Page 94 of Hate You More

She rolls her eyes. For some dumb reason, I love that she does. “I’ll only accept if you accept this is only a loan.”

“Sure, whatever.” My turn to roll my eyes, though more in tone.

“Okay.” She fights a smile. “Well, let’s have a look at what’s in store for the next Mrs. Templeton.”

My brows pinch together because that sounded wrong. I’m gonna say she didn’t like it, either, as she crosses the room. She lifts the box from my hand, and with a soft catch of the hinge, opens it. Her eyes meet mine over the lid.

“Troy, it’s . . .”

“Antique. Cartier. From the 1930s.” When the jewelry house was seen to be exclusive, so the guy behind the counter said. The ring is kind of architectural; three bands of platinum and a literal fuck ton of diamonds. “The guy said it’s a bombé-fan form, whatever that means.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers, handing me the box back as she slips it on. “It looks like something my grandmother would’ve worn.” That was the idea, after seeing those earrings. “So glamorous,” she whispers, holding out her hand to study it. “How did you know what size?”

“You left your ring on the nightstand, so I took it with me.”

“You took my piece of . . .”

“Shit ring?”

“To a fancy jeweler?”

I shrug. It wasn’t so much a jeweler. The guy called the place the world’s premier dealer of museum-quality decorative arts, but whatever. “What does he care? I was spending money.” Quite a bit of it, as it happens.

“I was talking about you. Weren’t you embarrassed?”

It’s my turn to pull a face now. “It’s like you don’t even know me, wife.”

She bursts out laughing at that. I’m gonna say the sheen in her eyes is down to laughter and decide not to tell her I went to Tiffany first, but that nothing there seemed right for her.

“But I’ll definitely give it back when—”

“Now you’re trying to offend me.” My expression? Exasperated and mildly put out. I want her to have it. I can’t see it on anyone else’s finger.

“But you agreed.”

“Well, now I’m disagreeing. I’m not taking it back, because it’s a gift. From me to you, so take the damn thing, and stop making a song and dance about it.”

Her huff of breath sounds like exasperation, but then her arms come around my middle. “Thank you. I don’t remember the last time anyone . . . Just thank you.”

The sincerity, just the meaning of those words, makes my heart hurt for her. But it’s my heart I need to guard because, last time I let her close, she was nothing but careless with it.

Chapter 26

Troy

Past

It isn’t my first time in Clara’s parents’ house. But it is the first time I’ve entered through the front door. Not that the back door is much safer territory, depending on the time of day and where my mother is. The way I see it, there’s no need to worry her any more than she already does.

“Just . . . take care, ya hayati.” My life. It’s what she’d said before I left to walk over this evening. I know she wanted to say more, but she wouldn’t let herself.

She’s had a lot of practice swallowing her words. First as a means not to provoke my asshole father’s blows. And now she does it to keep a roof over our heads.

“It’s fine. It’s just a party.” I pressed my hands to her shoulder, bent, and pressed a kiss to her graying head. Then left without a second glance.

I cross the graveled walkway and round the house, glancing up at the trellis under Clara’s window. Not in this suit, I think with a tiny grin. And then I’m at the door, cheap suit and all. And then I’m standing out like a turd in a punch bowl in a foyer that could belong to a European manor. Double height, black and white marble tiles, and a staircase built for showcasing.

People mill around, moving in and out of adjoining rooms as harp music flows from someplace nearby. It’s not piped Muzak but an actual fucking harp. When Clara said that, I found myself wondering who in this century thought to themselves, You know what would make me more friends at school? If I could play a really cool instrument. Like the harp. Bitches love the harp.