ELARA
Two rings.
I'd been staring at them.
They sat in my palm, both platinum, both the same clean oval cut—almost identical except for one thing. The first one had a hairline scratch on the inner band, barely visible unless you angled it toward the light. I'd caused it myself, probably, at some point in three years of wearing it. A corner of a desk, a filing cabinet, something mundane. The second one was flawless. It would be.
I'd told Kieran the first one was gone.
That was a lie. I'd taken it off in the hospital the night I said I wanted a divorce, and I'd been carrying it in the zippered pocket of my coat for two weeks before I moved it to the back of this drawer, underneath the Hermès scarf I'd never worn because the burnt orange made me look like I had the flu. I don't know why
