattoo on her left thigh peeking from the hem of her dress.
Road. Bridge. Traffic. Anything else.
“So,” she says after a minute, glancing over. “Are you taking me to some intimidating diamond bunker where men in suits judge my outfit?”
“Verdura. It’s modern and understated. You’ll like it.”
She laughs, easy and unguarded.
Traffic slows near the bridge. Sunlight flashes across the windshield, then slips away.
“You keep saying it’s optics,” she says into the quiet.
“And?”
