Page 54 of Storm in a Teacup
CHAPTER TWELVE
Linny
On Friday, Carolyn comes out from the back, red rhinestone-decked purse clutched in her hand. “I’m meeting a friend for lunch, so I’ll be closing the shop for an hour.”
I hardly glance at her from where I’m organizing vases on top of an antique dresser. “I don’t mind manning the store for an hour. Or, I guess if you do want to close, I can get some stuff done in the back.”
“You need to have a rest every now and then, Melinda.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Eat a meal. Go up to your flat to say a hello to that cat of yours. Walk over to the café and give that boy a good snog.”
“Ben’s not my real boyfriend,” I remind her.
“A man doesn’t have to be your boyfriend for you to snog him, love. Listen, I don’t care what you do on your own time, but whatever it is, it will be done somewhere other than my shop.”
With her hands, she shoos me out the front door, my feet stumbling beneath me, following behind me and locking the door. When I regain my balance, I fling an arm toward the now locked door. “My phone, keys, and wallet are all still in the back.”
She clicks her tongue like that was my fault, and reluctantly removes one key from her keyring. It’s the key she has to my flat. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly, taking the key. “See you in an hour.”
She waves goodbye as I trudge up to my flat. I do as she suggested and eat a meal sitting down at my kitchen table. Then I say a hello to Oscar Wilde, who is too busy wreaking havoc by climbing to elevated surfaces he should not be able to access to give me the time of day.
If I had my phone, I would be content to slouch into the couch and scroll for the hour, but that is still locked in the store below. I stand with my hands on my hips as I assess my living space, searching for something to do.
On my mail table, I spot a box I have been meaning to put into a more secure location. This small, black velvet box holds Mel’s wedding rings. She gave them to me to keep safe because it eased her anxiety by having them in the city where she’s getting married. I wander over to the table and pick up the box gingerly, like I could break it. I crack it open and stare. This is admittedly not the first time I have done this—gazed at these wedding rings with a tiny inkling of envy. I don’t do it a lot, and I’m really notthatjealous.
I pick up the ring intended for Mel, pinching it between my fingers. It’s a silver band, matching her elaborate engagement ring. It’s simple, but elegant. I love it. It is perfect for her. I wonder…
Without even fully planning to do it, I slip the band on my left ring finger.
I immediately regret it.
This ring is tight. Too tight. I pull at the ring to remove it with no luck.Shit.I twist and turn the ring, but it won’t budge. “Shit,”I say aloud, still yanking at the metal band. It’s stuck. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I search around wildly, trying to figure out what to do. My finger is swelling around the ring. I run to the kitchen sink and douse my hand in dish soap, trying to wiggle it off—but my hands keep slipping and I can’t get a good grip.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t have my phone. Carolyn is out.
But Ben is downstairs.
I’m out the front door of my apartment before I even finish the thought. I push into the café with a clatter. Gemma is behind the counter and says a confused hello to me as I rush past her, offering back little more than a grunt. I push through the swinging door to the kitchen so aggressively that it hits the wall beside it.
Ben whirls around from where he’s working and drops his rolling pin. “Lin? What’s wrong?”
I hold up my trembling hand. “I can’t get it off,” I whine.
He approaches me and gently takes my hand, twisting the ring and trying to pull it off. I squeak in pain as he is not having any more luck than me. He swears under his breath. “Muffin, we might have to take you to hospital and have this cut off.”
I shake my head aggressively. “No, no. We can’t do that. This is Mel’s wedding band.”
His eyebrows raise, but he thankfully does not question why my cousin’s wedding ring is on my finger. He nods once and pivots around, walking away from me.
I let out a frustrated whimper before I realize what he’s doing. He comes back with a bucket of butter. He sets the butter down on the counter beside us, scooping up two fingers full and slathering it all over my hand. He tries to work at the ring, but my hand is shaking too aggressively for him to get a solid grip.
“Let’s sit,” he suggests, keeping his voice calm. I fall to the ground without any more prompting. Ben sits more gently, moving to cage me in his legs. “Like this,” he says, adjusting us so his one leg is propped up and acting like a backrest for me. My legs are bent over his other leg, skirt draping him like a blanket. We are incredibly close.
