Page 117 of The Ring
Did he make it more his style?
A thought crosses my mind—did he keep remodelling the house, planning for a life here with someone else?
Is that why he never mentioned the house after we broke up?
Maybe I should leave, but curiosity wins over. “Can I see it?”
“Of course, it’s your house,” the woman replies, both of them moving towards the stairs, and I follow them.
As we make our way upstairs, I ask, “Was any part of downstairs, like the living room, ever destroyed?”
“Yes, thefuckingbandits,” the man replies. So, I didn’t imagine it. “They made a proper mess. Even ruined the floor with the paint.” My stomach drops. I hadn’t realised I’d done that, but I supposed I should have—it was wood. “And all the furniture they smashed.” He shakes his head. “What rotten luck it was that TJ left the door unlocked, and there wasn’t a trace of evidence.”
So that’s the explanation TJ gave for what happened. He told everyone the house had been vandalised, covering for me. There’s no way he didn’t know I was the one responsible. There are cameras in the house.
“Fortunately, he managed to replace everything. You can hardly tell, right?” He looks down at me, waiting for a response.
I force a smile and nod.
How did TJ manage to replace every single thing? Some ofthem were one of a kind. Others were pieces we had picked up at small markets in different countries. I don’t even remember where some of them came from.
We reach the second floor, and they continue up. I glance back at them. “We’ll be upstairs finishing up—call if you need anything,” the woman tells me.
“Thank you,” I reply as they head up the stairs.
I turn to the master bedroom. The brown doors are closed.
I take a moment before pushing open the double door and stepping inside—gasping.
This room is…
Superb.
Flawless.
Perfect.
There aren’t enough words to describe what I’m seeing.
If I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it was real.
Every single thing I once talked with TJ about wanting in a room is here. The brown walls with mouldings, the crystal chandelier, the cream headboard and footboard, the baby blue bedside bench, the painting above the bed, the white rug beneath it, the sitting area by the windows with the brown Queen Anne chairs, the cream chaise longue in one corner of the room, and a brown vintage glass cabinet with multiple displays inside—to hold some of my jewellery.
I keep walking, reaching the bathroom. The walls are covered in green tiles, a circular bathtub sits against the wall, and a round mirror hangs above the sink. The shower and toilet each have their own separate rooms. It’s the exact bathroom I once saw on Pinterest. TJ recreated it completely.
I go to see the last part of this floor—the closet.
It’s an oval-shaped room, entirely covered in rich brown wood. The cabinets are curved, the design more minimalist,with plenty of storage and an island in the centre for jewellery. I can see what the man meant about a few minor things missing—the handles haven’t been installed yet—but even so, it’s perfect.
The closet, the bathroom, the bedroom—everything.
I go back to the bedroom and sit on the bed, taking it all in. The attention to detail, the care TJ put into choosing every piece. How much time he must have spent. How he remembered things I had mentioned so long ago, things I had even forgotten myself.
If to be seen is to be loved, then no one will ever love me like TJ does.
My eyes fill with tears, and before I know it, they’re slipping down my cheeks. Normally, I would wipe them away and try to compose myself, as there are other people here, and I hate the thought of anyone seeing me cry.
But right now, I don’t do it.
