Don't Kiss the Bride

His smirk disappears and his nostrils flare. “Lemme get this straight—you think I’m humiliating you by trying to help you get surgery? And you think I’m not normal? Thanks.”

Scowling, he pushes past me, clearly done with the conversation. His bare arm—warm and wet with sweat—rubs against mine, and I resist the urge to touch the place where his flesh touched mine.

“Jude, wait.” I sigh and follow him upstairs, where he goes directly to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I say to his back. “I appreciate everything you do for me. More than I could ever put into words. It just makes me feel bad, like I don’t deserve it. It’s too one-sided.”

He turns, wiping his hands on his towel. “You should be more worried that you think you don’t deserve it and less worried about me just being a nice guy.”

The truth hurts. I don’t believe I deserve his help.

“You’re right,” I admit.

“You want me to be an asshole, Sparkles? ’Cause I can be one if the nice me humiliates you too much. I can go back to the self-destructive, don’t-give-a-fuck-about-anyone, selfish douche I was a few years ago.”

“No.” I shake my head back and forth, sickened by the thought of him being an asshole. “I wouldn’t like you that way.”

“Then don’t make me feel like I was better off like that.”

“Okay,” I say, softening my voice. “I don’t want you to feel like that. But I also don’t want to feel like a charity case. I refuse to take any more money from you. It makes me feel like shit, like I’m using you. And it scares me when I feel like I can’t take care of myself. It makes me feel like I’m drowning. I need to pay my own bills.”

Easier said than done when my medical bills are exceeding my small paycheck. The initial tests I had at the hospital came with a lot of unexpected, out-of-pocket bills, totaling close to three thousand dollars. I’ll be making payments forever. And now this sudden dental bill. It’s never-ending.

Is someone my age really supposed to have all this financial stress?

“I totally get what you’re saying, believe me. But how are you gonna pay for all this?” Jude asks, his voice softer.

“I don’t know, obviously. I guess I’ll figure something out.”

Sighing, he looks down at his feet then back up again. “I guess you could sell your wedding band. I paid three grand for it.”

My heart leaps up into my throat at that admission. I had my suspicions the ring had real gems in it, but hearing that he actually bought me something so beautiful and expensive is a total shock.

“Jude…” I swallow and try to ease the emotion out of my voice. “Why did you buy something so expensive? I don’t—”

“What?” he interrupts, his gaze challenging mine. “You don’t deserve it?”

“No,” I say, close to tears. “I don’t.”

Disappointment darkens his eyes. “You’re wrong. You do.” His voice lowers. “Maybe I was trying to show you that.”

My mouth has gone dry. I lick my lips. “I’m not going to sell my ring.”

Even though I don’t wear the ring in public, I wear it alone in my room at night. I sit on my bed and move my hand back and forth, marveling at how the diamonds sparkle in the light like itty-bitty stars. I fantasize that it’s real—that the meaning and the vows behind it are real, and I have a person who loves me more than anything and wants to spend his life with me and only me. The daydream is so much better than the truth—which is that my life has turned into some kind of strange soap opera.

He glances at my bare ring finger, and I wonder if he wanted me to wear it every day, just like a crazy part of me was hoping he’d wear his.

“Why not?” The corners of his eyes narrow a fraction. “It’s just a ring. Right?”

Clearly, it’s not just a ring to either of us.

I jut my chin forward. “Because it means something to me, and I can count on one hand the number of things I own that have any value or special meaning to me.”

He leans back against the counter. Looking down at his hands, he cracks his knuckles, then slowly raises his gaze back to me. He cocks his head to the side, as if he’s gauging me. “How about this. I’ll give you six grand for your car,” he says evenly. “Cash.”

I suck in a quick breath. His offer is like a punch straight in my gut. He knows how important the Corvette is to me. The extreme sentimental value it has. He knows I’d never give it up. But he also knows I’m in a financial bind with no options. I can’t deny the awful truth—that kind of money would let me have the dental procedure, pay off my bills, and have a cushion in the bank—something I’ve never, ever had, and desperately need.