Page 101 of The Ring
Of course, she wouldn’t let me win. She has to make me feel even more jealous. Cornelia takes her pinky finger, adorned with an emerald-cut diamond ring, dips it slowly into the sauce on her plate, and then brings it to Benedict’s mouth, feeding it to him.
I know she’s doing this intentionally—it’s something I love her doing with me. Half of the pinky rings she owns werebought by me. There’s something so damn sexy about her fingers, especially her little pinky finger when it has a huge diamond. But she’s not doing it with me; she’s doing it with him.
For a second, my heart races and rage grows as I think about how few times—and under what special circumstances—she’s done this with me. For Cornelia, this is more intimate than sex, and I can’t stop thinking about what it means that she’s doing it with Benedict.
But then I see her holding her pinky apart from her other fingers, the way she does when she touches something dirty or sticky. She’s back to watching the waiter, but every few seconds her eyes flick to her finger, and I know she’s trying to forget about it but can’t. She wants nothing more than to go to the loo and wash her hand, but she doesn’t want me to know. My lips twitch slightly. The few times she did that with me, she never did.
Still, I’ve made up my mind. I don’t want to be him. I want to kill him. I’m the only one who should get to experience those things with her.
I want to punch him so badly that he’ll never want to be near Cornelia again. Or throw him out the window. I’m fine either way.
I get up from my seat. “I’m going to the restroom.” If I don’t get away from this table for a few minutes, I’m going to actually punch him, not just fantasise about it. And it’ll give Cornelia the chance to run to the loo to wash her hands, thinking I didn’t notice, but I did.
Chapter 61
Cornelia
Ihate to admit it, but if Weberly weren’t dating TJ, maybe we could be friends. She’s witty, well-informed about politics, culture, and economics, and has a dark sense of humour I could get used to.
I had thought she was the stereotypical ex-famous actress who wanted to marry into money—silly, plain, vapid, one-dimensional, and only interested in expensive things.
I try to avoid stereotypes, even for people I don’t like, but it’s harder than I’d like to admit. Still, I should try harder because if we’re relying on stereotypes, mine would be spoiled and entitled, and I don’t consider myself either of those.
We’re on the last course of the tasting menu, thank God. I’m finally beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel of this dinner. It seems we may all make it out unscathed—if we can keep the ball rolling. I can feel the tension bubbling up, but it’s not between Weberly and me. It’s coming from TJ and Benedict, and I’m afraid that even the slightest spark could ignite a full-blown fire. They’ve been shooting glares at each other for the past twocourses.
“Is there something wrong with your dessert?” Benedict asks me.
For the past three minutes, TJ, Benedict, and Weberly have been tasting the dessert and talking about it, mostly Weberly. I haven’t touched mine. I have just been moving it around the plate to create the illusion that I have. It’s not because I’ve eaten too much—I haven’t. I don’t eat much during tasting menus. I’m a picky eater, and the list of things I don’t like is ten times longer than the list of things I do, and most of those always seem to end up on the menu. It’s also not that the dessert falls onto my ‘I don’t like to eat’ list—I do fine with most sweets. It’s because when we chose from the two dessert options, I picked the one everyone else chose without realising it had pistachios. I don’t want to ask for a replacement, though, because that would extend this dinner, and I just want it to end.
I was about to answer, but TJ beat me to it. “She’s allergic to pistachios.”
“You are?” This isn’t something I’ve told him, and I think he doesn’t trust TJ as a source.
“Yes, but not severely. I just get a few hives,” I try to minimise it. I don’t want him to feel bad for not knowing.
“A few?” TJ repeats in disbelief. “You get covered in them. I once took you to the hospital because they got so bad, and you felt swelling in your throat.”
I glare at him. The swelling was more of a compulsive thought than something that actually happened. I do get very bad hives, and my doctor warned me it could get worse, bad enough to close my throat, but that hasn’t happened yet.
“I’m sorry, I should have known,” Benedict mutters, sounding more sorry than someone should about this.
“Maybe you don’t know her well enough,” TJ deadpans, and there it is—the spark I was trying to avoid.
Benedict crosses his arms. “And you do?”
“I know her favourite colour is baby blue, but her favourite colours to wear are black and white. And while baby blue is her favourite colour, she doesn’t like it in many things. I know she prefers gold jewellery but will wear silver if it goes better with the outfit. I know her favourite jewellery brand is Jessica McCormack, and her favourite clothing brand is YSL.” He’s been looking at Benedict this whole time, but then he pauses, turns, and looks at me before continuing, “I know her favourite flowers are white peonies. I know she’s never broken a bone that required surgery, but at thirteen, she fractured her left index toe falling down the school stairs while running afterme. I know she can’t choose a favourite cake flavour between chocolate and red velvet. I know her birthstone is diamond, which is her favourite precious stone, followed by sapphire.” He returns his gaze to Benedict and finishes, “And I can goallnight. So yes, I know her better thanyou.I know her better thananyone.”
I’m speechless. There are many reasons why moving on from TJ has been difficult. The biggest one is that I love him more than I ever thought I could love someone. He just reminded me of another one—he knows me better than anyone else. No matter how long I date Benedict, that won’t change. We have known each other for years, seen each other at our best and worst; nothing can undo that.
Whether we want it or not, we are weighed down by our history—permanently connected by it.
Benedict glares at TJ, which is a shift from his usual calm demeanour. “Do you know why she changes jewellery constantly, except for that one ring?”
Neither of them knows. When someone asks, I get evasive. Benedict is only bringing it up to get back at TJ. If anyone has even the slightest idea why I favour that ring over all others, it would be TJ.
TJ was about to speak, but Weberly cut in. “Can we put an end to this testosterone-fuelled pissing contest?” I second that. “It doesn’t matter who knows her favourite flowers or what face cream she slathers on at night. What matters is whom she loves the most.” She picks up her phone and waves it. “And I have the answer to that here.”
I blink a few times.
