I shifted uncomfortably. “Not really. I mean… she knows I’m disappointed. But I’m trying to keep it together.”
She shook her head. “You need to talk to her, Adrian. You know, communication? That thing couples are supposed to do before they get married?”
Teresa had a point. I’d been holding a silent grudge, letting my resentment bubble up beneath the surface, because on the outside, it was easier to pretend I was fine. But inside, I was a mess.
Saturday came, and Marina and I drove to a quaint jewelry store she’d found in an old part of town. It wasn’t a fancy boutique with bright lights and glass cases; it was more like a cozy, antique shop—wooden shelves, faded wallpaper, and a gentle old dog sleeping in the corner. A petite woman with kind eyes introduced herself as Georgina, the owner. Marina immediately seemed at ease, scanning through a set of velvet trays laid out on a weathered wooden counter.
Meanwhile, I was pacing around the shop, pretending to admire the décor but really just bracing myself for the moment we’d pick out “the other ring.” Eventually, Marina called me over. She had three rings in front of her—a delicate rose gold band with a moonstone, a vintage 1920s-style piece with engraving on the side, and a striking emerald-cut diamond set in a scalloped band.
I exhaled slowly, trying to force the tension out of my shoulders. “Which one do you like?” I asked quietly.
Marina studied each ring, then glanced at me with a soft smile. “Honestly? I’m torn. They’re all so pretty. But I don’t just want pretty. I want something that speaks to me, that holds some kind of meaning for us.”
I gave her a small grin, in spite of everything. “So, how do we figure out which one has the meaning we want?”
She turned to Georgina, who pulled out a small black notebook. “Every ring here has a story,” Georgina said. She opened the pages and began pointing. The rose gold band had once belonged to a musician who traveled the country by train in the 1940s. The vintage 1920s ring was sold by a woman who wanted to cover medical expenses after her mother fell ill. The emerald-cut diamond was a custom design crafted by a local artisan who believed each piece should align with a couple’s love story.
We listened carefully, both of us spellbound by the histories of these rings. By the end of it, Marina’s eyes glistened with tears. I felt a lump in my throat, too, finally understanding that this process wasn’t about rejecting me—it was about embracing something that would weave our story into its design.
