Parting March

Scott arrived at the hospital three days later, a bouquet of flowers in hand. He settled into the chair beside Dennis’s bed, and the two men spoke in quiet, measured tones.

When Christine pushed the door open and saw them there, a genuine smile finally touched her lips—the first in what felt like forever.

Then her gaze caught the bare skin of his right ring finger. The simple band that was always there was gone. A dull ache bloomed in her chest.

Noticing her, Dennis quickly urged them to go out for a walk. "There’s no need for an old man like me to keep you company. Scott, since you have time today, spend it with Christine."

Scott nodded and stood, his hand naturally reaching for hers. "Let’s go."

The warmth of his palm… she hadn’t felt it in so long. It was a warmth she couldn’t bear to pull away from, and she followed him out without resistance.

So easy to appease. The slightest kindness made her forget all his earlier coldness.

"Scott," she ventured cautiously, "could we… go to the beach today? Watch the sunset…"

When they were dating, he used to love taking her to the shore. She’d lean against his shoulder, watch the sun sink below the horizon, and later they’d set off fireworks in the gathering dark.

Back then, she’d been the happiest girl in the world.

Scott didn’t answer, but he turned the car toward the coast anyway.

Perhaps his unexpected compliance made her bold—reckless. The question that had been lodged in her throat for days tumbled out. "Where’s your ring?"

He glanced at his own bare finger, then at the simple band still circling hers. An inexplicable irritation rose in him. "It was cheap," he said, his voice cold. "Doesn’t really fit anymore."

Cheap?

Christine stared at him, disbelief widening her eyes. Those rings—he’d hand-filed them himself. When he’d proposed, his fingers were still nicked from the metal file. She’d cried then, moved beyond words.

And now he called it cheap.

What did that make her, then, who still wore hers like a priceless treasure? Who clung to the memory of that love every single day?

Was she cheap, too?

Or was his love for her the cheap thing?

"You can take yours off as well," Scott continued, eyes fixed on the road ahead. His words were like a blade, plunging straight into her heart. "After all, a ring like that really doesn’t suit someone of your standing." As if that weren’t enough, he added, "You’re the daughter of the Dennis family. There’s no need to lower yourself for a poor guy like me."

"I never thought that!" she denied urgently. She’d always feared their difference in status would create a barrier between them. "I’ve never thought that way."

She loved him for who he was. His wealth—or lack of it—had never mattered.

"You should think that way," Scott said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. It seemed to mock himself.

Part of him truly wished she were that kind of person—vain, entitled. It would make hurting her so much easier, free of this gnawing guilt. But she wasn’t. She was just… good. So good it felt like a crime.

Neither of them spoke after that.

When they reached the beach, Scott saw her listless expression. He took her hand again and led her slowly across the sand into the sea breeze, toward the swing they always used. Sitting her down, he began to push, gentle and rhythmic.

Just like before.

Except Christine wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t chattering away. She sat in silence, docile as a lamb.

She didn’t know if coming here had been right or wrong.

"Scott," she said, tilting her head back to look up at him. "If something’s making you unhappy… you can tell me."

Scott’s hands stilled on the swing ropes. He looked down at her earnest face, her pleading eyes, and for a long moment said nothing.

"If it’s something I did… I can change," she pressed, slipping off the swing to stand before him. She took his hands in hers, looking up at his imposing height. "I’ll change. I promise."

It was the second time she’d asked this. The last fragments of her pride dissolved, leaving nothing but ashes in her mouth.

"No," Scott said, his tone final. "It’s not you."

Some things, once done, can’t be undone. Like a hole burned through plastic—the edges ragged, warped beyond repair.

Christine fell silent again, her head bowing.

"Give me your hand," Scott said, lifting her palm.

A tiny spark of hope flickered in her chest. He used to play little games like this—placing a piece of candy in her palm, or a tiny trinket, something to make her smile when she was sad.

Obediently, she opened her hand.

Scott gripped her ring finger. With one sharp, merciless tug, he wrenched the ring off and flung it into the sea.