Page 73 of Captive

We called, set up an appointment, and now we’re here.

We are greeted by a sales associate, asked if we’re looking for anything in particular, to which Ezra says, “We actually called and have an appointment with the jeweler to appraise a ring for a possible buyback?”

The associate, a middle-aged man, nods once. “Let me go grab Phillip.” He disappears into the backroom, gone for only a few moments before he reappears with an elderly gentleman who instantly introduces himself as Phillip.

Ezra shakes his hand, and then Phillip guides us to the side of the store, where a few chairs are, near the cash register. We sit, and Ezra pulls out the small ring box from his pocket, sliding it over to him.

It’s a waiting game after that. Kind of boring, but at least there are lots of shiny things for to look at while we wait. The old man inspects the ring, using a magnifying glass to look at the diamond, and then he has some handheld tester that apparently can tell real diamonds from fake ones. It must glow the right color, because Phillip nods sagely, though he doesn’t say a word.

“Were you hoping to trade in for store credit?” Phillip finally asks, carefully setting the ring back in the box.

“No, just looking to sell it.”

Phillip must be used to not asking questions. If people are getting rid of jewelry, there’s really only a few reasons why that would be: she didn’t say yes, the return window has passed, or a family member died. Or someone just really needs the money. Hey, you never know someone’s circumstances.

“Very well,” Phillip says, standing. “Give me a few minutes to do some calculations in the back.”

As he disappears to do just that, I cross my legs and study the store around us. There are two other associates beside the one who first greeted us working, and a few people looking at things. Cameras are in every corner of the room, along with those big, overdone signs that say Smile, you’re on camera.

“I’ve never been in a jewelry store before,” I say. “It’s so bright in here.”

“Has to be bright,” Ezra says. “Makes things sparkle more.”

“Makes sense.”

He doesn’t say anything else, and I don’t push it. Now isn’t the time for small talk. This isn’t easy, even though he’s prepped himself for this day for what feels like forever. This is a big step, a hard step, and I just want to be here with him, for support. Royal and Hawthorne said they’d come, too, but Ezra only wanted me.

An eternity later—or more like ten minutes—Phillip returns with an offer in tow. I’m sure everyone who works here is accustomed to haggling for everything, but Ezra takes the offer without a single attempt at trying to get more. He wants to wash his hands of it and be done, and I can’t blame him for it.

Phillip makes it official, and soon enough we are strolling out of the jewelry store with a nice wad of cash.

In the grand scheme of things, it won’t do much for us, but that’s all right. It’s not about the money. It’s about what this step means.

The money, however, isn’t coming home with us. We stop at a grocery store and buy a whole bunch of things—nice towels, various toiletries, feminine products, canned goods, and other types of things shelters might not normally receive like candy, gum, hand-crank can openers. That sort of thing. We take everything we purchased with the cash to a local battered women’s shelter.

It feels good. Not in the same way it feels good to, you know, take the trash out so to speak, but still good. The women and the kids at the shelter need all the help they can get, and with the way society is going, they probably don’t get enough funding as it is.

It’s late in the afternoon when we finally get home, and before we enter the house, Ezra pulls me in for a quick kiss, thanking me again for going with him. “I don’t know if I would’ve had the strength to do it without you,” he whispers.

“Bull,” I tell him as I trail a hand down his jaw. “You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

We enter the house, coming upon Royal and Hawthorne in the kitchen, bickering about what to get for dinner. Friday night is our eat-out night. Or delivery night. Either one. Personally, I prefer getting delivery, because that means we can cuddle on the couch longer.

“Fuck that,” Royal is busy saying. “We just had Chinese last week.”

“I’m not suggesting we get Chinese,” Hawthorne shoots back, “I’m saying we try that new Thai place that opened up on Bourbon Street. Chinese and Thai are completely different, and if you don’t know that—”

He folds his thick, muscular arms over his chest and cocks his head. His charcoal-colored hair is slicked back, not a single piece of it hanging over his black eyes as he gives the other man the worst death glare he can muster. “What? Say it. Go on, say it.”

“If you don’t know that Chinese and Thai are two separate things, then you are an uncultured swine.” Hawthorne shrugs, not backing down under the annoyance of the other.

Before anyone can say anything else, I raise a hand and say, “Do I get a vote in this?”

Royal turns his black stare on me. “Sure. Thai or no Thai?”

What I say next I declare as boldly and proudly as any sane person would, given the argument before them: “Anywhere that has chicken nuggets.” Behind me, Ezra chuckles, but Royal and Hawthorne are not nearly as enthused.

Royal, in fact, mutters, “That wasn’t an option, but, just to wiggle that stick up Hawthorne’s ass, I say chicken nuggets, too. What about you, Ezra? You in the mood for some chicken nuggies?”