My Ex Got Rich to Make Me Regret Leaving

When the handle of the trash bag caught my ring, I didn't even have time to react. The slender silver band slipped to the bottom of the dumpster. My mind went blank. Then I stepped onto the wooden crate beside it and climbed halfway inside. I didn't find it until the third bag, buried in a takeout container. A horn blared, and empty bottles struck my ankle. I turned and saw the face of Noah Reed—the face I had once kissed countless times. The night wind swept through the alley in Aster Heights, and his headlights left me nowhere to hide. I wore an old nightgown, my slippers were splattered with sauce, and a wad of dirty paper towel was still clenched in my hand. He sat behind the wheel in an immaculate suit, his wristwatch catching a sharp glint of light. 4 years ago, in front of his colleagues, I had said he couldn't afford the rent on a decent apartment. Now he was looking at garbage on my slippers. "I'm looking for a ring." His gaze darted to my hand, and he leaned forward slightly. "That ring—" "My husband gave it to me." I hid the silver band in my palm. "3 carats. Very expensive. I can't lose it." He went still. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. "Then take your time." The window rose, and the Lamborghini pulled out of the alley. He didn't look at me again. I stood there a while longer before finally bending down to pick up the two bottles and tossing them in the blue recycling bin. My apartment was on the fourth floor. I shared the kitchen and bathroom with three strangers. My room held only a twin bed and a folding table, with the fire escape right outside the window. As I washed my hands, the couple next door came home, laughter mingling with the sounds of kissing. They knocked twice on the bathroom door and told me to hurry. I didn't answer. I just rinsed the ring over and over. 5 years earlier, Noah had bought it at a flea market in Westhaven. $35—nearly everything he had left that week. He had just passed the bar and was a junior attorney at a small firm. I had just found a job as an editorial assistant, and when my paycheck arrived, my student loans came first. He slipped the ring onto my finger, and I laughed. "Is this a proposal?" "Of course not." His ears turned red. "A proposal needs a diamond. And roses. At the very least, you shouldn't have to calculate your credit card bill while eating pizza." "Then you'd better work hard, Counselor Reed." He made spaghetti that night. He added too much salt, took one bite, grimaced, and picked up both plates to throw it away. I snatched them back, squeezed onto his chair, and shared his glass of water. "If we finish it, the $35 ring won't have been wasted." He laughed and kissed me. After that, whenever he cooked pasta, he always spooned out a little broth and held it to my lips first. Later, I threw his roses into a sidewalk trash can. He said, "Wait for me a little longer, okay? Our life will get better." I said, "You haven't even paid off your own student loans. What are you asking me to wait for?" His hand was still extended, frozen in the act of offering me the flowers. I closed the door. A drop fell from the faucet. I snapped back to the present and put the ring on again. Once my fingertips stopped trembling, I returned to my room and opened my laptop. My to-do list: two serialized chapters, one sponsored article, and a video script for a food blogger. I tugged down my sleeve to cover the ring and began writing the client's slogan, Every day, you deserve to be cherished. It took me three tries to spell cherished correctly.